Frederick Forsyth - The Kill List

“Mr. Abdi, my friend, I have always taken you for a civilized man,” he began.

“I am, Mr. Evans, I am,” said the negotiator in Garacad. Evans could tell his voice was tight with distress. He believed it was probably genuine. Of course, one could never tell one hundred percent. After all, Abdi and al-Afrit were of the same tribe, the Habar Gidir, or Abdi, would not have been trusted as a negotiator.

Evans recalled the advice he had been given years before when he was in Customs and Excise and had been posted in the Horn of Africa. His tutor was an old, parchment-skinned colonial wallah with eyes yellowed by malaria. The Somali, he was told, had six priorities, which never varied.

At the top was Self. Then came Family, then Clan, then Tribe. At the bottom were Nation, then Religion. The last two were only invoked to fight the foreigner. Left to themselves, they would simply fight each other, constantly shifting alliances and loyalties according to perceived advantage and waging vendetta according to perceived grievance.

The last thing he told the young Gareth Evans before he blew his brains out when the Colonial Service threatened to retire him back to rainy England was: “You cannot purchase the loyalty of a Somali, but you can usually rent it.”

The idea at the back of Gareth Evans’s mind that late-summer morning in Mayfair was to see whether Ali Abdi’s loyalty to his fellow tribesman exceeded that of loyalty to himself.

“What has happened to one of the prisoners of your principal was disgraceful, unacceptable. It could derail our entire negotiation. And I must tell you I was so pleased before that that the matter was between you and me, because I believe we are both honorable men.”

“I believe so, too, Mr. Gareth.”

Evans could not know how secure the line was. He was not thinking of Fort Meade and Cheltenham — he knew that was a foregone conclusion — but whether any of the warlord’s servants, listening in, was fluent in English. Nevertheless, he had to gamble on Abdi understanding even a single word.

“Because, you see, my friend, I think we may have reached the point of Thuraya.”

There was a long pause. Evans’s gamble was that if any other less educated Somali was listening in, he would not know what that was but that Abdi would.

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.

The 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.”

Gareth 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.”