Frederick Forsyth - The Kill List

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.

Mustafa 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.

He had been dining with friends a mile from his home, and as he made his farewells, he used his mobile to call the driver to come to the portico, where double yellow lines forbade all parking day or night. Around the corner, the driver responded, switched on the engine and touched the accelerator. The car moved a yard before one of the rear tires settled on its rim.

An examination revealed some rogue had slipped a small square of plywood pierced by a needle-sharp steel nail under the tread while the driver dozed at the wheel. The driver rang his client and explained. He would change the tire, but it was a big, heavy limo and would take a while.

As Mr. Dardari stood under the portico with the other guests departing around him, a cab came around the corner, light on. He raised his hand. It swerved toward him. Luck. He climbed aboard and gave his address. And the cab did indeed set off in that direction.

Cabbies in London are required to activate the rear door locks as soon as the client is seated. It prevents passengers from “doing a runner” without paying, but it also stops them being molested by troublemakers trying to climb in beside them. But this fool seemed to have forgotten.

They were barely out of sight of the limousine driver, crouched over his jack, than the cab swerved to the curb, and a burly figure pulled open the door and climbed in. Dardari protested that this cab was taken. But the burly figure slammed the door behind him and said:

“That’s right, squire. By me.”

The Pakistani tycoon was enveloped in a bear hug by one arm while the other arm jammed a large pad soaked in chloroform over his mouth and nose. In twenty seconds, he had stopped struggling.

The transfer to the minivan was made a mile later, where the third ex-commando was at the wheel. The cab, borrowed from a mate who had taken up cabs for a living, was parked as promised with the keys under the seat.

Two of the men sat behind the driver with their dozing guest propped between them, until they were well clear of north London. Then he was tucked in a single bed behind the seats. Twice he tried to wake up but each time was eased back into slumber.

It was a long drive, but they did it in fourteen hours, guided by a GPS locator and a SatNav guide. It took some pushing and shoving to get the minivan up the last section of track, but they arrived at sundown, and Brian Weller made a phone call. There were no masts up there, but he had brought a sat phone.

The Tracker called Ariel, but on his dedicated and secure line that not even Fort Meade or Cheltenham would be listening to. It was midafternoon in Centerville, Virginia.

“Ariel, you know that computer in London you gutted some time back? Could you now send e-mail messages that appear to be coming from it?”

“Of course, Colonel. I have its access right here.”

“And you don’t have to leave Virginia, right?”

Ariel was perplexed that anyone alive could be so naïve in the matters of cyberspace. With what he had at his fingertips, he could become Mustafa Dardari, transmitting from Pelham Crescent, London.

“And you recall the code based on fruit and vegetable prices that the user used to send in? Could you encrypt text in the same code?”

“Of course, sir. I broke it, I can re-create it.”

“Just the way it was? As if the old user was back at the computer keys?”

“Identical.”

“Great. I want you to send a message from the protocol in London to the receiver in Kismayo. Do you have pencil and paper?”

“Do I have what?”

“I know it’s old-fashioned, but I want to stick to secure phone, not e-mail, just in case.”

There was a pause while Ariel slithered down his ladder and returned with pieces of equipment he barely knew how to use. The Tracker dictated his message.

The message was encrypted in exactly the same code Dardari would have used, then it was sent. As everything from Dardari to Somalia was now taped, it was heard by Fort Meade and Cheltenham and decrypted again.

There were some raised eyebrows at both listening posts, but the orders were to eavesdrop but not interfere. According to standing orders, Fort Meade sent a copy to TOSA, which passed it on to the Tracker, who accepted it with a straight face.

In Kismayo it was not the Troll, now dead, who received it but his replacement, Jamma, the former secretary. He decoded it word by word, using the crib the Troll had left behind. But he was no expert, even if there had been a slip. But there was not. Even the required typos were in place.

Because it is cumbersome to send by e-mail in Urdu or Arabic, Dardari, the Troll and the Preacher had always used English. The new message was in English, which Jamma, a Somali, knew, but not with the same fluency. But he knew enough to know this was important and should be brought to the Preacher without delay.

He was one of the few who knew the Preacher’s apparent appearance on the Internet to recant all his teachings was phony because his master had made no broadcasts for over three weeks. But he knew that across the great Muslim diaspora in the West, most of the fan base was disgusted. He had seen the posted comments, hour after hour. But his own loyalty was undimmed. He would make the long and wearisome journey back to Marka with the message from London.

Just as Jamma was convinced he had been listening to Dardari, Fort Meade and Cheltenham were convinced the pickle tycoon was at his desk in London, assisting his friend in Somalia.

The real Dardari was staring miserably out at the driving, early-September rain, while behind him, in front of a roaring fire, three former Marine commandos were having a laughter-filled ramble down memory lane and all the fights they had been in. Curtains of gray cloud swept down across the glen and hurled water onto the roof.

In the blistering heat of Kismayo, the loyal Jamma filled the petrol tank of the pickup for that night’s long haul to Marka.

In London, Gareth Evans transferred the first million of Harry Andersson’s dollars to Abdi’s secret account in Grand Cayman and reckoned that in three more weeks he would have the Malmö , cargo and crew back on the high seas with a NATO destroyer escort.

In an embassy safe house in London, the Tracker wondered if his fish would bite. As dusk settled on Virginia, he called TOSA headquarters.

“Gray Fox, I think I may need the Grumman. Could you send it back to Northolt for me?” he said.

The Preacher sat in his study inside his compound in Marka and thought about his enemy. He was no fool, and he knew he had one out there somewhere. The phony sermon on his website that had effectively destroyed his reputation proved it.