The Watchman

by Adrian Magson

  ‘If you want to do something useful,’ I suggested, ‘keep your eyes on the wing mirror. Any vehicle stays behind us too long, tell me.’

  He nodded and leaned forward, eyes on the mirror. It wouldn’t be much help, but it might keep him buttoned up for a while until we got clear of this mess.

  I concentrated on my front, trying to keep to a reasonable speed yet constantly on the move between sticking points in the traffic. We had about ten kilometres to go to the airport of El Dorado, and I wanted to get there without delay.

  The whole point about staying out of trouble in hostile territory is to avoid attracting attention and keep moving; once you stop you’re at a disadvantage. There was also the local law enforcement angle to watch out for. Being picked up by a nosy or bored traffic cop would be awkward, especially as I still had the kidnapper’s semi-automatic in my pocket and another gun under the seat. I was counting, however, on the car’s tinted windows to get us through any potential trouble. Traffic cops don’t like upsetting people who might just shoot them for the hell of it.

  ‘There’s another car like this one,’ Sweetman muttered. ‘It jumped the last set of lights to stay with us.’

  He was sharper than I thought. I’d spotted the car and it was coming up too fast to be casual. When it slotted in behind us on a relatively clear stretch of road, matching our speed, I began to worry.

  ‘Buckle up,’ I said.

  ‘Wha …? Oh.’ He tugged at the strap and sat back, then gave a nervous chuckle. ‘It’s like that scene in Bullitt.’ When I looked at him, he added, ‘You know – with Steve McQueen. It’s a classic.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The bit where the bad guys do up their seat belts … you know things are going to get hairy.’

  Jesus, a film nut on adrenalin. ‘It’s nothing like that. Believe me.’

  I checked the mirror and got a whole load of black 4×4 and tinted windows in return. Whoever they were, they must have recognized the car and were sticking close to figure out where we were going. My guess is, they were nervous of stopping us and busy calling whoever was the usual driver of this particular vehicle.

  I took a chance and lowered my window a few inches, then gave the hazard warning lights a single flash, followed by a brief flick of my hand out of the window. The air felt hot and sticky and my mouth felt dry.

  A few seconds went by as the 4×4 stayed on our tail. Then it dropped back with a flash of its lights before turning off down a side street and disappearing.

  I breathed more easily. For now, we were OK.

  Sweetman noticed the move and looked at me like he was impressed. ‘What did you just do? What happened?’

  ‘Not sure,’ I said. ‘I’m hoping it was kidnapper-speak for “I’m good, thanks, so back the fuck off”.’

  As we arrived at the airport, I said, ‘One thing you need to remember.’

  ‘What’s that?’ He was looking a bit calmer, but it was probably short term.

  ‘Make it two things. First is, have a strong drink as soon as you can. Make it aguardiente, the local brandy – it’ll paralyse your vocal chords and settle your nerves. Second thing is, you know nothing about what happened. You saw nothing, you heard nothing, you left your room and went home. And you never come back here. Ever. Understood?’

  He nodded. ‘I get it. Reprisals. What about you?’

  ‘Me? I was never here in the first place.’

  Three

  Secret Intelligence Service Officer Thomas Vale stared at the message on his monitor in the MI6 headquarters at Vauxhall Cross in London, and wondered what the hell was going on. It had just arrived on the internal Secure-X system, yet was timed over an hour ago.

  From: C. Moresby (Operations Director 4)

  To: List A

  Subject: Extraordinary meeting of sub-committee AL/213/4(JIC)

  On matters relating to Somali hostage negotiations and in accordance with guidelines laid down by ISC (Intelligence and Security Committee), this matter requires the presence of all List A personnel or their nominated delegates from Cabinet Office, Foreign & Commonwealth Office, MI5, GCHQ and MOD, and includes a special invitation to London head of CIA or his nominated deputy.

  SIS personnel:

  Operations Director 4

  Controller Africa

  Controller Middle East

  Controller Europe

  Chair: Operations Director 4

  Time start: 10.30a.m. – room 2/15

  Vale checked his watch. It was already 10.30. He’d be late, which he hated. He called immediately for a duty driver in the services section to meet him downstairs. Getting round to the Cabinet Office, room 2/15, where these cross-departmental meetings often took place, was going to take a few minutes.

  ‘Have you seen Mr Moresby, Joe?’ he asked the driver.

  ‘About twenty minutes ago, Mr Vale, on his way out of the building.’ Joe eyed him in the mirror with a raised eyebrow. They had known each other for four years now and got on well. ‘I didn’t think you were included.’ Joe always seemed to know a lot more than he should for his pay grade. Typical ex-army driver.

  The devious little shit, Vale thought angrily, the thought aimed at Colin Moresby, Operations Director 4 and chair of the meeting. One of the new brand of directors appointed in the recent re-shuffles of the security community, Moresby had hit the ground running and seemed unconcerned by the need to make allies in the corridors of SIS unless they could further his career. He had a love of meetings, which he used as weapons to denigrate his enemies and as forums to suck up to those more important than himself. Sleek and confident, he was too fond of marketing-speak for Vale’s liking, which the older man saw as a means of obfuscation.

  He thought about the note again, trying to decide whether the delay in receiving it and the lack of any earlier notification was carelessness or a deliberate move to freeze him out. A senior field officer for many years, he was approaching retirement. But with a shortage of skilled personnel undergoing training, he’d been offered a consultancy post within the organization and asked to stay on for the foreseeable future. His role was no longer in the field, but more of an oversight function on operations. As such, Moresby was obliged to include him in all aspects of field officers’ and agents’ work abroad. It was, Vale knew, little more than a box-ticking exercise to meet new monitoring standards, but still an essential footbrake function for those with less field experience.

