A Deal to Die For

by Albert Able

  Hassan repeatedly argued back and forth but no solution seemed to evolve. Eventually he was aware of someone shaking him roughly by the shoulder.

  “Time to get ready,” the Leader stood by his bed.

  Hassan sat up, his head ached as he focused his eyes in the dim light, shuddering involuntarily as realised where he was and what he was about to do. Two men he hadn’t seen before walked towards him; one was carrying the waistcoat already packed with the high explosive that would soon end his life.

  Standing up Hassan obediently held out his arms. A bead of perspiration trickled down his temple as the man gingerly slipped the waistcoat on to Hassan outstretched arms, pushed it carefully into position around his chest and tightened the straps at his back exactly as he had rehearsed.

  The other man carefully checked the waistcoat and fastenings. “It will only be armed once you are in the house and the primer is in place.” He spoke Russian but with a strange guttural accent Hassan didn’t recognise. They were certainly not Muslims, Hassan thought briefly in mild amusement and thought they looked more like looked a couple of hoodlums he’d seen once in an old American gangster movie.

  “I have the primer here.” The Leader appeared holding up a brass pencil-shaped tube and slipped it back into his pocket. “These gentlemen will accompany us to the house to ensure that the target is properly secured and only then will I personally join you in prayer before arming you for your glorious mission.”

  ***

  Mustafa Ben Laurie was not only fundamentally dishonest but also an extremely greedy man and for him words like honour and loyalty were simply not included in his multilingual vocabulary. So in spite of the massive up front fee he had already received and the promise of a similar amount on completion of the contract, Mustafa reasoned that the knowledge that Carl Peterson, known only to him as Mr Black, had somehow obtained four nuclear devices was far too valuable a piece of information to leave unexploited.

  Finding four fanatics prepared to sacrifice their lives delivering the tactical nuclear bombs would have been relative easy if the targets had been in Middle East countries, but Mustafa’s problem was that the targets Mr Black had specifically identified were in London, Paris, Moscow and New York and that presented him with a much more complicated problem.

  If there had been sufficient time the volunteer bombers would have been moved to the locations and quietly integrated into the community over a period of time, but in this instance Mr Black was in a hurry and so the sacrificial couriers would have to be found locally.

  Mustafa was therefore understandably anxious knowing that with the exception of the London bombings, locally trained suicide bombers suffered an indifferent success record.

  Yet in spite of the seemingly insurmountable difficulties, within three weeks Mustafa had all of his volunteer bombers lined up and he telephoned the information to Mr Black.

  “Of course, I’ll need to know the exact targets and the date you require them so that the volunteers can be positioned correctly.”

  Mr Black’s sharp reply made it quite clear to Mustafa that he did not need to know the exact targets or the date of the attack in advance. That would only be given to the volunteers at the appropriate time.

  Mustafa was not surprised by the rebuff. In any case, he did know the intended cities to be targeted and he had a general idea of the date and - most importantly - he knew that such information could have great value if offered to the right buyer. He thought for some time before finally reaching across his desk and picking up the telephone.

  “Sir Gerald Fisher, please.” Mustafa asked the female voice at the other end of the line.

  “Sir Gerald is engaged and not taking calls today. Can you leave a message and I will try to get him to return your call as soon as possible,” the polite voice replied.

  Mustafa smiled, he was well aware of Sir Gerald’s telephone protection procedure. “Just tell him to call Mustafa Ben Laurie, he has my direct line. I will not call again.”

  “Oh just wait a minute please, Sir, I will have to check that we do have your number,” the voice corrected, but the line clicked and went quiet.

  Less than twenty seconds later Sir Gerald picked up his personal phone. “Mustafa!” He boomed down the instrument while silently flipping the record button on his telephone. “Quelle surprise,” he offered in poorly accented French. “So just what do you have to sell today, eh?”

  Sir Gerald Fisher, former Head of the Ministry of Defence and officially retired for the last three years, was working with the department as ‘an advisor’ and still responsible for a couple of on-going covert operations. Having successfully used Mustafa’s somewhat expensive information sources in the past, he was well aware of the man’s track record.

  Mustafa heard the faint click. “I hope you’re recording this, Sir Gerald, I wouldn’t want you to miss anything when you relay the information because it’s going to cost you two million dollars.” Mustafa smiled

  “Two million!” Sir Gerald exploded. “Two million - just what could you possibly have that’s worth so much money?”

  “How about where and when several major terrorist attacks are going to happen?”

  Sir Gerald felt a cold shudder ripple through his body. “Terrorist attacks, eh?” He tried to sound calm and indifferent. “Mustafa old boy, we get one a week of those, what makes you think your information is the real thing?”

  Mustafa had, of course, anticipated Sir Gerald’s reaction and was ready with his confident response. “Well, Sir Gerald, I’m surprised that I should have to remind you who it was who slipped you the information on the airline bombers in the UK.”

  “Alright, so try me.” Sir Gerald tried to sound casual.

  “Not so fast, this time I will need one million dollars to pass the initial details across to you and until you agree you won’t know.” Mustafa snapped the humour missing from his voice.

