The Watchman (3 page)

‘As I was saying,' Moresby resumed, his face stiff with disapproval, ‘this is an all-hands notification that we will be running a contact mission within the next two weeks, possibly sooner. The location is in east Africa, on the Somali/Kenyan border near the coast, and the precise timing is as yet unconfirmed, but will be reactive, depending on outside bodies.' He glanced around the table, hovering just a moment on a man Vale knew as James Scheider, the deputy chief, CIA London station. He was an up-and-coming figure to watchers inside SIS, and Vale instantly recognized Moresby's tactics: make powerful friends before they reach the top and they are likely to boost one's own rise to prominence.

Moresby referred to the folders on the table and continued, ‘Two weeks ago our Nairobi liaison officer was approached by a known middleman named Ashkir Xasan. Xasan is thought to be of mixed Somali/Kenyan parentage, and has acted as a mediator several times over the past two years in the release of tourists and other hostages in the region, taken mostly by pirates but also other non-aligned groups. He secured the release of two cargo vessels taken by pirates further north, one in the Gulf of Aden, the other off the coast of Oman. Both vessels, one the Madras-flagged
Oonyong
, the other the
Belladventure
from Rotterdam, had been held for three months near Hobyo, Somalia. Their crews were released unharmed.'

Vale breathed easily and scanned the briefing notes passed to him by Bill Cousins. So far so mundane. He wondered where this was going. Moresby was perfectly entitled to run operations wherever his brief allowed, especially where there were intelligence implications. But Vale had the strongest feeling that his own name had been left off the list deliberately and he wasn't sure why. But it couldn't be good news. Moresby was making a power play of some kind and signalling that old-timers like Vale were no longer needed, oversight roles or not.

‘As a backgrounder,' Moresby continued, ‘several weeks ago a group of aid workers was taken hostage by pirates off Djibouti. They were on a combined fact-finding mission to visit refugee camps set up by three aid agencies.' He paused for effect, scanning the faces. ‘Unknown to the kidnappers, two of the people taken were advisors to the United Nations; one British, one Dutch.'

A sigh whispered through the room as they each considered the implications. Aid workers were an easy target for extremists, although often left alone by kidnap groups because they usually had little real ransom value. But serving UN personnel were like gold dust, with an appropriate value to anyone negotiating for their sale.

‘What the hell were they doing there?' queried Ruth Dresden, the Cabinet Office representative. ‘And why go in by sea? Don't they like flying?'

Moresby gave a hint of a shrug. ‘Regretful, I know. My understanding is that they were going in by the back door to avoid being picked up on the airport radar by the Somalis.'

‘Why? We're on friendly terms with them at the moment.'

‘True. But they wanted to gain an insight to the problems on the ground without being shadowed by government minders every step of the way.'

‘Well, that worked a treat, didn't it?' muttered a gaunt individual from the Ministry of Defence. ‘I suppose they now want us to drag them out of there?'

‘Actually, no.' Moresby looked around the room. ‘In fact, we'd had no contact with them or their kidnappers until Xasan came forward.'

‘Is he one of the gang?'

‘Not as far as I'm aware. But he claims to know the group holding them and says he can secure their release unharmed if we're prepared to talk. There was no mention of the sum involved, but there was a condition attached.'

Was, Vale noted. Past tense. So the build-up to this has already taken place without being broadcast. ‘What kind of condition?'

‘They want to enter formal negotiations, but we have to supply a representative on the ground at a location to be advised once we give the nod.'

‘Why?' Bill Cousins shifted in his seat. ‘What do they think this is – an agreement on extended trade credits?'

By his tone, Vale wondered if he wasn't the only one who might have been left out of the loop. Cousins clearly hadn't been fully briefed, either.

Moresby nodded. ‘According to Xasan's latest communication, which came in yesterday afternoon, the group holding the hostages is led by a clan chief – that's Xasan's description, not ours – named Musa Yusuf Musa.'

