The Kill List (20 page)

Eventually, Abdi came back.

“I think I see what you mean, Mr. Gareth.”

The Thuraya phone is a satellite-employing communicator. Four cell phone companies control the use of mobiles in Somalia, the others being NationLink, Hormud, and France Télécom. They all have masts. The Thuraya needs only the U.S. satellites, turning slowly in space.

What Evans was saying to Abdi was that if he had, or could get, a Thuraya phone, he should take a ride into the desert alone and, from behind a rock, call Evans so they could talk extremely privately. The reply indicated Abdi had understood and would try.

The two negotiators spun out another thirty minutes, bringing the ransom down to eighteen million dollars and each promising to be back in touch when they had consulted with their respective principals.

• • •

T
he lunch was on the American government; the Tracker had insisted on it. But his SIS contact, Adrian Herbert, had made the booking. He had chosen Shepherd’s in Marsham Street and insisted on a booth for privacy.

It was affable, friendly, but both men realized the point of it all would come over coffee and mints. When the American made his pitch, Herbert put the coffee down in surprise.

“What do you mean lift? ”

“Lift, as in abstract, pluck, sequester.”

“You mean kidnap. From the streets of London? Without warrant or charge?”

“He is assisting a known terrorist who has motivated four murders in your country, Adrian.”

“Yes, but a forcible snatch would create absolute havoc if it ever got out. We would need an authority to do it, and that would need the signature of the Home Secretary. She’d consult lawyers. They would demand a formal charge.”

“You have helped us with extraordinary renditions before, Adrian.”

“Yes, but they were snatched on the streets of places that were already completely lawless. Knightsbridge is not Karachi, you know. Dardari is, on the surface, a respectable businessman.”

“You and I know different.”

“Indeed we do. But only because we invaded his house, bugged his home and raped his computer. That would look wonderful coming out in open court. I’m sorry, Tracker, we try to be helpful, but that is as far as we can go.”

He thought for a while, staring at the ceiling.

“No, it’s just not on, old boy. We would have to work like Trojans to get permission for that sort of thing.”

They settled up, and went different ways on the pavement. Adrian Herbert would walk back to the Office at Vauxhall. The Tracker hailed a cab. Sitting in the back, he mulled over that last sentence.

What on earth had classical allusions got to do with it? Back at his house, he consulted the Internet. It took a while but it was there. Trojan Horse Outcomes, a small, niche security company based outside Hamworthy in Dorset.

That, he knew, was Royal Marine territory. Their big base was at nearby Poole, and many men who had spent a working life in Special Forces retired and settled down near their old bases. Often they got a few mates together and formed a private security company—the usual rigmarole: bodyguards, asset protection, close escort work. If backer money was tight, they would work from home. Further research showed Trojan Outcomes was based in a residential district.

The Tracker called the given number and made an appointment for the next morning. Then he rang a Mayfair car-hire company and booked a compact for three hours earlier. He explained he was an American tourist called Jackson, with a valid U.S. driver’s license, and would need the car for a day to visit with a friend on the South Coast.

As he hung up, his BlackBerry pulsed. It was a text from TOSA, secure from interception. Its identifier proclaimed it came from Gray Fox. What it could not reveal was that the four-star general commanding J-SOC had just left the Oval Office with fresh orders.

Gray Fox did not waste time. His message needed only four words. It said “The Preacher. No prisoners.”

• • •

G
areth Evans had virtually taken up residence in the law offices. A truckle bed had been moved into the operations room. His bathroom had a shower, lavatory and basin. Cooked takeaways and salads from the corner deli provided sustenance. He had abandoned the usual procedure of conferences at fixed times with his opposite number in Somalia. He wanted to be in the ops room if Abdi followed his advice and rang from the desert. He might not have long unobserved. And just before midday the phone rang. It was Abdi.

“Mr. Evans? It is me. I have found a sat phone. But I do not have long.”

