The Kill List

by Frederick Forsyth

  Within twenty-four hours, the net of interrogators had spread far and wide. Counterterrorism experts pored over the laptop and the diary. The death declaration was played to rooms of silent men and women in the FBI’s Hoover Building, with copies to the CIA.

  Not everyone on the stricken bus worked for the Agency, since the bus served other stops. But most went to the end of the line—Langley/McLean.

  Before sundown, the Director of the CIA exercised his prerogative and secured a private interview with the President in the Oval Office. Staffers in the corridors said he was still pale with anger.

  • • •

  It is very rare for spymasters in one country to have any regard for their opponents among the enemy, but it happens. During the Cold War, many in the West had a grudging regard for the man who ran East Germany’s spy service.

  Markus “Misha” Wolf had a small budget and a big enemy—Germany and NATO. He did not even bother trying to traduce the cabinet ministers in the service of Bonn. He targeted those dowdy, scuttling, invisible mice in the offices of the high and mighty without whom no office can run: the confidential private secretaries to the ministers.

  He studied their drab, spinsterly and often lonely private lives and targeted them with young, handsome lovers. These Romeos would start slow and patient, moving to warm embraces in chilly lives, promises of companionship for life in sunny places after retirement, and all just for a glance at those silly papers forever passing across the minister’s desk.

  And they did, those Ingrids and Waltrauds. They passed over the copies of everything confidential and classified that were left unattended when the minister stalked out to his four-course lunch. It reached a point where the Bonn government was so penetrated that the NATO allies did not dare tell Bonn what day of the week it was because within a day the information would go to East Berlin and then Moscow.

  Eventually, the police would come, the Romeo would vanish and the office mouse, shrunken and in tears, would appear fleetingly between two hulking cops. Then she would exchange a lonely little flat for a lonely little cell in prison.

  He was a ruthless bastard, was Misha Wolf, but after the collapse of East Germany, he retired in obscurity, never charged with anything, and died in his bed of natural causes.

  Forty years later, the British SIS would have loved to eavesdrop on what was said and done in the offices of Chauncey Reynolds, but Julian Reynolds regularly had his entire suite swept by a high-grade team of electronic wizards, some of them actually retired from government service.

  So the Firm did not have state-of-the-art technology secreted in the private office of Gareth Evans that summer, but they did have Emily Bulstrode. She saw everything, read everything and heard everything, and no one noticed her with her tray of cups.

  The day Harry Andersson screamed into the face of Gareth Evans, Mrs. Bulstrode bought her usual sandwich at the deli on the corner and went to her favorite telephone booth. She did not like those modern things that people kept in their pockets, always going off in conferences. She preferred to visit one of the few remaining red-painted, cast-iron kiosks where you put coins in a meter. She asked for a connection, spoke a few words and went back to her desk.

  After work, she went on foot to St. James’s Park, sat on the assigned bench and fed the ducks some crusts she had saved from her sandwich as she waited for her contact. Back in the day, she mused, her beloved Charlie had been the man in Moscow who every day went to Gorki Park and picked up top secret microfilm from the Soviet traitor Oleg Penkovsky. These state secrets, relayed to the desk of President Kennedy, enabled him to outwit Nikita Khrushchev and get those damn rockets removed from Cuba in the autumn of 1962.

  A young man approached and sat down beside her. The usual exchange of harmless chitchat assured true identity. She glanced at him and smiled. A youngster, she thought, probably a probationer, not even born when she used to slip through the Iron Curtain into East Germany for the Firm.

  The young man pretended to read the Evening Standard. He took no notes because he had a recorder active but silent in his jacket pocket. Emily Bulstrode also had no notes; she had her two assets, a totally harmless air and a steel-trap memory.

  So she told the probationer everything that had happened that morning in the law offices, detail by detail and word for word. Verbatim. Then she rose and walked to the station to catch her commuter train for her little house in Coulsdon. She sat alone, watching the southern suburbs drift by. Once she had dodged the dreadful Stasis; now she was seventy-five and made coffee for lawyers.

