The Watchman

Forty-Four

At SIS headquarters in London, Tom Vale was jolted awake by his phone. He coughed and rolled off his camp bed, jarring his knee on the floor, and snatched up the receiver from the edge of his desk.

It was Portman.

‘There’s been a change of plan,’ the American announced.

‘Go on.’ Vale sat down at his desk with a tired sigh. He knew this wasn’t going to be good news. Outside the window it was dark, but he didn’t bother checking the time. It was the middle of the night and there was nothing he could do, no matter what Portman was about to tell him.

‘Your two people are to be executed.’

‘What?’ Vale got to his feet and felt the floor shift. He’d been prepared for something bad but this was far worse than he’d expected. ‘Why?’

‘Because al-Qaeda want it this way. This was probably the plan all along. Musa’s given the order and is stirring up his men. He’s calling it “adrabu fawq al-’ana”. You know what that is?’

‘Yes.’ Vale felt sickened. He’d seen the videos. Striking at the neck. Giving it a fancy name didn’t make it any easier to stomach. It had all been a lie — and they had fallen for it. ‘Do you know when?’

‘At dawn. It’s to be videoed.’

‘Of course it is.’ He felt suddenly impotent, as if all his skills and experience and thought processes up to now counted for nothing. Dawn in Somalia was only hours away. ‘There’s a strike force on the way — finally — but they’ll never make it in time. You’d better get yourself out of there.’ He had to tell Moresby. It was too late of course, but the bloody man had to know that he could have avoided this if he had given it proper thought. It would mean the end of Vale’s career, once Portman’s presence was revealed; running private operations was frowned upon these days. But after what was about to happen, he wasn’t sure he cared a damn.

‘Me? I haven’t finished yet.’ The words were faint, but clear enough, and carried a tone of optimism. ‘What do you know about Musa?’

Vale sat down again, his legs weak. ‘What do you mean? What can you do? You’ll get yourself killed. You didn’t sign up for a suicide mission.’

Portman chuckled softly. ‘Really? You should have made that clear. Tell me about Musa.’

Vale fought to rally his thoughts, his brain like mush at the change in developments. ‘Uh … Musa. He’s a powerful clan leader from way back. His family have been clan chiefs for generations, but he’s the most extreme in outlook. Educated in Beijing and France, he’s said to command quite an army, and his men have been fighting the Kenyans to the west of Mogadishu. Two years ago he torched an entire village he suspected of informing on his whereabouts. Men, women and children — even the animals.’

‘And your people are sitting down to negotiate with him?’ Portman’s disgust was evident.

‘Just recently, Musa’s been showing signs of mellowing, of wanting to put a stop to the conflict. These talks were thought to be a move towards some kind of normalization.’

‘Really? Looks like you got that one wrong.’

‘Clearly. What are your plans now?’

‘I haven’t decided. But you should know that those green boxes on the beach contain a supply of C-4 explosives and detonators with remote triggers.’

‘Jesus,’ Vale muttered. ‘You’ve seen them?’

‘Yes. That’s not all. The detonators have an integral power source. No wiring, no mess — just slap on and go.’ Portman described them and read out the manufacturer’s code numbers.

Vale scribbled down the numbers, his heart sinking. Somehow Musa had found a source of supply that put him a long way ahead of the usual pirate or extremist threat in the region. If these things were now on the open market, it wouldn’t be long before they began to turn up elsewhere. Like Afghanistan. Europe. He had to pass on the information as soon as he could.

‘I’ll be in touch when I can,’ Portman continued, breaking in on his thoughts. ‘I think you’ll know what I’m going to do soon enough.’

‘Wait. Portman.’ He made a rapid decision. It was based entirely on emotion, but it was all he had left. He couldn’t allow Angela Pryce to go through what Portman had outlined — it was too hideous to contemplate. That left only one way out.

‘What is it?’

The line crackled. It served to highlight how distant Vale felt right now, how remote he was physically from what he was about to suggest. ‘Is there anything you can do for … for Pryce and Tober?’

‘Like what?’ Portman sounded pragmatic, his voice flat, and Vale figured the man knew what was coming. He was a professional.

‘If you can’t get them out … don’t let them suffer.’ It was all he could think of to say.

‘I won’t. You have my word.’

There was a click and the line went dead.