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.