  The young man from Vauxhall Cross went back in the dusk and filed his report. He noticed there was a flag attached, to the effect that the Chief had agreed that news concerning Somalia should be shared with the Cousins up at the U.S. embassy. He could not see what a brutal warlord in Garacad could have to do with a hunt for the Preacher, but a standing order is still a standing order, so he filed a copy for the CIA.

  In his safe house half a mile from the embassy, the Tracker was almost finished packing when his BlackBerry throbbed discreetly. He looked at the message, scrolled down until the end, switched off and thought for a while. Then he unpacked. A benign deity had just given him his bait.

  • • •

  Gareth Evans called a conference with Mr. Ali Abdi the next morning. The Somali, when he came on, was subdued.

  “Mr. Abdi, my friend, I have always taken you for a civilized man,” he began.

  “I am, Mr. Evans, I am,” said the negotiator in Garacad. Evans could tell his voice was tight with distress. He believed it was probably genuine. Of course, one could never tell one hundred percent. After all, Abdi and al-Afrit were of the same tribe, the Habar Gidir, or Abdi, would not have been trusted as a negotiator.

  Evans recalled the advice he had been given years before when he was in Customs and Excise and had been posted in the Horn of Africa. His tutor was an old, parchment-skinned colonial wallah with eyes yellowed by malaria. The Somali, he was told, had six priorities, which never varied.

  At the top was Self. Then came Family, then Clan, then Tribe. At the bottom were Nation, then Religion. The last two were only invoked to fight the foreigner. Left to themselves, they would simply fight each other, constantly shifting alliances and loyalties according to perceived advantage and waging vendetta according to perceived grievance.

  The last thing he told the young Gareth Evans before he blew his brains out when the Colonial Service threatened to retire him back to rainy England was: “You cannot purchase the loyalty of a Somali, but you can usually rent it.”

  The idea at the back of Gareth Evans’s mind that late-summer morning in Mayfair was to see whether Ali Abdi’s loyalty to his fellow tribesman exceeded that of loyalty to himself.

  “What has happened to one of the prisoners of your principal was disgraceful, unacceptable. It could derail our entire negotiation. And I must tell you I was so pleased before that that the matter was between you and me, because I believe we are both honorable men.”

  “I believe so, too, Mr. Gareth.”

  Evans could not know how secure the line was. He was not thinking of Fort Meade and Cheltenham—he knew that was a foregone conclusion—but whether any of the warlord’s servants, listening in, was fluent in English. Nevertheless, he had to gamble on Abdi understanding even a single word.

  “Because, you see, my friend, I think we may have reached the point of Thuraya.”

  There was a long pause. Evans’s gamble was that if any other less educated Somali was listening in, he would not know what that was but that Abdi would.

  Eventually, Abdi came back.

  “I think I see what you mean, Mr. Gareth.”

  The Thuraya phone is a satellite-employing communicator. Four cell phone companies control the use of mobiles in Somalia, the others being NationLink, Hormud, and France Télécom. They all have masts. The Thuraya needs only the U.S. satellites, turning slowly in space.

  What Evans was saying to Abdi was that if
he had, or could get, a Thuraya phone, he should take a ride into the desert alone and, from behind a rock, call Evans so they could talk extremely privately. The reply indicated Abdi had understood and would try.

  The two negotiators spun out another thirty minutes, bringing the ransom down to eighteen million dollars and each promising to be back in touch when they had consulted with their respective principals.

  • • •

  The lunch was on the American government; the Tracker had insisted on it. But his SIS contact, Adrian Herbert, had made the booking. He had chosen Shepherd’s in Marsham Street and insisted on a booth for privacy.

  It was affable, friendly, but both men realized the point of it all would come over coffee and mints. When the American made his pitch, Herbert put the coffee down in surprise.

