Frederick Forsyth - The Kill List

Though technically a Muslim, al-Afrit virtually never went to the mosque and rarely said any prayers. In his mind, the southerners were all al-Shabaab and insane. They tortured for Allah, he for pleasure.

The visitor introduced himself as Jamma and made the obeisances appropriate for a sheikh. He said he came as a personal emissary of a sheikh of Marka, with a proposal for the ears of the warlord of Garacad only.

Al-Afrit had never heard of any Jihadist preacher called Abu Azzam. He had a computer, which only the younger among his people really understood, but even if he had been thoroughly literate in its function, he would never have dreamed of watching the Jihadist website. But he listened with rising interest.

Jamma stood in front of him and recited the message he had memorized. It began with the usual lavish salutations and then moved to the burden of the message. When he lapsed into silence, the old Sacad stared at him for several minutes.

“He wants to kill him? Cut his throat? On camera? And then show the world?”

“Yes, Sheikh.”

“And pay me a million dollars? Cash?”

“Yes, Sheikh.”

Al-Afrit thought it over. Killing the white infidel, this he understood. But to show the Western world what he had done, this was madness. They, the infidel, the kuffar , would come take revenge, and they had many guns. He, al-Afrit, took their ships and their money, but he was not mad enough to trigger a blood feud between himself and the whole kuffar world.

Finally, he made his decision — which was to delay a decision. He instructed that his guests be taken to rooms, where they could rest, and be offered food and water. When Jamma was gone, he ordered that neither man retain the ignition key to his vehicle, nor any weapon he might have on him nor any kind of phone. He personally wore a curved jambiya dagger in a sash at his waist, but he did not like any other weapon to be near him.

Ali Abdi returned from the Malmö an hour later, but because he had been away, he did not see the truck arrive from the south, or the two visitors, one the bearer of a bizarre proposition.

He knew the times of his preagreed telephone talks with Gareth Evans, but because London was three time zones west of the Horn of Africa, they took place in midmorning in Garacad. So the next day he had no reason to leave his room early.

He was not present when al-Afrit lengthily briefed one of his most trusted clansmen, a one-eyed savage called Duale, just after dawn, nor did he see the pickup truck with the black roof drive out of the courtyard gate one hour later.

He had vaguely heard of a Jihadist fanatic who preached messages of death and hate over the worldwide web, but he had not heard of the man’s utter discrediting, or his online protestations, that he had been foully defamed in a kuffar plot. But like al-Afrit, albeit for different reasons, he despised Salafists and Jihadists, and all other extremist maniacs, and observed Islam as little as he could get away with.

He was surprised and pleased to find his principal in a reasonably agreeable mood when he appeared for their morning conference. So much so that he suggested they could lower their demand from seven million to six million dollars and probably secure closure. And the clan chief agreed.

When he spoke to Gareth Evans, he exuded self-satisfaction. He was so tempted to say, “We are almost there,” but realized that phrase could only mean that the pair of them were colluding on an agreed price. Privately, he thought: One more week, perhaps only five days, and the monster will let the Malmö sail.

With his second million dollars, added to his life savings, he felt a comfortable retirement in a civilized environment beckoning.

The Tracker was beginning to worry. In angling terms, he had dropped a heavily baited hook into the water and he was waiting for a monster to bite. But the floater was immobile on the surface. It did not even bob.

From his office in the embassy, he had a second-by-second patch through to the bunker outside Tampa, where a senior NCO from the Air Force sat silently, control column in hand, flying a Global Hawk high over a compound in Marka. He could see what the master sergeant could see — a silent collection of three houses inside a wall on a narrow cluttered street with a fruit market at one end of it.

But the compound showed no signs of life. No one came, no one left. The Hawk could not only watch, it could listen. It would hear the tiniest electronic whisper out of that compound; it would pluck a few syllables out of cyberspace, whether they were uttered, on computer or cell phone. The National Security Agency at Fort Meade, with its satellites in space, would do the same.

But all that technology was being defeated. He had not seen the pickup truck driven by Jamma change its configuration with a black cab roof, then double back and head north instead of south. He did not know it was on its way back. He could not know that his bait had been taken and a deal struck between a sadistic Sacad in Garacad and a desperate Pakistani in Marka. In Donald Rumsfeld’s unusual terminology, he was facing “an unknown unknown.”

He could only suspect, and he suspected he was losing, outwitted by barbarians cleverer than he. The secure phone rang.

It was Master Sergeant Orde from Tampa. “Colonel, sir, there’s a technical approaching the target.” Tracker resumed his study of the screen. The compound occupied the center of it, about a quarter of the space. There was a pickup at the gate. The cab had a black roof. He did not recognize it.

A figure in a white dishdash came out of the house at the side of the square, crossed the sandy space and opened the gate. The pickup drove in. The gate closed. Three tiny figures emerged from the truck and entered the main house. The Preacher had visitors.

The Preacher received the trio in his office. The bodyguard was dismissed. Opal introduced the emissary from the north. The Sacad Duale glared with his one good eye. He, too, had memorized his brief. With a gesture, the Preacher indicated that he could begin. The terms of al-Afrit were terse and clear.

He was prepared to trade his Swedish captive for one million dollars cash. His servant Duale should see and count the money and alert his master that he had actually seen it.

For the rest, al-Afrit would not enter al-Shabaab land. There would be an exchange at the border. Duale knew the place of the exchange and would guide the vehicles bearing the money and guards to it. The delegation from the north would make the rendezvous and bring the prisoner.

“And where is this meeting place?” asked the Preacher. Duale simply stared and shook his head.

The Preacher had seen tribesmen like this in the Pakistani border territories, among the Pathan. He could pull out all the man’s nails, both fingers and toes, but he would die before he spoke. He nodded and smiled.

He knew there was no real border between north and south on any map. But maps were for the kuffar s. The tribesmen had their maps in their heads. They knew exactly where, a generation earlier, clan had fought clan for the ownership of a camel and men had died. The spot marked the place where the vendetta had begun. They knew if a man from the wrong clan crossed the line, he would die. They needed no white man’s map.

He also knew he could be ambushed for the money. But to what end? The clan chief from Garacad would get his money anyway, and what use to him was the Swedish boy? Only he, the Preacher, knew the true, staggering value of the merchant marine cadet from Stockholm, because his good friend in London had told him. And that immense sum would restore all his fortunes, even among the supposedly pious al-Shabaad. North or south, money not only talked, it shouted.