Free Traitor by Duncan Falconer Page B

said. He went to one of the consoles and with the briefest apology to the operator typed in some commands. ‘A couple of red flags have already come up, though. Al Qatare Jalab Natar. Sim Basar Negal.’ Faces matching the names appeared in the margins of the large screen. ‘Both notorious money launderers for heavy Russian Mafia players like Valery Moscov and Boris Kilszin. Moscov’s a political player but so far there’s no plausible tie-in to this type of crime.’
    ‘Winners and losers?’
    ‘Still hard to say right now. We’re waiting for the underwriters to get back to us with the details of the coverage. One of them did say, with unmasked pleasure, that the ransom was marginally within the first-level deductions, suggesting that the oil company will take the brunt of the hit.’
    ‘Sir, I have a call for you,’ the other aide interrupted. A Mr Kaan in Abu Dhabi. Says he’s Arcom’s crisis-team manager.’
    Nevins frowned as he looked at his aide clutching the phone as if he was protecting his boss from it. ‘He specifically asked for me?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    The operations officer looked at Nevins and raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s well informed.’
    ‘Clearly,’ Nevins muttered. ‘I only moved from South-East European operations last month.’
    ‘I can confirm that the call is from Arcom’s executive offices,’ said a young female technician operating one of the computer consoles.
    ‘Shall I tell him you’ll call back?’ the aide asked, putting the phone to his ear.
    Nevins took a few seconds to decide before holding out his hand. The aide passed him the phone.
    ‘This is Nevins.’
    ‘Good day to you, sir.’ The accent was foreign but the words came across as well defined as any upper-class English that Nevins had heard spoken.
    ‘What can I do for you, Mr Kaan?’ Nevins asked.
    A technician brought up something on her monitor and transferred it to the margin of the big screen: a photograph of a well-attired dark-skinned gentleman in his forties, with a finely groomed goatee. A biographical summary accompanied it.
    ‘I suppose the question to begin with has to be: what are you going to do about our oil platform?’
    Nevins scrutinised the information on the man with disdain. Kaan had spent two years at Eton before moving to Harvard to complete a law degree. ‘Why, everything we possibly can, Mr Kaan.’
    ‘I don’t need to tell you that we have over a hundred and sixty people on board the Morpheus whose lives we are responsible for.’
    ‘Many of them British citizens who I am responsible for . . . not to mention that the hijacking has taken place in our sovereign waters.’
    ‘I fully appreciate that, Mr Nevins. Nevertheless, we will be the ones liable if harm comes to any of them. Can you give me an indication of your intentions?’
    ‘Have the hijackers made contact with you?’ Nevins asked, still reading the man’s bio.
    ‘Not yet. At the moment their dialogue appears to be directed towards your government.’
    ‘What’s your company policy with regard to the payment of ransoms?’
    ‘We don’t have one. We don’t enjoy the luxury that governments have when it comes to sacrificing our personnel for political purposes. We run a business. We will take the least expensive option. If that means paying a ransom it will be a strong consideration. We would appreciate you keeping us informed of your intentions since they will have an impact on that.’
    Nevins finished reading the last paragraph of the bio. Kaan had been born in Dubai and was part of a wealthy family with connections to the ruling family. ‘Who is your decision-making authority?’
    Kaan did not respond.
    ‘Who do you answer to?’ Nevins asked.
    ‘I’m afraid that has to be confidential, for the time being at least.’
    ‘I see. Well, it’s been nice talking with you, Mr Kaan,’ Nevins said. ‘Good day.’ He handed the phone back to the aide and looked up at the screen. ‘What are our options for taking it