Dark Asset

by Adrian Magson

  ‘But?’

  ‘We think there’s a lot more to this hard drive than a bunch of people around a table talking oil.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘From data we obtained through other sources, we believe it also contains a list of planned terrorist targets around the Middle East, Africa and Europe – possibly even the United States.’

  I let a few seconds drift by as I digested the implications of what Angela had just said. For one, it explained why Tom Vale had sent her here to tell me in person, rather than hoping to persuade me to help in a simple phone call. The mere existence of such information, if true, was too important to ignore, and he was clearly counting on persuading me to get out there and find it.

  ‘Has Vale got anybody working on this?’ I meant, had he sent out his own people, like Doug Tober and the Basement, to find the hard drive.

  ‘No. He proposed a plan but it was vetoed without further discussion. He’s hoping to raise the issue again.’ She gave a dry smile. ‘Some of our leaders are wary of getting involved when there are already two major players out here. I’m afraid it’s down to you … if you’re willing.’

  ‘How does this terrorist aspect connect with oil deals?’

  ‘Several months ago we picked up some internet chatter about a number of planned high-profile attacks, mostly suicide bombers and truck bombs aimed at maximum impact. Some of the targets were in Somalia, especially in and around Mogadishu, others were across the border in Kenya aimed at the African Union forces. But they never happened. Instead there were attacks on a number of low-level targets that just seemed random, as if somebody was sticking pins in a map. It wasn’t until one of our systems experts mashed the data through an analysis program that the two looked like being connected.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Mostly by the movement of people and materials. Known extremists were suddenly not where we thought, but turning up in places nobody had considered. Mistakes made by a couple of small groups, offshoots of al-Qaeda or al-Shabaab, led to finds of arms and explosives that had clearly been assembled ready for an attack. Several arrests were made and that led to the discovery of documents pointing towards money movements to places where no known terrorists had been seen before. It all pointed to a build-up of activity, yet the locations where we knew there had been real and viable threats of attack suddenly went quiet. It was uncanny.’

  ‘It sounds as if somebody was being persuaded to switch attacks from some targets and go for others instead.’

  ‘That was the only explanation. And too many of the links in the documents and the personnel involved led us repeatedly to one man: Hussein Abdullah. It was too much to be a coincidence. At first we figured we were wrong. After all, would a leader like Abdullah have been so easily turned from his ready-made targets? He was known to be a planner and a forward thinker, laying down ideas months before they happened. In addition he’d always been a hardliner and hated the French as much as the Americans. His father was allegedly killed by Foreign Legion troops some years ago, and he lost other family members in a drone attack in Iraq. But the no-brainer we couldn’t ignore was that if any switch in plans was made, it would have been on his say-so.’

  ‘They must have had something on him.’

  ‘Yes, and we think we know what it was. Several years ago three senior members of the Islamic Courts Union, which was the ruling group in the region and the forerunner to al-Shabaab, were killed in a rocket attack. Two more were shot a few days later at a secret mountain hideout by troops from the then Somali Transitional Federal Government, and several bases were raided and destroyed. It was seen as a decisive move by the government to rid itself of the ICU. The problem was, nobody could figure out how the TFG could have planned and executed the raids so quickly. They were already stretched and lacking suitably trained men or the planning capability, yet they accomplished the raids with what looked like insulting ease.’

  ‘Somebody sold them the information?’

  ‘Exactly. And we now know who that was. It was Hussein Abdullah. It was his way of getting rid of the Council and climbing towards the top of the tree.’ She shrugged. ‘If his betrayal had ever become known, he wouldn’t have lasted five minutes. In the end, its suppression became the price for his cooperation.’

  ‘So why were the new targets hit? Did he change his mind?’

  ‘Not really. It meant Abdullah and his followers could still be seen to be following their jihadist ideals and plans, while switching the focus away from “protected” targets. Don’t hit target A because that’s not part of the deal – hit B. Nobody cares about B.’

  If it was true it would amount to a cold-hearted lottery. Far from preventing terrorist attacks, the arrangement meant actually suggesting other, less important targets instead. Capable of generating shock and fear, they were still targets and people were dying. And all in the name of commerce.

  ‘And this list of potential new targets?’

  ‘We think it’s a different approach. We’re not sure if they’re connected, but any threat has to be taken seriously. The general consensus is that the European targets will be handled by al-Qaeda using recruits from among the North African communities in Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia. They each have extensive links in mainland Europe, so they’ll find it easier to get operatives in place and equipped locally.’

  ‘Clever.’

  ‘Yes. It’ll mean that no blame attaches to al-Shabaab and Daoud and his people will be able to show clean hands. By the time they take place, it’s likely that any exchange of money will have happened, so it will be too late to claw it back.’

  It was just the kind of twisted logic that extremists would follow, playing both ends against the middle and shrugging their shoulders in innocence when the bombs began going off. If they were believed because it was expedient to do so, they would benefit; if they weren’t, they would simply use the cash to set up new campaigns. Win-win for al-Shabaab.

  She fixed me with a hard look. ‘It’s vital we get hold of that hard drive, Marc. Abdullah was very computer-savvy and rumoured to keep extensive records on everybody he dealt with, even his friends. I would say especially them. So the target list is just a small part of it. There’s much, much more.’

