• • •
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:
“That’s right, squire. By me.”
The Pakistani tycoon was enveloped in a bear hug by one arm while the other arm jammed a large pad soaked in chloroform over his mouth and nose. In twenty seconds, he had stopped struggling.
The transfer to the minivan was made a mile later, where the third ex-commando was at the wheel. The cab, borrowed from a mate who had taken up cabs for a living, was parked as promised with the keys under the seat.
Two of the men sat behind the driver with their dozing guest propped between them, until they were well clear of north London. Then he was tucked in a single bed behind the seats. Twice he tried to wake up but each time was eased back into slumber.
It was a long drive, but they did it in fourteen hours, guided by a GPS locator and a SatNav guide. It took some pushing and shoving to get the minivan up the last section of track, but they arrived at sundown, and Brian Weller made a phone call. There were no masts up there, but he had brought a sat phone.
The Tracker called Ariel, but on his dedicated and secure line that not even Fort Meade or Cheltenham would be listening to. It was midafternoon in Centerville, Virginia.
“Ariel, you know that computer in London you gutted some time back? Could you now send e-mail messages that appear to be coming from it?”
“Of course, Colonel. I have its access right here.”
“And you don’t have to leave Virginia, right?”
Ariel was perplexed that anyone alive could be so naïve in the matters of cyberspace. With what he had at his fingertips, he could become Mustafa Dardari, transmitting from Pelham Crescent, London.
“And you recall the code based on fruit and vegetable prices that the user used to send in? Could you encrypt text in the same code?”