Meanwhile, on board the ship, Zahran Azzam Yasin was getting ready to do his part. After receiving his orders from his superior, he bided his time awhile on deck and then headed for his cabin. He shared his crew quarters with three other seamen, all of whom were currently either on work shift or drinking coffee in the mess canteen. Zahran opened the locker by his bunk and took out his prayer mat and qibla compass, which pointed permanently towards Mecca. He laid the mat on the floor, prostrated himself and said his prayers, then carefully rolled the mat up and put it away. Next he took out a sports bag and laid it on the floor to unzip it. Inside, wrapped up in a couple of T-shirts, was the stubby AK-47 that he’d had little difficulty smuggling on board in Tripoli.

Zahran was extremely familiar with the weapon, having undergone extensive training in an ISIL terrorist boot camp in his native Libya. He clicked in a loaded magazine, racked the cocking bolt and set the safety, then put the weapon back in the holdall, slung the bag over his shoulder and left his cabin. It was 6.30 a.m. precisely. Nazim and the others would be here in about thirty minutes, which gave Zahran all the time he needed.

He strolled nonchalantly through the ship’s passages and corridors until he reached the bridge, the vessel’s highest point and the domain of the captain and officers. As an ordinary seaman Zahran’s tasks seldom required him to perform watchstanding or helmsman duties, and so his sudden appearance on the bridge was unexpected. The captain was in the midst of a conversation with the radio officer when they saw him and turned. Without a word Zahran set down the sports bag and, before anyone could react, yanked out the AK.

The captain froze, but the officer made the mistake of lunging towards the radio console. Zahran blasted it apart with a deafening burst of gunfire, then pointed the weapon at the officer and said, ‘Next time, I shoot you. Now get the crew up here. And remember, I know every man on board. Do not try to trick me, or everyone will die.’

All six officers and the fifteen crewmen were soon all hostages on the bridge and made to kneel with their hands on their heads. Some of the seamen who had been on morning shift were wearing yellow waterproof overalls; others had been roused from their bunks and were dressed in shorts and T-shirts. All of them were staring at Zahran with a mixture of rage and disbelief that one of their own guys, albeit one who’d just been taken on and whom nobody really knew well, could be doing this. But if anyone was toying with the idea of trying to disarm him, the steely, determined look in his eye soon persuaded them otherwise.