Frederick Forsyth - The Kill List

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.

That’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.

Ali 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.

That 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.”