Frederick Forsyth - The Kill List

“And if he could persuade the PM?”

“Then the order would come down the chain. To the defence secretary, to the chief of the defence staff, to the chief of the general staff, to the director of military operations, then to me. And I do the necessary.”

“That could take all day. I don’t have all day.”

The DSF thought for a while.

“Look, the boys are heading home anyway. Via Bahrain and Cyprus. I could divert them via Djibouti to Cyprus.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s about one p.m. in Somalia. If they take off in two hours, they could land in Djibouti around sundown. Can you fix for them to be made welcome and refueled?”

“Absolutely.”

“On the house?”

“Our tab.”

“Can you be there to brief them? Pictures and targets?”

“Personally. I have a company Grumman out at Northolt.”

General Chamney grinned.

“It’s the only way to fly.” Both men had spent many hours on rock-hard seats in the back of pitching transport planes. The Tracker rose.

“I must go. I have a lot of calls to make.”

“I’ll divert the Hercules,” said the DSF. “And I won’t leave the office. Good luck.”

The Tracker was back at the embassy thirty minutes later. He raced to his office and studied the screen showing the pictures being recorded at Tampa. The Preacher’s technical was still bucking and rolling over the ocher/brown desert. The five men still sat in the back, one with a scarlet baseball cap. He checked his watch. Eleven a.m. in London, two p.m. in Somalia, but only six a.m. in Washington. To hell with Gray Fox’s beauty sleep. He put through his call. A sleepy voice answered on the seventh ring.

“You want what?” he yelled when the morning’s events in London were explained.

“Please, just ask the President to ask the British Prime Minister for this little favor. And authorize our base in Djibouti to cooperate in full.”

“I’ll have to rouse the admiral,” said Gray Fox. He was referring to the commanding officer of J-SOC.

“He’s been roused before. It’ll soon be seven a.m. with you. The commander in chief rises early for his fitness regimen. He’ll take the call. Just ask him to speak with his friend in London and grant the favor. It’s what friends are for.”

The Tracker had more calls to make. He told the pilot of the Grumman at Northolt to draw up a flight plan for Djibouti. From the car pool in the embassy basement under Grosvenor Square, he required a car for Northolt within thirty minutes.

His last call was to Tampa, Florida. Though he was no master of electronics, he knew what he wanted and that it could be done. From the cabin of the Grumman, he wanted a patch through to the bunker controlling the Global Hawk over the Somali desert. He would not get a picture, but he needed constant updating on the passage of that pickup truck across the desert and its final stopping place.

In the communications center at Djibouti base, he wanted direct communication, sound and picture, with the Tampa bunker. And he wanted Djibouti’s complete cooperation with himself and the incoming British paratroopers. Thanks to the clout of J-SOC right across the U.S. armed forces, he got the lot.

The President of the United States took the call from the commander of J-SOC after he showered after his morning fitness session.

“Why do we need them?” was his query after listening to the request.

“The target is one you designated in the spring, sir. The one designated back then simply as the Preacher. He has inspired seven assassinations on U.S. soil, plus the slaughter of the CIA staff on the bus. We now know who he is and where he is. But he will probably light out at dawn.”

“I recall him, Admiral. But dawn is almost twenty-four hours away. We can’t get our own people there in time?”

“It’s not dawn in Somalia, Mr. President. It’s almost sundown. The British team happens to be in the theater. They were on a training mission nearby.”

“We can’t use a missile?”

“There’s an agent from a friendly agency in his entourage.”

“So it’s up close and personal?”

“The only way, sir. So says our man on the spot.”

The President hesitated. As a politician, he knew that a favor creates a marker and markers can later be called in.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll make the call.”

The British Prime Minister was in his office in Downing Street. It was one o’clock. It was his habit to take a light salad lunch before going across Parliament Square to the House of Commons. After that, he would be out of contact. His private secretary took the call from the Downing Street switchboard, put his hand over the receiver and said, “It’s the U.S. President.”

Both men knew each other well and got on at a personal level, which is not vital but extremely useful. Both had stylish wives and young families. There was the usual exchange of greetings and inquiries after the near and dear. Unseen operators in London and Washington recorded every word.

“David, I have a favor to ask.”

“Ask away.”

The President took no more than five sentences. It was a strange request and took the Prime Minister by surprise. The call was on speakerphone; the cabinet secretary, the senior professional civil servant in the country, looked askance at his boss. Bureaucrats hate surprises. There were possible consequences to be thought through. Dropping Pathfinders into a foreign country could be regarded as an act of war. But who governed the Somali wilderness? No one worth the name. He wagged an admonitory finger.

“I’ll have to check with our people. I’ll call you back in twenty minutes. Scout’s honor.”

“This could be very dangerous, Prime Minister,” said the cabinet secretary. He did not mean dangerous for the men involved but for international repercussions.

“Get me, in order, the chief of the defence staff and the chief of Six.”

The professional soldier came on first.

“Yes, I know the problem and I know about the request,” he said. “Will Chamney told me an hour ago.”

He just assumed the Prime Minister would know who the director of Special Forces was.

“Well, can we do it?”

“Of course we can. Providing they get a damn accurate briefing before they go in. That’s down to the Cousins. But if they have a drone overhead, they should be able to see the target clear as day.”

“Where are the Pathfinders now?”

“Over Yemen. Two hours short of the U.S. base at Djibouti. That’s where they’ll land and refuel. Then they’ll be fully briefed. If the young officer in charge is satisfied, he’ll tell Will at Albany Barracks and ask for a green light. That can only come from you, Prime Minister.”

“I can give you that in the next hour. That is, I can give you the political decision. The technical one is up to you professionals. I have two more calls, then I’ll be back in touch.”

The man who came on from the SIS, or MI6, or just 6, was not the Chief but Adrian Herbert.

“The Chief is out of the country, Prime Minister. But I have been handling this case with our friends for some months now. How can I help?”

“You know what the Americans are asking for? To borrow a unit of our Pathfinders?”

“Yes,” said Herbert, “I know.”

“How?”

“We do a lot of listening, Prime Minister.”

“Did you know the Americans cannot use a missile because there is a Western agent inside the bastard’s entourage?”

“Yes.”

“Is he one of ours?”

“No.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“By sundown there will probably be a Swedish merchant marine officer, a hostage, a few yards away as well.”

“How the hell do you know that?”