“What has happened to one of the prisoners of your principal was disgraceful, unacceptable. It could derail our entire negotiation. And I must tell you I was so pleased before that that the matter was between you and me, because I believe we are both honorable men.”
“I believe so, too, Mr. Gareth.”
Evans could not know how secure the line was. He was not thinking of Fort Meade and Cheltenham—he knew that was a foregone conclusion—but whether any of the warlord’s servants, listening in, was fluent in English. Nevertheless, he had to gamble on Abdi understanding even a single word.
“Because, you see, my friend, I think we may have reached the point of Thuraya.”
There was a long pause. Evans’s gamble was that if any other less educated Somali was listening in, he would not know what that was but that Abdi would.
Eventually, Abdi came back.
“I think I see what you mean, Mr. Gareth.”
The Thuraya phone is a satellite-employing communicator. Four cell phone companies control the use of mobiles in Somalia, the others being NationLink, Hormud, and France Télécom. They all have masts. The Thuraya needs only the U.S. satellites, turning slowly in space.
What Evans was saying to Abdi was that if
he had, or could get, a Thuraya phone, he should take a ride into the desert alone and, from behind a rock, call Evans so they could talk extremely privately. The reply indicated Abdi had understood and would try.
The two negotiators spun out another thirty minutes, bringing the ransom down to eighteen million dollars and each promising to be back in touch when they had consulted with their respective principals.
• • •
The lunch was on the American government; the Tracker had insisted on it. But his SIS contact, Adrian Herbert, had made the booking. He had chosen Shepherd’s in Marsham Street and insisted on a booth for privacy.
It was affable, friendly, but both men realized the point of it all would come over coffee and mints. When the American made his pitch, Herbert put the coffee down in surprise.
“What do you mean lift? ”
“Lift, as in abstract, pluck, sequester.”
“You mean kidnap. From the streets of London? Without warrant or charge?”
“He is assisting a known terrorist who has motivated four murders in your country, Adrian.”
“Yes, but a forcible snatch would create absolute havoc if it ever got out. We would need an authority to do it, and that would need the signature of the Home Secretary. She’d consult lawyers. They would demand a formal charge.”
“You have helped us with extraordinary renditions before, Adrian.”
“Yes, but they were snatched on the streets of places that were already completely lawless. Knightsbridge is not Karachi, you know. Dardari is, on the surface, a respectable businessman.”
“You and I know different.”
“Indeed we do. But only because we invaded his house, bugged his home and raped his computer. That would look wonderful coming out in open court. I’m sorry, Tracker, we try to be helpful, but that is as far as we can go.”
He thought for a while, staring at the ceiling.
“No, it’s just not on, old boy. We would have to work like Trojans to get permission for that sort of thing.”
They settled up, and went different ways on the pavement. Adrian Herbert would walk back to the Office at Vauxhall. The Tracker hailed a cab. Sitting in the back, he mulled over that last sentence.
What on earth had classical allusions got to do with it? Back at his house, he consulted the Internet. It took a while but it was there. Trojan Horse Outcomes, a small, niche security company based outside Hamworthy in Dorset.
That, he knew, was Royal Marine territory. Their big base was at nearby Poole, and many men who had spent a working life in Special Forces retired and settled down near their old bases. Often they got a few mates together and formed a private security company—the usual rigmarole: bodyguards, asset protection, close escort work. If backer money was tight, they would work from home. Further research showed Trojan Outcomes was based in a residential district.
The Tracker called the given number and made an appointment for the next morning. Then he rang a Mayfair car-hire company and booked a compact for three hours earlier. He explained he was an American tourist called Jackson, with a valid U.S. driver’s license, and would need the car for a day to visit with a friend on the South Coast.
As he hung up, his BlackBerry pulsed. It was a text from TOSA, secure from interception. Its identifier proclaimed it came from Gray Fox. What it could not reveal was that the four-star general commanding J-SOC had just left the Oval Office with fresh orders.