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 clearly 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.
“Tomorrow will suit fine. A thousand dollars for your trouble. Keep the balance if you say yes. Give it back if you walk away.”
“And how do you know I will? Give it back?”
The Tracker rose to leave.
“Mr. Weller, I think we both know the rules. We have been round the block a few times.”
When he was gone, leaving a rendezvous and time well away from the embassy, Brian Weller went through the firebrick. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Five for outgoings; the Yank would provide the hideaway. He had two girls to educate, a wife to keep, food to put on the table and skills not really marketable at the vicarage tea party.
He made the rendezvous, brought a mate from the same commando unit and spent a week vetting the job. Then he said yes.
Ali Abdi screwed up his courage and went to see al-Afrit.
“Things are going well,” he reported. “We will secure a fine big ransom for the Malmö.”
Then he broached another subject.
“The blond boy. If he dies, it will complicate matters, create delays, reduce the ransom.”
He did not mention the prospect of European commandos storming ashore on a rescue mission, his personal nightmare. It might just provoke the man he faced.
“Why should he die?” growled the warlord.
Abdi shrugged.
“Who knows? Infection, blood poisoning.”
He got his way. There was a doctor in Garacad with at least the knowledge of basic first aid. The cadet’s welts were disinfected and bandaged. He was still being kept in the cellars, and there was nothing Abdi could or dared do about that.
That is deer-stalking country,” said the man at the sporting agency. “But the stags are coming into rut, so the close of season is not far off.”
The Tracker smiled. He was playing the harmless American tourist again.
“Aw, the stags are safe from me. No, I just want to write my book, and for that I need absolute peace and quiet. No phones, no roads, no callers, no interruptions. A nice cabin off the beaten track where I can write the Great American Novel.”
The land agent knew a bit about authors. Weird people. He tapped his keyboard again and stared at the screen.
“There is a small stalking lodge on our books,” he conceded. “Free until the shooting season starts again.”
He rose and went to a wall map. He checked the grid reference and then tapped a pristine section of the map that was unmarked by towns, villages or even roads. A few spidery tracks ran across it, in northern Caithness, the last county of Scotland before the wild Pentland Firth.
“I have some pictures.”
He led back to the computer screen and scrolled up a portfolio of pictures. It was a log cabin, all right, set in an endless sea of rolling heather, a huge glen framed by high hills; the sort of place where a city slicker, making a run for it with two Marines after him, might get five hundred yards before collapsing.
It had two bedrooms, a large main room, kitchen and shower room, a huge fireplace and a pile of logs.
“I surely think I have found my Shangri-la,” said the tourist/writer. “I have not had time to set up a checking account. Will cash dollars do?”
Cash dollars did very well. Exact directions and keys would be sent within days, but to Hamworthy.
Mustafa Dardari chose not to have a car or drive himself in London. The parking was an abiding nightmare he could well do without. In his part of Knightsbridge, cruising cabs were constant and convenient, if expensive. Not a problem. But for the smart evening out, a black-tie dinner, he used a limousine company; always the same firm and usually the same driver.
He had been dining with friends a mile from his home, and as he made his farewells, he used his mobile to call the driver to come to the portico, where double yellow lines forbade all parking day or night. Around the corner, the driver responded, switched on the engine and touched the accelerator. The car moved a yard before one of the rear tires settled on its rim.
An examination revealed some rogue had slipped a small square of plywood pierced by a needle-sharp steel nail under the tread while the driver dozed at the wheel. The driver rang his client and explained. He would change the tire, but it was a big, heavy limo and would take a while.
As Mr. Dardari stood under the portico with the other guests departing around him, a cab came around the corner, light on. He raised his hand. It swerved toward him. Luck. He climbed aboard and gave his address. And the cab did indeed set off in that direction.
Cabbies in London are required to activate the rear door locks as soon as the client is seated. It prevents passengers from “doing a runner” without paying, but it also stops them being molested by troublemakers trying to climb in beside them. But this fool seemed to have forgotten.
They were barely out of sight of the limousine driver, crouched over his jack, than the cab swerved to the curb, and a burly figure pulled open the door and climbed in. Dardari protested that this cab was taken. But the burly figure slammed the door behind him and said: