Then he crawled under and lay down alongside them, the other terrorist following him.

Anyone looking from above would now see a small boat with – apparently – one person aboard.

The guy at the helm turned the inflatable and headed south-east.

Under the tarp, Argun Shishani smiled to himself.

One of the women started crying.

28.

TEN MINUTES LATER, the NH90 from the Juan Carlos finally caught up with the Lucky Lady.

Aware that another aircraft had gone down in the vicinity of the yacht, its crew were wary. Being military, they were at least trained to deal with MANPADs, and their helicopter was better-equipped with counter-measures, but still they stood off some 500 metres, the sensor operator observing the vessel’s progress on his screen.

After a few moments, he said, ‘No sign of the hostages on the rear deck. Take me to the side.’

The NH90 had a hundred knots on the boat, so it took a matter of moments for the pilots to get alongside.

The operator took his time, zooming in close on the yacht’s narrow, darkened windows.

‘Nothing,’ said the operator. ‘Front.’

The helicopter pulled ahead, the underslung camera swivelling to keep the speeding white craft in sight.

‘Nothing. Other side… Nothing. They must have taken them below.’

The pilot keyed his microphone to talk to the capitán commanding the marines in the back, who had been listening in.

‘You heard all that, Ramos,’ said the pilot. ‘What do you want to do?’

Capitán Ramon Ramos thought for a moment.

Fact was, he wasn’t sure what to do.

His orders were to recover the three women and take the terrorists alive, if possible.

But Ramon Ramos knew that there was no way these guys were coming quietly – he’d known from the moment he climbed aboard the aircraft that this was going to end in tears for someone.

His best hope had always been that his blokes could see and take out the bad guys.

But if everyone was below deck…

‘Ramos?’

‘Get back alongside, close enough so I can see the fucking thing.’

The pilot did as requested.

Ramos tugged on his harness and edged closer to the open door of the chopper.

Below him, the gleaming white yacht smashed and bounced its way inexorably through the shining sea.

He turned to the man next to him, Cabo Primero Jorge Fernández, who was sitting with his legs dangling in thin air, his Accuracy International .50 cal rifle cradled in his lap.

‘What do you reckon, Jorge?’ shouted Ramos, nodding at the rifle. ‘Can we stop him with that?’

Fernández shrugged. ‘How the fuck should I know, boss?’ he shouted back. ‘If I hit the engine, yeah. But just firing blind into the damned thing – who’s to say I won’t hit the fuel lines and barbecue the lot of them?’

Ramos keyed his mike, and got on the net to León, the HQ call sign.

Quickly, he updated them, and listened to the response.