“Then let us keep it short, my friend. What your principal did to the boy indicates to us one thing: He wants to pressure us to settle quickly. That is not usual. Normally, it is the Somalis who have all the time in the world. This time both parties are interested in a speedy conclusion. Not so?”

“Yes, I think so,” said the voice from the desert.

“My principal takes the same view. But not because of the cadet. That was blackmail, but too crude to work. My principal wants his ship back at work. The key is the final release price and in this your advice to your principal will be crucial.”

Evans knew it would be suicidal if he let slip that the boy was worth ten times the ship and cargo.

“What do you propose, Mr. Evans?”

“A final settlement at five million dollars. We both know that is very fair. We would probably have settled on that figure three months from now anyway. I think you know that.”

Mr. Abdi, his phone to his ear, crouching in the desert a mile from the fortress behind Garacad, agreed, but said nothing. He sensed there was something coming for himself.

“What I propose is this. On five million, your share would be about one million. My offer is to pay that million into your private numbered account right now. A second million when the ship sails. No one need know anything about this but you and me. The key is a rapid conclusion. That is what I hope I am buying.”

Abdi thought. The third million would still come from al-Afrit. Three times his usual fee. And he had other thoughts. This was a situation he wanted to get out of, regardless of any other factor.

The days of easy pickings and easy ransoms were over. It had taken a long time for the Western and maritime powers to get their act together, but they were turning much more aggressive.

There had already been two off-the-sea beach assaults by Western commandos. One anchored ship had been liberated by Marines descending on ropes from a hovering helicopter. The Somali guards had fought. Two seamen had died, but so had the Somalis—all but two, and these were now in prison in the Seychelles.

Ali Abdi was not a hero and had not the slightest intention of becoming one. He blanched with horror at the thought of these black-clad monsters with night vision goggles and blazing submachine guns storming the mud-brick fortress where he was presently in residence.

And, finally, he wanted to retire; with a large fortune and a long way from Somalia. Somewhere civilized and above all safe. He spoke into the sat phone.

“You have a deal, Mr. Gareth.” And he dictated an account number. “Now I work for you, Mr. Gareth. But understand, I will press for a speedy settlement of five million dollars, but even then we have to look to four weeks.”

It had been a fortnight already, thought Evans, but six weeks would be among the shortest on record between capture and release.

“Thank you, my friend. Let us get this dreadful business over with and go back to a civilized life . . .”

He hung up. Far away, Abdi did the same and went back to the fortress. The two men might not have been using the Somali phone network but that mattered not a jot to Fort Meade or Cheltenham who had captured every word.

According to orders, Fort Meade passed the text across the state line to TOSA, who fed a copy to the Tracker in London. A month, he thought. The clock is ticking. He pocketed his BlackBerry as the northern outskirts of Poole hove into view and kept his eyes peeled for a sign for Hamworthy.

• • •

T
hat’s a lot of money, boss.”

Trojan Horse Outcomes was clearly a very small operation. The Tracker presumed it had been named after one of the biggest deceptions in history, but what the man facing him could muster was a lot less than the Greek army.

It was run out of a modest suburban terrace house, and Tracker put the manpower at about two or three. The one facing him across the dining room table was clearly the mainspring, and Tracker put him down as a former Royal Marine and a senior NCO. It turned out he was right on both counts. His name was Brian Weller.

What Weller was referring to was a block of fifty-dollar bills the thickness of a firebrick.

“So what exactly do you want done?”

“I want a man lifted without fuss from the streets of London, taken to a quiet and isolated place, detained there for up to a month and then released back where he came from. No rough stuff—just a nice vacation far from London or any kind of telephone.”

Weller thought it over. He had not the slightest doubt the snatch would be illegal, but his philosophy was simple and soldierly. There were good guys and bad guys, and the latter group got away with far too much.

Capital punishment was illegal, but he had two little girls at school, and if any swinish “nonce” interfered with them, he would unhesitatingly send him to another and maybe better world.

“How bad is this customer?”

