‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Of course I would. What do I have to lose? I’ll list the mission and engagement rules you’ve trampled over, the complete absence of any risk assessment or support for the personnel involved, and the way you’ve completely overruled my warnings. In fact, it’s my very length of service and experience that’s your biggest problem right now. I’ve been here, remember; I’ve done it, wrote the bloody book on it — and all without your fancy title.’ He leaned forward. ‘I know I’ll get shunted out immediately as a whistle-blower, probably with an arrest warrant waiting for me before I hit the street. But your career would be over, too. Even the cousins aren’t convinced this was a brilliant idea.’
Moresby finally sat down. ‘What do you mean?’
Vale’s face twitched. ‘The cousins? It’s what we used to call the Americans?’
‘I know that!’ A fleck of spittle left Moresby’s lips. ‘Who said they’re not convinced? Scheider promised coverage, so he’s on board.’
‘Really? What coverage was that?’
‘Over-flights, drones with cameras — you were there; weren’t you listening?’
‘Yes, I was there, but only by chance. That’s something else I’ll be taking up with the powers that be; the fact that I was excluded by omission when I have a watching brief on all ops.’ Vale waved his hand. ‘But that’s for later. The simple fact is, have you received any hard information from the Americans? Any footage? Details on the ground? Radio traffic from the area?’
Moresby hesitated, then said, ‘I haven’t seen everything, no. Frankly, I’ve been too busy. The ops section will alert me if anything develops.’
Vale gave him a pitying look and wondered whether Moresby had ever been down to the ops section since the usual induction tour of the building by all recruits. The operations room in the basement had a twenty-four hour open link with GCHQ taking in their outstations and British embassies worldwide, especially Africa and the Middle East regions. They also collated regular updates from allied sources such as the CIA and NSA. Working on multiple active operations, the ops section analysed and cleaned all information received before passing it on to the relevant directors for further action.
So far, according to the section supervisor Vale had spoken to less than an hour ago, they had received no hard intelligence on the Somali/Kenyan border area, save for some chatter by known terrorist-linked sites and a handful of carefully-worded and obviously coded phone calls in the region which were being followed up and analysed. The supervisor had also mentioned a few brief calls made over an encrypted satellite phone, which they had been unable to unravel due to the sophistication of the system. Vale had expressed vague interest, but nothing more. He knew who was making those calls and calling attention to Portman would serve no useful purpose.
‘What’s with the look?’ Moresby prickled defensively.
‘The ops section has nothing. If you were on top of this operation, as you claim, you would know that. You’d have been down there watching the traffic. I happen to know that the CIA have been refused permission to activate any of their Hale drone units, but have offered a lower-grade drone instead … which isn’t available due to ongoing operational requirements.’
‘That can’t be.’
Vale stared hard in response to Moresby’s incredulous expression. ‘I’m afraid it is. Scheider’s been stamped on from a great height — something that could have been avoided if you’d activated the Special Ops protocol in the first place. That way they’d have been forced to provide cover under the existing Intelligence Share agreement. As it is, with everything else they’ve got going on since 9/11, they only have to share information in the normal way. Anything related to this job might get passed across — but only if they happen to be looking for it and see it. You’ve left that door closed, and with no prioritizing, Scheider’s promises have been countermanded.’
‘I don’t believe it.’ Moresby looked furious, but Vale noticed he was making no move to check the facts. He already knew.
‘So what are you going to do about Pryce and Tober — or are you prepared to see their faces splashed all over Al-Jazeera’s next news bulletin?’
For the first time Moresby began to look uncomfortable, as if it was beginning to dawn on him that his planning had been flawed from the outset and was now falling apart.
Vale felt no sympathy for him. ‘Well?’
‘Nothing. I’ll …’ Moresby wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘I’ll call Nairobi, get them to contact Xasan. He’s the middleman, he should know what’s going on.’
Vale could barely believe his ears. ‘Xasan’s about as trustworthy as a snake. He’s one of them, don’t you see that? He’s had his fingers in too many hostage deals, all of them making large amounts of money. We’re providing him with goods for his market stall and he’s flogging them right back to us; he can’t lose.’
Vale stood up and stared at Moresby, trying to judge what the man was thinking. But it was like assessing a window dummy. He just hoped to God that there was something other than self-interested jelly inside his head.
‘For Christ’s sake do something,’ he muttered. ‘Before it’s too late.’ With that he turned and walked out.
Moresby sat immobile for a few seconds, numbed by doubt and the ferocity of Vale’s words. Then he shook himself and reached for his phone. He spoke for two minutes, listened for slightly less, then replaced the receiver. A bead of sweat had formed across his brow as the awful realization began to sink that he might have miscalculated in his plans. If what he’d just heard from the MOD liaison officer were true — and he had no reason for thinking otherwise — the SBS detachments on board two Type 23 frigates, with their transport of Lynx helicopters, were still too far away from the coast of Somalia to be of any use for at least another twenty hours.
It was small consolation that he had already reacted, albeit without telling Vale. Alarmed by the silence from Pryce and wary of Vale’s potential for causing waves, he’d requested the MOD just yesterday to have the two frigates currently on pirate patrol in the Gulf region to approach the area and remain on stand-by.
Now it looked like too little too late.
Forty-One
When I was sure Madar wasn’t going to double back, I turned and walked away from the rotting boats and down on to the beach. I took off my shoes and socks and tied them round my neck to avoid leaving shoe prints in the sand.
The fishermen’s boats, I noticed, had been taken away, no doubt for kitting out as attack craft. Only one lay in the shallows, an ancient vessel with its hull deliberately caved in. The pirates’ methodology was as old as time, the message bluntly psychologicaclass="underline" take from the population what you can use and destroy the rest.
I moved slowly, wary of wandering locals. But the beach was deserted. The only obstacles I encountered were discarded fishing nets half-covered by sand and a collection of plastic bottles washed up on the shore. I stepped carefully over these; exposure to the sun had baked most of them into a highly brittle state, and stepping on them would set them off like a bunch of firecrackers in the night.
The air by the water was several degrees cooler, and I resisted the temptation to wade in for a refreshing dip. I stopped every few paces, listening for movement and straining my eyes to identify some dark shapes ahead of me. They turned out to be another couple of wrecks gradually being absorbed by the sand, and two ancient and rusted oil drums filled with concrete used to tie up boats when rough weather hit the shore.
Somewhere in the gloom was the skiff that had brought Musa and his bodyguards. That was my marker. From there I only had to take a sharp left turn and move up the sand, and I’d find where the men had stacked the three metal boxes.