Frederick Forsyth - The Kill List

Abdi thought of the future. The second of his million-dollar bribes would be assured. Gareth Evans would not cheat him lest they ever had to deal again. But only he, Abdi, could know that he was retiring and emigrating to a lovely villa in Tunisia, where he could live in peace and safety miles from the chaos and killing of his native land. He checked his watch again and rolled over for an extended snooze.

The Tracker was still in his office, considering a limited range of options. He knew a lot, but he could not know everything.

He had an agent inside the enemy camp, probably riding a few feet away from the Preacher in one of the four technicals rolling through the desert six miles below the Global Hawk. But he could not communicate with his man nor the reverse. Opal’s transceiver was still buried beneath a shack on the beach outside Kismayo. It would have been suicidal for him to have attempted to bring anything with him to Marka save the harmless-looking item he had been given by the casuarina trees.

The Tracker presumed there would be a meeting somewhere and a handover of money for the Swedish prisoner. He had no qualms about what he had done, reasoning that the cadet from Stockholm was in greater danger with the man even his own clansmen nicknamed Devil than with the Preacher, who would keep him alive and well for the money.

After the swap, the Preacher would presumably return to Marka, where he was untouchable. The only chance of destroying him had been to lure him out into the Somali desert, to those wide-open spaces where there were no civilians to hurt.

But missiles were forbidden anyway. Gray Fox had made that plain yet again the previous evening. As the sun that now blazed down on Somalia brought the first light to London, he considered his options. Despite all his pleadings, they were not generous.

The SEALs’ Team 6 was on base at Dam Neck, Virginia, and there was no time to bring them across half the world. The Night Stalkers, with their long-range helicopters, were at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. That apart, he suspected choppers would be too noisy. He had been in jungle and desert. He knew that at night the jungle is an infernal din of frogs and insects while the desert is eerily silent, the creatures who live in it have the hearing of the bat-eared foxes that share the sand with them. The thump of helicopter rotors, carried on the night breeze, can be heard for miles.

There was one unit he had heard of but never seen in action or even met. But he knew their reputation and specialty. They were not even American. There were two American units that, by repute, could match them; but the SEALs and the Delta boys were across the Atlantic.

He was roused from his thoughts by M.Sgt. Orde.

“Colonel, they seem to be separating.”

He went back to the screen, and again incipient panic was like a punch in the gut. Down on the desert floor, the four technicals were in column but widely spaced. They had four hundred yards between each of them.

This was the Preacher’s precaution to ensure the Americans would not dare use a missile for fear it would miss the truck he was traveling in. He was not to know he was safe because of the young Ethiopian behind him. But now they were not just separated in a line, they were all diverging.

The convoy was north of the soldier-guarded enclave of Mogadishu, heading northwest into the valley of the Shebelle. To cross the river, there were half a dozen usable bridges between Ethiopia and the sea. Now the four technicals were parting company as if heading for different bridges. His one drone could not follow them all.

Even at full maximum screen width, it could only observe two. But, by then, each truck would have become too tiny to see. From Tampa, the controller’s voice was urgent.

“Which one, sir?”

Gareth Evans came into the office just after eight. Lawyers are rarely early risers, and he was always the first to appear in the office. The night watchman was by now accustomed to emerging from his box behind the reception desk to unlock the plate-glass doors and admit the negotiator — and that was when he was not spending the night on his cot in the office upstairs.

He had brought his vacuum flask of coffee from the nearby hotel where Chauncey Reynolds had billeted him for the duration. Later, dear Mrs. Bulstrode would appear, then go to the deli to secure him a real breakfast and be back before it went cold. He had no idea that every stage of his negotiations was faithfully reported to the Secret Intelligence Service.

A pulsing red light at half past eight told him Mr. Abdi was on the line. Gareth Evans never liked to permit himself a rush of optimism; he had been disappointed before. But he thought he and the Somali go-between were close to the agreed-upon ransom of five million dollars, for which he had full clearance. The money transfer was not his problem; others would handle that. And he knew there was a British frigate not far offshore to escort the Malmö to safety when the moment came.

“Yes, Mr. Abdi, Gareth Evans here. You have news for me? You are earlier than usual.”

“Indeed news, Mr. Gareth. And very good news. The best. My principal has agreed to settle on five million dollars only.”

“That’s excellent, my friend.” He tried to keep the exultation out of his voice. This is the fastest release he had ever secured. “I think I can get the transfer made this day. Are all the crew well?”

“Yes, very well. There is. . how do you English say. . a wasp in the ointment, but not important.”

“I think it’s a fly. A problem. But, never mind, a wasp will do. How big a wasp, Mr. Abdi?”

“The Swedish boy, the cadet. .”

Evans froze. He held up a hand to stop Mrs. Bulstrode in her tracks, breakfast in hand.

“You mean Ove Carlsson. What problem, Mr. Abdi?”

“He cannot be coming, Mr. Gareth. My principal, I’m afraid. . It was nothing to do with me. . He received an offer. .”

“What has happened to Mr. Carlsson?” Evans’s voice had lost all its good humor.

“I’m afraid he has been sold to the al-Shabaab in the south. But do not worry, Mr. Gareth. He was only the cadet.”

Gareth Evans replaced the receiver, leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. Mrs. Bulstrode put down his breakfast and left.

Agent Opal sat between Jamma and the door. The Preacher was on the far side. The technical, which did not have the suspension of the Land Cruiser, bucked, rocked and shuddered with every stone and pothole. They had been motoring for five hours; it was nearly midday, and the heat was stifling. Any air-conditioning the vehicle had once had was long for the archives.

The Preacher and Jamma were both dozing. Had it not been for the jolting, Opal might have fallen into a fitful sleep and missed it.

The Preacher awoke, leaned forward, tapped the driver on the shoulder and said something. It was in Urdu, but the meaning became clear only moments later. They had been driving in line since leaving Marka, and their vehicle was the second of four. Just after the tap on the shoulder, the driver turned off the track of the one in front and took another.

He glanced out and back. Trucks three and four were doing the same. The seating arrangements were different from the Land Cruiser. There was just the driver up front, with the Preacher, Jamma and himself along the seat behind. The three bodyguards were out in the open behind the cab with Duale the Sacad.

From above, all four technicals would look the same, and like eighty percent of other pickup trucks in Somalia. Three of the technicals were local hirelings from Marka. Opal knew about drones; they had featured large in his training at the Mossad agent school. He began to retch.