Frederick Forsyth - The Kill List

The Preacher stood Jamma in front of him and recited the message in Arabic. Jamma translated it in his head into Somali and kept repeating it until he was word-perfect. He took one Pakistani bodyguard with him and departed.

He took the same pickup that had brought him from Kismayo two days earlier with the London message. From high above, foreign eyes watched the rear, filled with plastic jerrycans of extra fuel.

They were watching in the bunker outside Tampa as a tarpaulin was drawn over the fuel cans, but that was a normal precaution. Two men were seen to climb into the cab, but neither was the shrouded figure of the Preacher nor the slim young man in a red baseball cap. The pickup left and turned toward Kismayo and the south. When it passed out of view, the Global Hawk was instructed to resume its surveillance of the compound. Then the pickup stopped; the men in it removed the tarpaulin and painted the cab roof black. Thus disguised, it turned back, circled Marka to the west and headed north. At sundown, it skirted the Mogadishu enclave and pressed on toward Puntland and its numerous dens of pirates.

On pitted, rutted tracks, often driving over sharp-stoned deserts, with refuels and changes of tires, the journey to Garacad took two days.

Mr. Gareth, it is I.”

Ali Abdi was on the phone from Garacad. He seemed excited. Gareth Evans was both tired and strained. The relentless grind of trying to negotiate with people devoid of the simplest concept of haste or even the passage of time was always exhausting for a European. That was why the top hostage negotiators were few in number and highly paid.

Evans was also under constant pressure from Harry Andersson, who phoned daily, and sometimes more than that, seeking news of his son. Evans had tried to explain that even a hint of haste, let alone desperation, from the London end would make matters ten times worse than they already were. The Swedish billionaire was a businessman, and that half of him accepted the logic. But he was also a father, so the phone calls never stopped.

“Good morning to you, my friend,” said Evans calmly. “What does your principal have to say this fine sunny day?”

“I think we are moving toward closure, Mr. Gareth. We would settle now for seven million dollars.” Then he added, “I am doing my best.”

It was a remark that, even if he were being overheard by an English-speaking Somali in the service of al-Afrit, would not be offensive. Evans realized it meant the negotiator in Garacad was trying to earn his second million-dollar bribe. But north and south of the Mediterranean Sea, the word “hurry” has two different meanings.

“That’s very good, Mr. Abdi, but only so far,” said Evans. The previous minimum offer acceptable to al-Afrit two days earlier had been ten million dollars. Evans had offered three. He knew Harry Andersson would have clinched at ten within a heartbeat. He also knew that would have triggered a forest of red flags in Somalia, where they knew that four to five million dollars would be about right.

A sudden collapse by the Europeans would have indicated panic and probably sent the price back up to fifteen.

“Look, Mr. Abdi, I have spent most of the night on the phone to Stockholm, and my principals have agreed with extreme reluctance to release four million dollars into your principal’s international account within the hour if the Malmö weighs anchor one hour later. It’s a very good offer, Mr. Abdi. I think we both know that and your principal must surely see that.”

“I will put the new offer to him immediately, Mr. Gareth.”

When the line went dead, Gareth Evans mulled over the history of successful deals with Somali pirates. The uninitiated were always amazed that money would be paid into an account before the ship was released. What was to stop the pirates taking the money and not releasing their captives?

But here was the oddity. Of one hundred and eighty agreements written and exchanged by fax or e-mail between negotiators, all duly signed at each end, in only three cases had the Somalis broken their word.

Basically, throughout Puntland, the pirates realized they were into piracy for the money. They had no need or want of ships, cargoes or prisoners. To have broken deal after deal would have ruined their industry. Shifty and ruthless they might be, but self-interest was self-interest and it was supreme.

Normally. This was not normal. Of the three cases, two had been by al-Afrit. He was notorious, as was his clan. He was Sacad, a subclan of the Habar Gidir tribe. Mohamed Farrah Aideed, the brutal warlord whose thieving of aid supplies for the starving had brought the Americans into Somalia in 1993, and who had shot down the Black Hawk and slaughtered the U.S. Rangers, dragging their bodies through the streets, was also Sacad.

Speaking secretly on sat phones, Ali Abdi and Gareth Evans had agreed they would settle for five million dollars only if the old monster in the mud fort would agree and not suspect his own negotiator had been bought. Five million was, in any case, a perfectly acceptable figure for both sides. Harry Andersson’s extra two-million-dollar bribe to Abdi was only to divide the delay by a figure of ten, if that were possible.

Out on the Malmö , under the scorching sun, things were becoming smelly. The European food was gone, either eaten or turned rotten when the freezers were turned off to save fuel. The Somali guards brought live goats onboard and slaughtered them out on the decks.

Captain Eklund would have had his decks hosed down, but the electric pumps were fuel based, like the air-conditioning, so he had the crew dip buckets into the sea and use brooms.

There was a mercy, in that the sea all around was teeming with fish, brought close by the goat offal thrown over the side. Both Europeans and Filipinos appreciated fresh fish, but it was becoming monotonous.

Washing facilities had been rigged with salt water when the showers went off, and fresh water was liquid gold, for drinking only, and even then made disgusting with purification tablets. Capt. Eklund was glad there had been no serious illness so far, just occasional diarrhea.

But he was not sure how long conditions would last. The Somalis often did not even bother to hoist their rears over the taffrail when they needed to defecate. The Filipinos, glaring with anger, had to broom it all through the scuppers in the pounding, enervating heat.

Captain Eklund could not even talk to Stockholm anymore. His satellite telephone had been disconnected on the orders of the one he called the little bastard in the suit. Ali Abdi did not want any interferences by amateurs in his delicate negotiations with the office of Chauncey Reynolds.

The Swedish skipper was thinking such thoughts when his Ukrainian deputy called out that a launch was coming. With binoculars, Capt. Eklund could make out the dhow and the neat little figure in the stern in a safari suit. He welcomed the visit. He would be able to ask yet again how fared the merchant marine cadet called Carlsson. In all that landscape, he was the only one who knew who the lad really was.

What he did not know was that the teenager had been beaten. Abdi would only tell him Ove Carlsson was well and detained within the fortress only as an earnest of the good behavior of the crew still onboard. Capt. Eklund had pleaded in vain for his return.

While Mr. Abdi was on the Malmö , a dusty pickup drove into the courtyard of the fortress behind the village. It contained one large and hulking Pakistani, who spoke neither English nor Somali, and one other.

The Pakistani stayed with the truck. The other was shown into the presence of al-Afrit, who recognized the man as from the Harti Darod clan, meaning “Kismayo.” The Sacad warlord did not like the Harti, or indeed anyone from the south.