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.”