  “What do you mean lift? ”

  “Lift, as in abstract, pluck, sequester.”

  “You mean kidnap. From the streets of London? Without warrant or charge?”

  “He is assisting a known terrorist who has motivated four murders in your country, Adrian.”

  “Yes, but a forcible snatch would create absolute havoc if it ever got out. We would need an authority to do it, and that would need the signature of the Home Secretary. She’d consult lawyers. They would demand a formal charge.”

  “You have helped us with extraordinary renditions before, Adrian.”

  “Yes, but they were snatched on the streets of places that were already completely lawless. Knightsbridge is not Karachi, you know. Dardari is, on the surface, a respectable businessman.”

  “You and I know different.”

  “Indeed we do. But only because we invaded his house, bugged his home and raped his computer. That would look wonderful coming out in open court. I’m sorry, Tracker, we try to be helpful, but that is as far as we can go.”

  He thought for a while, staring at the ceiling.

  “No, it’s just not on, old boy. We would have to work like Trojans to get permission for that sort of thing.”

  They settled up, and went different ways on the pavement. Adrian Herbert would walk back to the Office at Vauxhall. The Tracker hailed a cab. Sitting in the back, he mulled over that last sentence.

  What on earth had classical allusions got to do with it? Back at his house, he consulted the Internet. It took a while but it was there. Trojan Horse Outcomes, a small, niche security company based outside Hamworthy in Dorset.

  That, he knew, was Royal Marine territory. Their big base was at nearby Poole, and many men who had spent a working life in Special Forces retired and settled down near their old bases. Often they got a few mates together and formed a private security company—the usual rigmarole: bodyguards, asset protection, close escort work. If backer money was tight, they would work from home. Further research showed Trojan Outcomes was based in a residential district.

  The Tracker called the given number and made an appointment for the next morning. Then he rang a Mayfair car-hire company and booked a compact for three hours earlier. He explained he was an American tourist called Jackson, with a valid U.S. driver’s license, and would need the car for a day to visit with a friend on the South Coast.

  As he hung up, his BlackBerry pulsed. It was a text from TOSA, secure from interception. Its identifier proclaimed it came from Gray Fox. What it could not reveal was that the four-star general commanding J-SOC had just left the Oval Office with fresh orders.

  Gray Fox did not waste time. His message needed only four words. It said “The Preacher. No prisoners.”

  • • •

  Gareth Evans had virtually taken up residence in the law offices. A truckle bed had been moved into the operations room. His bathroom had a shower, lavatory and basin. Cooked takeaways and salads from the corner deli provided sustenance. He had abandoned the usual procedure of conferences at fixed times with his opposite number in Somalia. He wanted to be in the ops room if Abdi followed his advice and rang from the desert. He might not have long unobserved. And just before midday the phone rang. It was Abdi.

  “Mr. Evans? It is me. I have found a sat phone. But I do not have long.”

  “Then let us keep it short, my friend. What your principal did to the boy indicates to us one thing: He wants to pressure us to settle quickly. That is not usual. Normally, it is the Somalis who have all the time in the world. This time both parties are interested in a speedy conclusion. Not so?”

  “Yes, I think so,” said the voice from the desert.

  “My principal takes the same view. But not because of the cadet. That was blackmail, but too crude to work. My principal wants his ship back at work. The key is the final release price and in this your advice to your principal will be crucial.”

  Evans knew it would be suicidal if he let slip that the boy was worth ten times the ship and cargo.

  “What do you propose, Mr. Evans?”

  “A final settlement at five million dollars. We both know that is very fair. We would probably have settled on that figure three months from now anyway. I think you know that.”

  Mr. Abdi, his phone to his ear, crouching in the desert a mile from the fortress behind Garacad, agreed, but said nothing. He sensed there was something coming for himself.

  “What I propose is this. On five million, your share would be about one million. My offer is to pay that million into your private numbered account right now. A second million when the ship sails. No one need know anything about this but you and me. The key is a rapid conclusion. That is what I hope I am buying.”

