“Yes?”

“Sir Thomas? This is Harlow.”

Anger evaporated. Donald Harlow was Sir Thomas’s personal secretary, an able and competent man who most certainly would not awaken Her Majesty’s Minister of Defense without damned good cause.

“Yes, Donald. What is it?”

“Sir Thomas, I’m sorry to wake you. There is . . . a situation.”

Sir Thomas was fully awake now. He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. Behind him, his wife stirred sleepily. “Go on.”

“A few moments ago, the headquarters of the BGA Consortium in Middlebrough received a telephone call. It was from the manager of their Bouddica facility in the North Sea. Apparently, terrorists are in the process of taking the place over.”

“Good God! Who?”

“No word on that yet, Sir Thomas. The manager—his name’s Brayson, by the way—did say the terrorist he’d spoken to by radio was named ‘Adler.’ We’ve contacted M15, of course, and they’re looking into the name now.”

“Good. How did this Brayson make contact? Are the terrorists using him to make their demands?”

“Actually, the word I have is that the terrorists have forbidden anyone at Bouddica to contact anyone on the outside. Apparently they assumed all communications are by radio, however, and were unaware of the land lines. Brayson talked to his people in Middlebrough before the terrorists reached the platform and told them what he knew.”

Sir Thomas blinked. Had he missed something? “I don’t understand. The terrorists communicated with Bouddica before they arrived? Doesn’t the facility have its own security force?”

“A small one, Sir Thomas. According to Brayson, this Adler had already hijacked an oil tanker—the Noramo Pride, American registry. We’re looking into that, of course. The terrorists were threatening to ram Bouddica if they were not allowed to come aboard.”

“I see.” A tanker would be a formidable, if somewhat clumsy weapon. Who were these madmen? “And no word about who the terrorists are, who they represent?”

“Not so far, sir.”

“What is being done?”

“The Prime Minister, the Ministers of Energy and the Interior, and Her Majesty are all being alerted now, of course. A cabinet meeting is being set for nine this morning, and the Prime Minister’s office recommends that you have options available regarding a military response.”

“Of course.” That meant either the SAS or the SBS. Or both. They shared responsibility for the security of Great Britain’s North Sea oil assets.

“Other than that, of course, there’s little we can do in the way of a response until these people make direct contact with us and make their demands,” Harlow said.

“Something outrageous, I shouldn’t wonder. Hijacking a billion-pound oil platform seems a desperate act.”

“Foolhardy, Sir Thomas, given the reputation of the Special Air and Boat people. Unless . . .

“Unless what?”

“Well, unless they have something pretty powerful in reserve.”

“From the sounds of things, Donald, we’re dealing with terrorists, probably politically motivated, who from the nature of their objective must be afflicted by delusions of grandeur. They will scarcely be able to muster the resources of a national government.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“I’m on my way. You’re at the office now?”

“Yes, Sir Thomas.”

“I’ll see you in thirty minutes. Have the staff briefed, and have Charlene pull the folders on the 23rd Regiment. I want to know who’s available for immediate deployment.”

“Very good, sir.”

Sir Thomas hung up and reached for his robe. His wife sat up in bed. “A little early for telephone calls from the office, isn’t it, dear?”

“It’s probably nothing, pet. Go back to sleep. I’ll get something to eat at the Ministry.”

But she was already up, pulling on her robe. “At least let me fix us some tea.”

“Damn.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Eh? Oh, sorry. Yes, some tea would be nice.” His brain was only just getting into gear. He’d forgotten to ask Harlow whether the Americans had been notified. They would have to be, of course, if they hadn’t learned already. And the Germans as well. The Americans and Germans owned part interest in the Bouddica facility, and Harlow had mentioned that the hijacked oil tanker was American as well.

That was all they needed . . . a bunch of clubfooted Americans muddying up the scene. Chances were, this confrontation could be handled diplomatically, and if not, by a quick, silent strike by Britain’s finest covert warriors. The Americans were far too much the Wild West cowboys to suit Sir Thomas’s taste.

He hoped they could be kept out of this.

Brayson had watched from Bouddica’s control center as the rig’s safety boat ferried out the massive hawsers used to secure the 120,000-ton behemoth. It was still dark, but he could follow the operation well enough by the lights; searchlights from the Noramo Pride’s superstructure bathed the Celtic Maiden, the anchor tug used as the facility’s safety boat, in a glare reminiscent of a football stadium lit up for a night game.