  ‘He sounds as if he was paranoid.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What will it accomplish? Abdullah’s dead so it can’t hurt him now.’

  ‘He is, but his deputy, Daoud isn’t. He’ll keep the attack schedule and the discussions rolling because it’s in his interests to do so. If Abdullah’s earlier betrayal of the Islamic Courts Union and the switch away from prominent targets ever sees the light of day, Daoud knows he’ll be under the spotlight, too. It’s the way their minds work; if one part is infected, chop off the parts associated with it. We don’t object to that happening, but we want to stop any further attacks and put a few maggots inside al-Shabaab at the same time. With luck it will sow suspicion and cause the movement to implode.’

  ‘And blow this oil thing out of existence.’

  She pulled a face. ‘The way it’s been described to me is, eggs and omelettes.’

  It made a kind of sense. Almost. Laying bare the extraordinary agreements with Abdullah and Daoud would stop the deliberate random hitting of soft targets and cause havoc among their ranks while they tore apart the suspect leadership. I doubted it would eradicate al-Shabaab’s aims altogether; they would simply regroup and reform. But it would take time, and time was critical.

  ‘Is breaking this open entirely London’s plan?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m not authorised to tell you who else is involved, but this has been building for some time. Let’s just say there’s some heavy cooperation going on in the background.’

  I understood. It sounded as if Washington was looking to see the clandestine oil deal go down in exchange for clean hands all round. Non est mea culpa. Don’t look at me, pal.

  ‘But no feet on the ground?’

  ‘We can’t use conven
tional forces to find the hard drive, which is why we’re going to have to rely on you … if you’re willing to continue. I don’t wish to insult you, but I’m allowed to say we will pay you for your contribution.’ She gave a twisted smile. ‘The special relationship may look like crap to the outside world, but on the inside it’s still holding.’

  Amen to that. Recent reports of dismay in the White House about the UK government’s commitments in the Middle East had caused some damage that would probably not outlast the terms of either current premiers, but it wouldn’t stop the cooperation between intelligence agencies on both sides.

  I walked away from Angela and stood in the sun for a moment, wondering what – and who – to believe. This was elevating an already complex situation into something else altogether. And I was being asked to trust that I was doing the right thing purely on the say-so of one MI6 officer and others behind her.

  I walked back to join her. ‘What’s the likely outcome if I don’t find it?’

  ‘The oil deal is probably on the skids, anyway, so that would be no great loss. There are signs that investors are jittery. The crucial loss would be that we miss a valuable opportunity to score a hit against Daoud’s network in this region. That would be bad enough, but even worse, the soft targets on the list will continue along with ones we don’t know about. If recent attacks are any guide, we know there must be more to follow but we don’t know where.’ She hesitated. ‘Europe is almost certain to be on the list. After the recent attacks in France and Belgium, we know there must be demands within the organisation to keep up the pressure and make Europe hurt. With no exposure from the hard drive, Daoud’s influence will spread and his group will grow with him. He’ll be untouchable. In a matter of weeks or months he’ll move back to hitting bigger targets because that’s what he’ll have to do if he wants to prove himself and survive.’ She hesitated. ‘There’s something else you’ve probably already considered. Lunnberg knows the hard drive is out there. He must know what it means because his name will be on it along with a lot of others.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Members of al-Shabaab and their affiliates on one side. If we can sweep them up it will put a serious dent in their operations. Other names of interest will be Lunnberg’s contacts and the money people behind this deal. He’ll do whatever he can to stop them becoming public knowledge because they won’t go down without dragging him with them.’

  ‘And he has the means to do that.’ I was thinking of the men who’d taken me out of the hotel, proof that Lunnberg had brought along his little army of private contractors. I told Angela the two names I’d heard, Ratchman and Dom. ‘If it helps, they’re two of Lunnberg’s back-up team; it would be useful to know their backgrounds.’

  She nodded. ‘Got it. I’ll see what I can find. I’m not sure we can go that deep in his organisation without hitting firewalls and alarms, but I’ll get the geeks to try.’

  The geeks. The IT specialists, hackers and electronics experts now used by all intelligence agencies worldwide. The new frontline soldiers in an increasingly technological war.

  ‘Good. Anything you can get.’ Knowing one’s enemy has always been a battlefield mantra. It began with knowing who had the best bow or the strongest armour; now it was down to knowing not only what weapons they were carrying but who they were.

  ‘Just keep in mind, Lunnberg missed you once but we think you and André Masse will be top of his take-out list. The current betting is that number three will be Daoud himself, and somewhere in a remote hangar there’s a drone with his name on it. Frankly, Marc, whether you find the hard drive or not, as far as Lunnberg’s concerned you’re all too dangerous for him to let go. He’s going to come after you.’

  All that left my next move in no doubt: I had to find that hard drive. And along the way maybe track down André Masse.

  SIXTEEN

  I took the same air taxi to Mogadishu as before, but if the pilot recognised me he gave no sign. I was travelling with four others, three men and a young woman who was made to sit in the back as far away from me as possible. I didn’t mind and was relieved nobody wanted to talk. The less they knew about their fellow passenger, the less they could give away if questioned.