  Sir Gerald was no fool and knew that Mustafa was quite capable of acquiring such information. Certainly he had made a major contribution to busting the ‘liquid bomb’ terrorist’s plans to destroy a number of trans-Atlantic airlines and could easily have something of genuine value again. So although still wondering how he was going to find the money, he confidently agreed.

  “OK Mustafa, one million Dollars for the first stage, but I assure you it will be hellish difficult to extract a further million, the best I could hope for would be Five hundred thousand, and it better be worth it!”

  “Well let’s see shall we?” Mustafa paused and cleared his throat for effect.

  “I have precise details of a terrorist bombing campaign which will hit four major targets world wide.” He paused again before adding: “Do I still have your attention?”

  “Come on, Mustafa. Four separate foreign countries - who’s going to launch an attack on that scale?” Although Sir Gerald was initially shocked by the idea, he also sensed something farcical about it.

  “I can assure you that it is so and just in case you didn’t believe me the first time,” Mustafa replied casually. “I must add one other rather important additional piece of information.” He cleared his throat again. “They are all tactical nuclear bombs!”

  “What do you mean, tactical nuclear bombs?” Sir Gerald gasped as the full horror of the revelation sent a second cold shudder through his body. But he recovered quickly and demanded, “and how the hell can anyone deliver those?”

  Mustafa knew he had Sir Gerald’s full attention now and replied smugly. “I promise you, they are each no bigger than a brief case.”

  Sir Gerald had been in the dirty deals business for most of his professional life and that deep cramping stomach pain, which always told him that serious shit was about to hit the fan, gripped him now. “I see, so which four countries did you say?” He bluffed as he tried desperately to think how to handle this situation.<
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  “You know I didn’t, Sir Gerald,” Mustafa chuckled, “but this is what must happen. First, you cable one million dollars to the numbered account I will give you in a moment. When I have confirmation that is has been received, I will give you the four countries and the cities to be targeted. The precise date of the attacks will be available later but not, of course, without payment of the balance. I’m sure you’ll understand?”

  “I’ll need some kind of proof,” Sir Gerald countered. “I can’t just pass one million dollars over without some concrete evidence?”

  “Sir Gerald, you have done business with me before and did I deliver? Yes or No?” Mustafa sounded indignant.

  “Well...” Sir Gerald drawled.

  “Yes or No?” Mustafa insisted.

  Sir Gerald sighed; he knew that he had little choice. “OK, Mustafa, OK, but if it turns out that you’re shafting us...”

  “I know, you’ll make life difficult for me, yes?” Mustafa laughed. “I’m quaking in my boots, Sir Gerald, but I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you the countries and cities concerned now; you cable all the money within twenty-four hours then, once I have confirmation; the precise date and target is yours. Is that fair?”

  Sir Gerald Fisher paused, not wanting to appear too pleased with the concession he had finally extracted. “Agreed. So - where?”

  “Moscow, Paris, London and New York. How do you like that?”

  “So what are the targets?” Sir Gerald tried hopefully.

  “That’s all you get for now,” Mustafa responded. He couldn’t admit that he didn’t know the targets, let alone the dates yet. “The rest as agreed, twenty-four hours or I go to the next client on my list.”

  He snapped: “You may call back on the number I’m on now for an automated message with the account details and the number you will need to confirm our arrangement, after that the number will lapse.” Mustafa terminated the call.

  ***

  Several hundred miles away a computer bleeped urgently summoning its master; moments later Carl Peterson and his son Rudi sat listening to the conversation between Sir Gerald and Mustafa.

  Carl Peterson had flown in that morning especially to see the improvements Rudi had made to the communication interception system.

  “That’s fantastic, Rudi.” Peterson put his arm around his son’s shoulders in a rare gesture of affection “I knew that greedy Mustafa would never be able to resist selling the information.” He withdrew his arm. “That means that the news has now been reliably leaked to the authorities and soon the public will have to be told. Then we will have the perfect conditions to create panic and maximum carnage to the world stock markets.”

  Rudi glowed with pride. “We sold the last bit of stock last week and we are sitting on a mountain of cash so when the markets hit rock bottom we can buy what we want for peanuts.”

  What passed for a grin spread across his deformed features.

  “Exactly,” Carl Peterson agreed cautiously. “Well done, I knew I could rely on you.” Peterson started to the door. “I think, Rudi, that Mustafa has served his purpose and so we can pay him off in full now, don’t you?” He looked at his son and raised an eyebrow.

  Rudi nodded and turned back to his machine. “Precisely. You can leave that to me.”

  Carl Peterson returned to his own office where he continued with the detailed instructions vital for the success of the next phase of his project. Rudi called up his ‘most dangerous’ list on the computer.

  “That means you have to wait for a while, Sir Adrian Jordan,” Rudi addressed the screen as he dragged Mustafa Ben Laurie’s name to the top of the list, “but don’t worry, Sir Adrian, it is only for another day or so!” He chuckled.

  It was not a pleasant sound.

  ***

  Three days later, the badly charred body found in the remains of a car that had plunged mysteriously off the road on the dangerous mountain route to Fez was identified as that of Mustafa Ben Laurie.