‘Clan chief my arse,' Peter Wilby, the Controller Middle East muttered in disgust. ‘He's a terrorist; al-Shabaab down to his toenails. And right now they control a large part of the country around Mogadishu – whatever the African Union Forces say. How come we didn't hear about this?' Like Cousins, he looked irritated, but sounded more cautious.

‘Because I didn't want to make it known more widely until I had formulated a plan.' Moresby seemed unconcerned by any shortcomings in approved procedure, and stared hard at both controllers, who said nothing. He gestured at the folders, which contained a map showing the distribution of forces in the country, including government, Kenyan and other African troops … and the huge Islamist-controlled region in the centre around the capital.

‘But you're correct. The Islamists do have a serious foothold. However, they don't control every clan. The plan – my plan – is simple: we will send an officer to meet with Xasan and Musa at a time and place of their choosing. They will state their demands and we will negotiate the release of these hostages. They have also indicated that there are other groups known by Musa looking to do similar deals for hostages and boats held along the Somali coast.'

‘Seriously?' Ruth Dresden again. ‘How do we know we can trust them?'

Moresby tapped the folder in front of him. ‘Because we must. This is, lady and gentlemen, the opening I believe we've long been waiting for: the chance to secure the release of hostages and shipping on a scale nobody has managed before.' He smiled suddenly as if warmed by his own brilliance, and looked round as if for approval. ‘Anyone care for coffee?'

‘I
nteresting idea,' said the CIA's deputy chief of station, James Scheider, who was staring at the briefing paper with a faint frown. ‘I'm not sure why it involves us, though, and not the Dutch. It's their man and yours. According to our sources in the region, none of the captive aid workers is an American citizen.'

‘I invited you as a courtesy, first of all,' Moresby replied easily. ‘But in acknowledging your agency's considerable knowledge of the region, any advice would be gratefully received. We will, of course, be bringing in the Dutch at the appropriate time.'

Scheider shrugged. ‘Of course. Glad to help.'

‘What support will this officer have?' Vale queried. He was referring to hard protection and assistance. In areas such as the Middle East and eastern Africa, where tensions were high and dangers unpredictable, the general convention was to plan for trouble, which was why high-risk ventures usually involved armed escorts.

‘Minimal.' Moresby's response was almost dismissive. ‘Too much accompanying traffic is likely to attract attention. There will, of course, be the standard operational rules and systems in place, and we'll be keeping a close eye on the personnel involved throughout the transition.'

‘How close?' Vale insisted. He was growing increasingly worried by Moresby's almost cavalier attitude, and neither Cousins nor Wilby had shown signs of concern beyond their initial comments. What the hell was going on? This was their back yard, but they were letting Moresby run the show.
Operational rules and systems
? He made it sound like a Health and Safety assessment. Didn't he know how dangerous the world was out there?

‘Communications traffic will be monitored throughout by GCHQ's feeder stations in the region, and I hope our friends in the CIA and National Security Agency will offer whatever assistance they can.' He looked at Scheider with raised eyebrows, adding, ‘It would be nice to have coverage via any drones you might have in the region.'

Scheider nodded, as Vale knew he would. The CIA man was in a difficult position; saying an immediate no to the availability of unmanned camera drones or UAVs, used so effectively to track down insurgents in Iraq, Pakistan and Afghanistan, would not go down well; even a
maybe
would question his ability to make on-the-spot decisions without running back to his superiors.

Vale had to intervene. As superb as they were at monitoring signals intelligence and comms networks around the world, GCHQ, the Government Communications Headquarters in Cheltenham, couldn't perform miracles. ‘Satellites and drones are not the same as boots on the ground. There's no protection if anything goes wrong, and camera footage merely gives us lots of nice grainy photos for the archives. These people need a support team.'

Moresby turned to him with a faint huff of impatience. ‘I disagree. The risk to any personnel has been judged extremely unlikely, in view of Xasan's assurances and his record so far. In any case, they will be on the ground for a brief period only – a couple of days at most.' He waved a hand to emphasise his point and turned away.