  Abdi thought. The third million would still come from al-Afrit. Three times his usual fee. And he had other thoughts. This was a situation he wanted to get out of, regardless of any other factor.

  The days of easy pickings and easy ransoms were over. It had taken a long time for the Western and maritime powers to get their act together, but they were turning much more aggressive.

  There had already been two off-the-sea beach assaults by Western commandos. One anchored ship had been liberated by Marines descending on ropes from a hovering helicopter. The Somali guards had fought. Two seamen had died, but so had the Somalis—all but two, and these were now in prison in the Seychelles.

  Ali Abdi was not a hero and had not the slightest intention of becoming one. He blanched with horror at the thought of these black-clad monsters with night vision goggles and blazing submachine guns storming the mud-brick fortress where he was presently in residence.

  And, finally, he wanted to retire; with a large fortune and a long way from Somalia. Somewhere civilized and above all safe. He spoke into the sat phone.

  “You have a deal, Mr. Gareth.” And he dictated an account number. “Now I work for you, Mr. Gareth. But understand, I will press for a speedy settlement of five million dollars, but even then we have to look to four weeks.”

  It had been a fortnight already, thought Evans, but six weeks would be among the shortest on record between capture and release.

  “Thank you, my friend. Let us get this dreadful business over with and go back to a civilized life . . .”

  He hung up. Far away, Abdi did the same and went back to the fortress. The two men might not have been using the Somali phone network but that mattered not a jot to Fort Meade or Cheltenham who had captured every word.

  According to orders, Fort Meade passed the text across the state line to TOSA, who fed a copy to the Tracker in London. A month, he thought. The clock is ticking. He pocketed his BlackBerry as the northern outskirts of Poole hove into view and kept his eyes peeled for a sign for Hamworthy.

  • • •

  That’s a lot of money, boss.”

  Trojan Horse Outcomes was clearly a very small operation. The Tracker presumed it had been named after one of the biggest deceptions in history, but what the man facing him could muster was a lot less than the Greek army.

  It was run out of a modest suburban terrace house, and Tracker put the manpower at about two or three. The one facing him across the dining room table was cle
arly the mainspring, and Tracker put him down as a former Royal Marine and a senior NCO. It turned out he was right on both counts. His name was Brian Weller.

  What Weller was referring to was a block of fifty-dollar bills the thickness of a firebrick.

  “So what exactly do you want done?”

  “I want a man lifted without fuss from the streets of London, taken to a quiet and isolated place, detained there for up to a month and then released back where he came from. No rough stuff—just a nice vacation far from London or any kind of telephone.”

  Weller thought it over. He had not the slightest doubt the snatch would be illegal, but his philosophy was simple and soldierly. There were good guys and bad guys, and the latter group got away with far too much.

  Capital punishment was illegal, but he had two little girls at school, and if any swinish “nonce” interfered with them, he would unhesitatingly send him to another and maybe better world.

  “How bad is this customer?”

  “He helps terrorists. Quietly, with finances. The one he is helping right now has killed four Brits and seven Americans. A terrorist.”

  Weller grunted. He had done three tours in Helmand, Afghanistan, and seen some good mates die in front of him.

  “Bodyguards?”

  “No. Occasionally a rented limousine with a driver. More usually, black cabs right off the street.”

  “You have a place to take him?”

  “Not yet. I will have.”

  “I would want to make a thorough recce before a decision.”

  “I’d walk right out of here if you didn’t,” said the Tracker.

  Weller took his eyes off the block of dollars and assessed the American on the other side of the table. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be. He was convinced the Yank had also seen combat, heard the incoming lead, seen mates go down. He nodded.

  “I’ll drive up to London. Tomorrow suit, boss?”

  Tracker suppressed a smile. He recognized the address, what British Special Forces soldiers called an officer to his face. Behind his back was another matter. Usually Rupert, sometimes worse.