A second radio call had arrived from the tanker at 5:30. Adler had warned Brayson once again that he was not to communicate with his superiors ashore—well, it was too late for that warning to have meaning—and informed him that the men aboard the Noramo Pride possessed portable rocket launchers, trained now on Bouddica Alpha’s gas-processing plant and separators.

That announcement had crushed any thought Brayson might have been entertaining about resisting the terrorists, now that their tanker was at rest and no longer a threat to the platform. In retrospect, Brayson had to admit that this operation had been carefully planned, each step designed to force only the next level of compliance from the BGA people on Bouddica. He dared not resist in the face of threatened rocket fire, not when an explosion in the separators could loose a fireball that would engulf the entire platform.

The terrorists, obviously, were counting on his reluctance to risk the one disaster most dreaded by all oil-platform workers.

The helicopter landed on Alpha shortly after dawn, touching down on the helipad atop the crews’ quarters and disgorging a small army of black-clad men carrying automatic weapons. Adler had radioed further instructions. As directed, Bouddica’s full complement, save for the Celtic Maiden’s crew, was waiting in the platform’s main recreation hall when Adler finally made his appearance. It had been a rude awakening for the off-duty crew members. Many were still in their underwear or were wearing bathrobes. Brayson watched with slowly mounting anger as three of Adler’s men made a careful count of everyone present.

“Drei hundert zwei, ” one of the terrorists reported when the last person was counted.

“Which with the ten on the tug makes three hundred twelve,” Adler said, nodding with apparent satisfaction. He was standing with Brayson near the center of the enormous room, with the crowd ringed around them in near-silent, watchful dread. “Good. I am pleased to see that your crew is well behaved, Mr. Brayson. That will make things considerably easier.”

He was a tall, powerful, blond-haired man with the evident self-confidence born of training and experience. Unlike the others, he wasn’t carrying a submachine gun, but he did have an automatic pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers. He did not require the gun, however, to convince Brayson that he was a dangerous man.

“That was not my intent,” Brayson said through clenched teeth. “Listen. I don’t know what your political philosophy is, what you hope to gain here, but—”

“My philosophy,” Adler said quietly, “is to accept no interference from anyone.” He paused and looked about the room. As big as a fair-sized school auditorium, it was luxuriously furnished, with thick carpeting, modern furniture, and an enormous central open fireplace. The room was located near the center of Bouddica’s living quarters module, and there were no windows. At the moment, with over three hundred BGA employees crowded inside, with black-garbed men holding submachine guns standing around the crowd’s perimeter, it felt claustrophobic.

Adler raised one hand and ran it along the edge of the gleaming copper-colored hood above the central fireplace pit. He smiled. “A fireplace? I’d heard you people were extraordinarily careful about sparks and flames in a place such as this.”

Brayson said nothing but wondered what Adler might be driving at. It was true that care was taken aboard the platform to avoid igniting the odorless and invisible natural gas fumes that could spread from an unsuspected leak. Visitors to Bouddica’s work areas were asked to remove everything that might cause a spark, even the tiny batteries for the light meters and flashes in their cameras. The main rec room, however, was carefully sealed and was in fact one of the safest areas on the platform, reinforced against blast and equipped with elaborate automated-sprinkler and foam devices. Large amounts of money had been spent in Bouddica’s construction to attract and keep skilled workers on this lonely North Sea outpost, on tours of duty that balanced two weeks of isolated and demanding work here with four weeks off ashore.

“Your people will stay here,” Adler said after another moment’s inspection of the area. “I see sanitary facilities down there at the end, and we can have food brought in from your commissary as needed. My men will organize small working parties from your group to go to the sleeping quarters and bring mattresses here. It should be quite cozy.”

“You sound as though you plan to stay for a while.”

Adler regarded him coldly. “As long as is necessary, Mr. Brayson. If all goes well, I and my men will leave in a few days, taking a few of you with us to ensure our safe passage to our destination. Those whom we select will be released once our own safety is guaranteed. I assure you that we are not murderers. If you do as you are told, all of you should come through this safely. Understand?”

Jerkily, Brayson nodded.

“Good. Your people will be searched to ensure that none are hiding weapons. Your employees aboard the safety craft will be brought here shortly. After that a count will be made at intervals to make certain that all are present. If anyone is missing, five of your people will be shot for each missing person. Do I make myself clear?”

The captain nodded again.