But Vale wasn't finished. ‘They? So there's more than one.'

‘Yes. The officer will have an escort – a specialist. We demanded that and Xasan agreed.'

‘And if anything does go wrong?' Vale pressed him harder, if only for the record.

‘Why should it? As I said, the risks are minimal. The other side has nothing to gain by putting our people in harm's way. This is a straightforward opening negotiation where each side stands to gain in the long run and nobody loses.'

‘I'm glad you see it that way,' Vale countered. ‘Sending officers or assets into regions such as this is never without risk. And you're talking about an area known to be under the influence of terrorist groups including al-Qaeda. Risk is only minimal if you never leave the office.'

A sharp intake of breath from a Ministry of Defence representative along the table was the only indication that Vale's comment was seen as a personal dig. Moresby had served time as a field officer, but it had been brief and, by most standards, uneventful. As Vale was well aware, the younger man's meteoric rise through the ranks had been seen by some as too far, too fast, with no real hands-on experience of the kind that had tested many others.

‘I think that's pushing it, Tom,' Wilby murmured, and Vale sensed him shrinking away as if not wanting to be associated with any dissent.

‘Really?' Vale looked at him. ‘Are you saying A-Q
aren't
involved in the region? If so, where have they gone?'

‘Easy, Tom,' Cousins murmured softly on his other side, as Wilby flushed and stared down at his folder. ‘Nobody's saying you haven't got reason to be concerned. But it's being covered, don't you think?'

Nobody spoke, although Vale saw Scheider give a faint lift of his eyebrows. The CIA man's weathered face showed little emotion, and he was rumoured to have been a world-class poker player in college, funding his education and his later years prior to recruitment by the intelligence agency.

‘Quite right, Bill. Thank you,' Moresby said smoothly. ‘I'm sure the personnel involved are more than adequate to the task.' He looked around the table, adding, ‘At least, I hope so.'

‘You hope?' Ruth Dresden, who seemed blithely unaware of any undercurrent in the room and more concerned with statements of fact, stopped making a note and looked up sharply.

Moresby's eyes rested on Vale with a faint smile. ‘Well, the officer concerned was recruited by one of us. By Tom Vale, in fact. Weren't you also her mentor, Tom?'

Vale hesitated. ‘I recruited and mentored several officers. Which one are you talking about?' He had seen no mention of the names involved so far.

Bill Cousins slipped his folder sideways and flipped it open so that Vale could read it. A name leapt off the page.

Angela Pryce.

Vale felt the blood drain from his face. Every mentor in SIS had a favourite, and Angela Pryce had been his. Highly intelligent and steady under pressure, she was incisive and wore a toughened veneer around her that occasionally dropped to reveal a genuinely likeable personality. They had got on well, and he'd envisaged her heading for greater things. But this assignment was too soon. Angela had completed the full training programme required for active field officers, and had accumulated a number of missions in tandem with other more experienced staff. But none had been as intensive or demanding – or simply as dangerous – as laid out in Moresby's plan.

In spite of that, he doubted Angela would approve of his interference on her behalf.

‘Of course,' Moresby murmured silkily, thrusting his point home, ‘if you believe Pryce is not up to it, then you should say so now. We can always find an alternative.'

Vale shook his head, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. Suggesting Angela Pryce wasn't capable would put a serious dent in her career. He couldn't do that to her. But allowing her – or any other officer he could think of – on this kind of assignment without objection would be madness. Moresby was playing with people's lives, whether serving officers or local assets on the ground. Missions that went bad were never confined or selective; there were ripples which spread outward like a malevolent echo, picking up others in the process and bowling them over.

‘Well?'

‘No. I'm not saying that. I think we should proceed with greater caution, that's all.'

‘Point noted.' Moresby nodded and moved on, and Vale sat waiting for the meeting to end. Now was not the time or place to have a stand-up fight with the man; Moresby had friends and mentors of his own who would support him and his new energetic approach to field operations. Vale, by comparison, would be seen as old school and over-cautious.