  The minor headline in the newspaper reporting the accidental death of the former diplomat stated: ‘The driver, having miraculously escaped the crash, had bravely attempted to pull his passenger from the blazing vehicle but was driven back by the ferocity of the flames.’

  ***

  On the evening that Lydia Rowland faxed the details of her findings to the Boss about the murder of Graham Watkins and the research that he had been doing, she still had a nagging sense that she had missed something vital. So instead of going home immediately, she remained in her bleak little office deep in the bowels of GCHQ.

  The item about the death of Mustafa Ben Laurie was at the top of the list when she returned to the computer. She had no reason to understand why that piece of news could have been associated with the same case and neither did she know that her fax machine was programmed to send copies of everything she sent out to Gerald Rive in his office three floors above her. But when an item headed London Syndicate popped up, she suddenly remembered Alex Scott’s involvement with another Syndicate, an organisation she understood to have been eliminated. Nevertheless, she decided to look out the old files, anyway.

  On the very first page was a long list of telephone numbers; to her surprise the fourth one down matched one from Graham’s list. Jubilant with her chance find, Lydia printed off the page and wrote a short message to the Boss.

  ‘Found this in an old Syndicate file note matching telephone number line four. Would you like me to look further? Lydia.

  Immediately she faxed it off; within minutes Lydia received a reply:

  Thank you for info. Please let me have all possible matching info. Regards The Boss.

  Elsewhere at GCHQ another computer whirred and flashed dutifully, recording copies of Lydia’s faxes.

  ***

  The Boss had been busy all day at the Chelsea Arts Club scribbling frequent notes, which Henshaw eagerly fed into the Fax machine. Henshaw was a proud ex-professional soldier and was thrilled to be able to assist Sir Adrian Jordan. It was not the first time of course; he had worked with the Boss for many years and had been one of the first to proudly apply his new title.

  Sir Adrian accepted the latest batch of messages from Henshaw. “I just hope Hans finds an easier way to do things soon - I’m afraid I’m going to get you into trouble with the management!”

  Henshaw looked as stoic as ever. “Looking after you is my job, Sir Adrian, so I wouldn’t worry about those old fuddy-duddies on the committee.” He wrinkled his forehead briefly and then drifted silently away.

  ***

  Hans stared almost unbelievingly at the computer screen. Suddenly and quite by chance, so many of the great jumble of facts had fallen into place. Jubilant on the one hand but cautious as ever on the other, he printed off the short list from the screen. Two of the numbers matched, with those Lydia Watkins had identified.

  Hans’ hand trembled slightly as he held the sheet of paper. He was not just excited, he was also completely exhausted. “At last - this means it won’t be much longer before we make your clever little micro chips work for us!” He addressed the sheet of paper and immediately started tapping his computer keyboard.

  Within the hour the computer had backtracked hundreds of mobile and other telephone calls to the same location. “Clever little bugger whoever you are,” Hans muttered to himself, in admiration of his adversary’s skill. “All I need now is to get my hands on your computer and your secrets will be ours”

  It was the old Syndicate telephone number that Alex had obtained from Ernst’s friend Mecha in Moscow that had finally clinched it. The line, a long forgotten old cable link, had allowed Hans to trace the source to a location a few kilometres outside Salzburg in Austria.

  The location in itself was not initially so significant until the name of the owner appeared on the screen: Carl Peterson. It took only a few more se
conds to establish that he was the same Carl Peterson who was chairman of SKY-SEC Corp.

  Hans closed his eyes and wrung his hands in glee and then started to write a long fax to the Boss.

  ***

  In his office at MI6 headquarters in London Sir Gerald Fisher had just relayed the information from Mustafa to the Prime Minister - who would now have to decide weather they put the security forces of the world on red alert, and somehow try to avoid the potential panic by keeping the general public in the dark, at least for the time being.

  Sir Gerald was naturally relived that he was able to pass that decision further up the line. He also realised that there would now be a massive combined mobilisation of various international counter-terrorist measures that had been developed in recent years. But that also involved a similar amount of politically correct bureaucracy as the heads of each organisation battled to avoid the public outcries of ‘inconvenience’ and ‘obstruction’ caused by any over-reaction to the alleged threat.

  Sir Gerald also knew that situations such as the one they were confronting were very often more competently resolved by small, unfettered organisations like SONIC. Consequently, he picked up his telephone and dialled the Chelsea Arts Club; he urgently needed to talk with its former director, Sir Adrian Jordan.

  “Good morning,” Sir Gerald started cheerfully to the telephonist at the other end of the line. “Is Henshaw available to take a message, please?” he asked politely.

  “Who shall I say is calling?” the young voice asked.

  “It’s just an old friend - something personal actually. I know he’s not supposed to take calls during working hours, but...?”

  “That’s alright Sir, I’ll put you through,” the telephonist replied politely.

  Within seconds a familiar voice came on the line.

  “Henshaw.”

  “I understand that there may be a communication problem so I hope you recognise my voice? I need to meet with ‘the man’ urgently, say in twenty minutes if that’s convenient?”