“You will impress upon your people the necessity of obeying our orders. First among these.” Adler glanced about the crowded room. “There are four doors out. A guard will be posted at each. A line will be marked in tape on the floor ten feet from each door. Your people are forbidden to cross those lines. If they do, they will be shot. After the sanitary facilities have been thoroughly searched, your people can come and go there as they please.”

Almost irrationally, Brayson felt a small surge of appreciation for this one concession to dignity, and fought it down. He was furiously angry at this, this interruption of routine, this intrusion into his life and career. He wanted to fight back, yet felt pathetically inadequate before this hard and competent man.

There was another factor involved as well that Brayson was keenly aware of. Alicia Roberts, one of the facility’s office managers, was sitting on the floor close by, her large eyes riveted on him as she followed his every move. Five hours ago, he’d been in bed with her. More than once during his two years as head of this facility, Brayson had enjoyed the charms of one or another of the women in his employ, something he’d always thought of as a perquisite of the job. Alicia, however, blackhaired, pretty, bright, had become much more than mere recreation. He’d been sleeping with her every time she was working on Bouddica for the past several months, and it had reached the point where he was seriously considering getting a divorce from Jane so that he could marry Alicia.

He knew she was watching him. He wanted to protect her from all of this, to shield her from these monsters . . . and he didn’t want her to see the fear that was hammering away inside his chest and throat right now.

Adler was looking at his watch. “It is now seven-thirty. At precisely eleven o’clock this morning, I will make a radio broadcast from your control center. I will require you and one of your radio operators to open the correct channel and to initiate the appropriate protocols.”

So these terrorists weren’t omniscient, Brayson thought. Their knowledge of the facility’s layout had half-convinced him that there were traitors within his crew or, possibly, in the BGA headquarters staff ashore. If they didn’t know the radio procedures, they might well be unaware of the seafloor land line that serviced the station’s telephone system.

He wasn’t sure yet what kind of advantage this gave him, but it was an advantage, to be sure. He felt new hope . . . and a flash of bravery.

“Before we make that radio broadcast, however,” Adler continued, “there is an important unloading operation that must be completed. Mr. Brayson, who is the best crane operator you have aboard?”

“You can go to hell!” Brayson said. He felt Alicia’s gaze on him, and it hurried his words along. “You can hold us all hostage, but you aren’t going to make us work for you. You’re not paying us enough for that!”

“Your lives are your payment, Mister Brayson! You are the man charged with the safety of the lives of three hundred twelve men and women aboard this facility! If you wish to preserve those lives, you will do what I say!” Adler’s hard gaze sweep across the crowded room. Then, with a swift, smooth motion, he slid the automatic pistol out from under his belt, and half a dozen of the platform workers shrieked as Adler brought the weapon up and aimed it directly into the crowd.

He’s going to kill someone, Brayson thought with an inward cry of despair and horror. He’s going to kill someone just to show his power over us! And for a horrible, irrational moment, Brayson thought the man was going to shoot Alicia.

Then Adler shifted his aim suddenly to the left and held it, arm extended straight out from his body, the pistol’s barrel aimed directly at James Dulaney’s head.

“I told you, Mr. Brayson,” he said with a voice as cold as the North Sea’s bottom currents. “Any act of disobedience will result in the immediate execution of five of your people. I will start with that one.”

“No!” Brayson shouted. He started forward, but one of Adler’s men grabbed his arms and held him back. “No,” he said again, more softly, all trace of rebellion or defiance gone in that one brief flash of horror. “I’ll . . . I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Please!”

Adler continued to stand with his arm and the pistol extended. Though the others sitting near Dulaney had pulled back, the young plant manager had remained where he was. His eyes were closed, his face ghost-white, and he seemed to be muttering something under his breath. Adler remained motionless . . . then finally seemed to make up his mind. He relaxed, raising the muzzle of the weapon and snicking the safety up with his thumb.

“Your best crane operator?”

“That’s me,” another voice said from the crowd. Jeff Nolby stood slowly, an immense giant of a man, with powerful hands and arms, and with a bushy red moustache that somehow complemented his completely bald head.

Adler looked to Brayson for confirmation, and he nodded. “That’s him.”

“Name?”

“Nolby,” the giant growled.

“Well, Mr. Nolby. Within a few more hours, another vessel is going to arrive, a German fishing trawler named Rosa. She is carrying some very special cargo aboard. I will expect you to use all of your no-doubt-considerable skill to hoist that cargo out of the Rosa’s hold.”

“What is it?” Brayson said softly, his voice close to shaking. “A bomb?”

“Insurance, Mr. Brayson. Insurance to guarantee the success of my mission.”