Frederick Forsyth - The Kill List

There were, as always when a true horror has not yet impacted, two seconds of uncomprehending silence. Then the reactions. Screams, shouts and, in this case, more shots, as two on-duty Phoenix police officers drew and fired. The assailant also went down. Others threw themselves flat amid the ensuing chaos; the hysterical Mrs. Doherty, the weeping bride ushered away, the wailing police cars and ambulances, the panicking crowd running in all directions.

Then the system took over. Crime scene taped off, firearm recovered and dropped in an evidence bag, identification of the assassin. Newscasts out of Arizona that evening told all the U.S. that there had been another one. And the recovered laptop of the fanatic, found in his room above the garage, where he worked, disgorged its long list of online sermons by the Preacher.

The U.S. Army film unit is called TRADOC (Training and Doctrine Command), and it lives at Fort Eustis, Virginia. Normally, it makes training films and documentaries, explaining and extolling every aspect of the Army’s work and function. So the commanding officer had no hesitation in acquiescing to a request to meet with a certain Col. Jamie Jackson, serving with J-SOC headquarters at MacDill Air Force Base, outside Tampa, Florida.

Even within the military, the Tracker saw no reason to reveal he was really Col. Kit Carson, came from TOSA and was assigned only a few miles away in the same state. It is simply called need to know.

“I want to make a short movie,” he said. “But this would have a classification of top secret, and the finished product would be seen by an extremely limited group of people.”

The CO was intrigued, slightly impressed but not fazed. He was proud of his unit’s talent for filmmaking. He could not recall such a strange request before, but that could make the offered assignment more interesting. He had filming facilities and sound studios right on the base.

“It will be a very small, short movie with one scene. There will be no location filming. It will involve one set, probably off base. It will involve no cameras save a single camcorder — sound and picture. It will be seen, if at all, only on the Internet. The unit will therefore be extremely small, probably no more than six, all sworn to secrecy. What I need is a young filmmaker steeped in movies,” said the visitor.

The Tracker got what he wanted: Captain Damian Mason. The CO did not get what he wanted, which was an answer to his numerous questions. What he did get was a call from a three-star general, telling him that, in this man’s army, orders are obeyed. Damian Mason was young, eager and a movie buff since he was knee-high in White Plains, New York. When he had served his time with TRADOC, he wanted to go west to Hollywood and make real movies, with stories and stars.

“Will this be a training film, sir?” he asked.

“I hope it will be instructive, in its way,” said the Marine colonel. “Tell me, is there one single directory with the photographs of every available actor in the country?”

“I think you mean the Academy players directory. Every casting director in the country has one.”

“Is there one on base?”

“I doubt it, sir. We don’t use professional actors.”

“We do now. Or one, at least. Can you get me a copy?”

“Sure, Colonel.”

It took two days to arrive by FedEx, and it was a very thick book, page after page of the faces of aspiring actors and actresses, juveniles right through to veterans.

Another science that police forces and intelligence agencies employ across the world is face comparison. It helps detectives trace down runaway criminals who try to change their appearance.

Computerization has codified what used to be little more than a policeman’s hunch into a science. In the USA, the software is called Echelon, and it is lodged with the FBI’s Engineering Research Facility at Quantico, Maryland.

Basically, hundreds of facial measurements are taken and stored. Ears alone are like fingerprints — never the same. But with long hair, they are not always visible. The distance between eye pupils, measured to the micron, can eliminate a match in a fraction of a second. Or help confirm. Echelon has refused to be deceived by felons who have had extensive plastic surgery.

Terrorists caught by the cameras of drones have been identified in seconds as the real top target and not some bag carrier. It saves an expensive missile. The Tracker flew back east and set Echelon a task: Scan every male face in the players directory and find me a doppelgänger to this man. He offered them the face of the Preacher without the full beard. That could go back on later.

Echelon scanned nearly a thousand male faces and came up with one who, more than any other, looked like the Pakistani called Abu Azzam. Ethnically, he was Hispanic. His name was Tony Suárez. His résumé stated he had had bit parts and walk-on parts, appearances in crowds and even a few words to speak in a commercial for barbecue equipment.

The Tracker went back to his office at TOSA. There was a report from Ariel. His father had found a store selling foreign foodstuffs and brought him a jar of Masala pickles and another of mango chutney. The computer revealed that almost all the fruit and spice ingredients were grown in the plantations of the Lower Juba Valley.

There was more. Commercial data banks revealed Masala was highly successful in Pakistan and the Middle East, and also Great Britain, with its taste for spicy foods and Indian curries. It was wholly owned by its founder, Mr. Mustafa Dardari, who had a mansion in Karachi and a town house in London. Finally, there was a photo of the tycoon, blown up from a boardroom “smiley” picture.

Tracker stared at the face. Smooth, clean-shaven, beaming — something vaguely familiar. He took from his desk drawer the original print of the photo he had brought back from Islamabad on his iPhone. It was folded over to eliminate the half he did not want. He wanted it now. The other grinning schoolboy, fifteen years ago.

As a single son, the Tracker knew that when two such form a schooltime friendship of best buddies, the bond sometimes never dies. He recalled the warning from Ariel — someone sending e-traffic to the warehouse in Kismayo. The Troll responding to acknowledge receipt with thanks. The Preacher had a friend in the West.

Captain Mason studied the presumed face of the Preacher, former Zulfiqar Ali Shah, former Abu Azzam, as he would now look. And by its side the picture of the unsuspecting Tony Suárez, out-of-work bit-part actor dwelling in a squat in Malibu.

“Sure, it can be done,” he said at length. “With makeup, hair, wardrobe, contact lenses, script with rehearsal, autocue.” He tapped the photo of the Preacher.

“Does this guy ever speak?”

“Occasionally.”

“Can’t answer for the voice.”

“Leave the voice to me,” said the Tracker.

Captain Mason, in civilian clothes and calling himself Mr. Mason, flew to Hollywood with a block of dollars and came back with Mr. Suárez. He was lodged in a very comfortable suite in a chain hotel twenty miles from Fort Eustis. To ensure he did not wander, he was assigned a minder in the person of a stunning blond corporal, who was assured all she need do to serve her country was prevent the Californian guest from wandering out of the hotel or into her bedroom for forty-eight hours.

Whether Mr. Suárez believed his services were really desired because of preproduction for an art-house movie being made for a Middle East client with a lot of money to spend was irrelevant. Whether the movie had a plot did not concern him. He was simply content to be in a luxurious suite with a champagne bar, enough dollars to purchase several years of barbecue equipment and the companionship of a blonde who could stop traffic. Capt. Mason had reserved a large conference room in the same hotel and told him the “screen test” would take place the next day.