  As for the pilot, a lean, spindly guy, if he was curious about why a westerner would wish to fly into a danger zone like Mogadishu, he didn’t ask. All he needed was a reservation and payment by cash before departure, and the promise of a car at the other end, for which I had to pay a small deposit here and the rest on arrival.

  I’d spent the night and most of the day in a small hotel not far from the airfield, working on the premise that says if in doubt in potentially hostile territory, stay on the move and when you find a place to stop, keep your head down. The less time you spend out in the open, the less likelihood there is that you’ll be spotted.

  On landing at the taxi airfield to the north-east of Mogadishu I was directed by the pilot to a tin shed on the far side of the field. I walked across and found a battered red Peugeot being watched over by an armed guard who looked at least in his seventies. When I pointed at the car he didn’t ask for any ID but held out a piece of paper with a figure scrawled on it. I guess there weren’t too many white men passing through here looking for a rental, so he was ready and waiting for the transaction. There were a lot of zeroes on the paper but it was cheaper and less noticeable than hiring a high-profile vehicle at the airport. When it came to profile, I was looking for zero-to-near invisibility.

  I checked the tyres and fuel gauge, and satisfied it would run without going dry on me, handed him a bundle of notes. He gave me a set of keys and showed me how to operate the door locks, pointing at them in the ‘locked’ position and mimed that if I was driving I should never leave them open. He drove the point home by pointing his gun through the window on the driver’s side, then placing a fingertip against the side of my head and making a baf-baf noise. It was good advice; intersections in Mogadishu are prime sites for car jackings and random robberies, usually with extreme violence, which is why few drivers stop if they can help it. It makes for interesting driving, and the warning might have carried more weight if the old man hadn’t laughed at the end and slapped his thigh.

  I nodded at his gun, an old AK47 with a highly-polished stock and butt that had probably been passed down through his family. ‘Is that for sale?’ I still had the SIG Pro but I had a feeling I might need some back-up firepower.

  He shook his head and patted it to show it was a valued possession. Then he motioned at me to wait and walked to the back of the hangar. He put the AK down with care, before dragging out a couple of long metal boxes from beneath a workbench. When he stood up he was holding something wrapped in sacking. He threw this aside to reveal two curved magazines and another AK which he held up with a triumphant grin.

  At first sight it didn’t look good. The gun was old, it was dirty and looked as if it might have been used to dig over his vegetable patch. But Mikhail Kalashnikov had designed and built his weapons to take the worst possible battlefield treatment and still come up firing, so I checked the magazines, which were full, and operated the mechanism. It was a little sticky but I figured some oil would soon clear that up.

  The old man must have read my mind. He cast around on the workbench and came up with a small plastic squeeze bottle of machine oil. I took it and waved at the gun, magazines and oil, and he held up the same piece of paper he’d showed me for the car. So far he hadn’t uttered a word. Maybe he just liked the number.

  I paid him and stowed everything inside the Peugeot while he stood and watched. He gave me what looked like a blessing as I left, which probably demonstrated how highly he rated my chances of survival. But I nodded thanks as I drove away, on the basis that I might need all the help I could get.

  By the time I got close to the city it was getting dark. In many places in Africa this would not have been a great time to be driving around. Here in Mogadishu, it was insane. But driving in daylight would have been worse;
there’s no easy way to hide a white face, and unless you have a paid team of armed guards watching your back, progress is likely to be very brief and final. I drove with the SIG under my thigh for easy access, resolved not to stop for anybody or anything short of an armoured vehicle with a big gun.

  I drove towards the sea front, avoiding as much as I could of the main routes into the city, passing through one shanty district after another and praying I didn’t stray into a dead end and become boxed in with nowhere to go. I was making my way towards what I hoped was the last place anybody would expect to find me: the six-storey building where I’d left the dead man.

  My previous visit had showed the area to be pretty much deserted, and I figured I could use it to wait until later in the night before going in search of the hotel where Masse had left the hard drive. It meant making my way through the city, but there was no way of avoiding that. Look anywhere in Mogadishu and there are houses – lots of them.

  Once I got the hard drive I was going to head out and find somewhere to lay low until daybreak, then take the air taxi back across the border. If I stumbled on Masse at the same time, all well and good, but I wasn’t counting on it; he’d made himself scarce and unless Lunnberg’s group had taken him out, he was deliberately keeping his head down for reasons best known to himself.

  I drove into the area where the office block was situated and found the shell of a small warehouse just off the main street. The inside was empty and accessible, and I reversed in ready for a fast exit. Then I tried ringing Masse’s number again. There was no signal, so I took the SIG and the AK and sat outside the car where I could give the guns a thorough clean with the oil, while keeping a weather eye through a hole in the wall on the approach road from the city, in case I got a repeat bunch of visitors like last time.

  SEVENTEEN

  Finding the air taxi pilot had been a stroke of luck. But Ratchman had always believed that you had to get lucky sometimes. So far a sprinkling of good fortune had helped him through a chequered career with minimal damage, so he wasn’t about to question it when it came along.