“He helps terrorists. Quietly, with finances. The one he is helping right now has killed four Brits and seven Americans. A terrorist.”

Weller grunted. He had done three tours in Helmand, Afghanistan, and seen some good mates die in front of him.

“Bodyguards?”

“No. Occasionally a rented limousine with a driver. More usually, black cabs right off the street.”

“You have a place to take him?”

“Not yet. I will have.”

“I would want to make a thorough recce before a decision.”

“I’d walk right out of here if you didn’t,” said the Tracker.

Weller took his eyes off the block of dollars and assessed the American on the other side of the table. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be. He was convinced the Yank had also seen combat, heard the incoming lead, seen mates go down. He nodded.

“I’ll drive up to London. Tomorrow suit, boss?”

Tracker suppressed a smile. He recognized the address, what British Special Forces soldiers called an officer to his face. Behind his back was another matter. Usually Rupert, sometimes worse.

“Tomorrow will suit fine. A thousand dollars for your trouble. Keep the balance if you say yes. Give it back if you walk away.”

“And how do you know I will? Give it back?”

The Tracker rose to leave.

“Mr. Weller, I think we both know the rules. We have been round the block a few times.”

When he was gone, leaving a rendezvous and time well away from the embassy, Brian Weller went through the firebrick. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Five for outgoings; the Yank would provide the hideaway. He had two girls to educate, a wife to keep, food to put on the table and skills not really marketable at the vicarage tea party.

He made the rendezvous, brought a mate from the same commando unit and spent a week vetting the job. Then he said yes.

• • •

A
li Abdi screwed up his courage and went to see al-Afrit.

“Things are going well,” he reported. “We will secure a fine big ransom for the
Malmö
.”

Then he broached another subject.

“The blond boy. If he dies, it will complicate matters, create delays, reduce the ransom.”

He did not mention the prospect of European commandos storming ashore on a rescue mission, his personal nightmare. It might just provoke the man he faced.

“Why should he die?” growled the warlord.

Abdi shrugged.

“Who knows? Infection, blood poisoning.”

He got his way. There was a doctor in Garacad with at least the knowledge of basic first aid. The cadet’s welts were disinfected and bandaged. He was still being kept in the cellars, and there was nothing Abdi could or dared do about that.

• • •

T
hat is deer-stalking country,” said the man at the sporting agency. “But the stags are coming into rut, so the close of season is not far off.”

The Tracker smiled. He was playing the harmless American tourist again.

“Aw, the stags are safe from me. No, I just want to write my book, and for that I need absolute peace and quiet. No phones, no roads, no callers, no interruptions. A nice cabin off the beaten track where I can write the Great American Novel.”

The land agent knew a bit about authors. Weird people. He tapped his keyboard again and stared at the screen.

“There is a small stalking lodge on our books,” he conceded. “Free until the shooting season starts again.”

He rose and went to a wall map. He checked the grid reference and then tapped a pristine section of the map that was unmarked by towns, villages or even roads. A few spidery tracks ran across it, in northern Caithness, the last county of Scotland before the wild Pentland Firth.

“I have some pictures.”

He led back to the computer screen and scrolled up a portfolio of pictures. It was a log cabin, all right, set in an endless sea of rolling heather, a huge glen framed by high hills; the sort of place where a city slicker, making a run for it with two Marines after him, might get five hundred yards before collapsing.

It had two bedrooms, a large main room, kitchen and shower room, a huge fireplace and a pile of logs.

“I surely think I have found my Shangri-la,” said the tourist/writer. “I have not had time to set up a checking account. Will cash dollars do?”

Cash dollars did very well. Exact directions and keys would be sent within days, but to Hamworthy.

• • •

M
ustafa Dardari chose not to have a car or drive himself in London. The parking was an abiding nightmare he could well do without. In his part of Knightsbridge, cruising cabs were constant and convenient, if expensive. Not a problem. But for the smart evening out, a black-tie dinner, he used a limousine company; always the same firm and usually the same driver.