Zahran was completely calm and in control. On his command the engines were shut down. Now the ship was dead in the water, drifting aimlessly and wallowing on the waves. The radio console was completely shattered and in pieces, but the radar was still working fine – and within minutes it was showing an approaching vessel that Zahran knew was his leader. Pointing the gun at the kneeling hostages with one hand he took out his phone and called Nazim with the good news. ‘The ship is ours. Allahu Akbar!’

‘What is this outrage?’ the captain demanded. ‘Are you hijacking us? You want money?’

‘Keep your money, kafir,’ Zahran replied.

It wasn’t long before the stolen boat was tethered up alongside the cargo ship, dwarfed next to the gigantic hull and in danger of being crushed by its roll. 6.52 a.m. Nazim had made excellent time. Zahran ordered three crewmen to descend to the deck and lower ladders, so that Nazim and the rest of the men could board. ‘Do it now. Or I shoot the captain.’

One by one the terrorists clambered up the ship’s side. Nazim had never set foot aboard such a huge vessel. When he reached the bridge he congratulated Zahran on his excellent work. ‘Allah be praised!’

The captain was less impressed. He was a large, square-built man in his late fifties, with a red complexion made redder with anger, and he was growing less intimidated by the minute. ‘This is bare-faced piracy and you’ll never get away with it,’ he blustered at Nazim.

‘We’re not here for your ship, infidel filth,’ Nazim replied. ‘We are here to take what’s ours. And to liberate you from your ways of ignorance.’

And before the captain could say another word, Nazim’s knife was in his throat. The captain let out a shrill gasp and fell to his knees. The officers and crew started screaming and yelling. The rest of Nazim’s men shoved them back at gunpoint. One of them tried to resist, and Zahran shot him in the face. Nazim slowly stepped around behind the captain, the blade still buried deep in the flesh and gristle of his neck, slicing and sawing as blood pumped down the man’s white shirt and spattered over the floor of the bridge.

‘Murderers!’ screamed the radio officer.

Nazim or any of his men could have explained to him that this was not murder. The ship’s personnel were kuffar harbi, infidels at war with Islam; therefore they were enemy soldiers who spread corruption throughout the face of the earth; therefore it was not only permitted but mandatory under Sharia law to kill them, and in fact it would be a punishable offence to let them live. But why bother explaining anything to infidels?