  People like Moresby.

  The car eased to a stop near the Cabinet Office. He hopped out and told Joe he would walk back; he had a feeling he might need the fresh air. Passing through security, he made his way up to the second floor, room 15. He could hear the buzz of conversation from inside, and felt unaccountably like a pupil arriving late for a lesson.

  The talking stopped as he opened the door, and a number of familiar faces turned towards him.

  ‘My apologies,’ he said easily, addressing nobody in particular. He noted Moresby, sitting at the head of the table. He looked as if he had swallowed a bug. ‘I didn’t get the note until a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Really?’ Moresby grunted. ‘You’d better take it up with IT. Probably a systems glitch.’

  There were no gaps at the table, Vale noted. Significant or accidental? He grabbed a chair from against the wall beneath a dubious portrait of Gladstone, and dragged it to a spot between Bill Cousins, Controller Africa, and Peter Wilby, Controller Middle East. The two men shuffled sideways to let him in.

  He nodded and sat down, noting that each person present had a folder on the table in front of them. There were no spares.

  Bill Cousins moved his folder so that Vale could share.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Moresby resumed, his face stiff with disapproval, ‘this is an all-hands notification that we will be running a contact mission within the next two weeks, possibly sooner. The location is in east Africa, on the Somali/Kenyan border near the coast, and the precise timing is as yet unconfirmed, but will be reactive, dependin
g on outside bodies.’ He glanced around the table, hovering just a moment on a man Vale knew as James Scheider, the deputy chief, CIA London station. He was an up-and-coming figure to watchers inside SIS, and Vale instantly recognized Moresby’s tactics: make powerful friends before they reach the top and they are likely to boost one’s own rise to prominence.

  Moresby referred to the folders on the table and continued, ‘Two weeks ago our Nairobi liaison officer was approached by a known middleman named Ashkir Xasan. Xasan is thought to be of mixed Somali/Kenyan parentage, and has acted as a mediator several times over the past two years in the release of tourists and other hostages in the region, taken mostly by pirates but also other non-aligned groups. He secured the release of two cargo vessels taken by pirates further north, one in the Gulf of Aden, the other off the coast of Oman. Both vessels, one the Madras-flagged Oonyong, the other the Belladventure from Rotterdam, had been held for three months near Hobyo, Somalia. Their crews were released unharmed.’

  Vale breathed easily and scanned the briefing notes passed to him by Bill Cousins. So far so mundane. He wondered where this was going. Moresby was perfectly entitled to run operations wherever his brief allowed, especially where there were intelligence implications. But Vale had the strongest feeling that his own name had been left off the list deliberately and he wasn’t sure why. But it couldn’t be good news. Moresby was making a power play of some kind and signalling that old-timers like Vale were no longer needed, oversight roles or not.

  ‘As a backgrounder,’ Moresby continued, ‘several weeks ago a group of aid workers was taken hostage by pirates off Djibouti. They were on a combined fact-finding mission to visit refugee camps set up by three aid agencies.’ He paused for effect, scanning the faces. ‘Unknown to the kidnappers, two of the people taken were advisors to the United Nations; one British, one Dutch.’

  A sigh whispered through the room as they each considered the implications. Aid workers were an easy target for extremists, although often left alone by kidnap groups because they usually had little real ransom value. But serving UN personnel were like gold dust, with an appropriate value to anyone negotiating for their sale.

  ‘What the hell were they doing there?’ queried Ruth Dresden, the Cabinet Office representative. ‘And why go in by sea? Don’t they like flying?’

  Moresby gave a hint of a shrug. ‘Regretful, I know. My understanding is that they were going in by the back door to avoid being picked up on the airport radar by the Somalis.’

  ‘Why? We’re on friendly terms with them at the moment.’

  ‘True. But they wanted to gain an insight to the problems on the ground without being shadowed by government minders every step of the way.’

  ‘Well, that worked a treat, didn’t it?’ muttered a gaunt individual from the Ministry of Defence. ‘I suppose they now want us to drag them out of there?’

  ‘Actually, no.’ Moresby looked around the room. ‘In fact, we’d had no contact with them or their kidnappers until Xasan came forward.’

  ‘Is he one of the gang?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware. But he claims to know the group holding them and says he can secure their release unharmed if we’re prepared to talk. There was no mention of the sum involved, but there was a condition attached.’

  Was, Vale noted. Past tense. So the build-up to this has already taken place without being broadcast. ‘What kind of condition?’

  ‘They want to enter formal negotiations, but we have to supply a representative on the ground at a location to be advised once we give the nod.’

  ‘Why?’ Bill Cousins shifted in his seat. ‘What do they think this is – an agreement on extended trade credits?’

  By his tone, Vale wondered if he wasn’t the only one who might have been left out of the loop. Cousins clearly hadn’t been fully briefed, either.

  Moresby nodded. ‘According to Xasan’s latest communication, which came in yesterday afternoon, the group holding the hostages is led by a clan chief – that’s Xasan’s description, not ours – named Musa Yusuf Musa.’

  ‘Clan chief my arse,’ Peter Wilby, the Controller Middle East muttered in disgust. ‘He’s a terrorist; al-Shabaab down to his toenails. And right now they control a large part of the country around Mogadishu – whatever the African Union Forces say. How come we didn’t hear about this?’ Like Cousins, he looked irritated, but sounded more cautious.

  ‘Because I didn’t want to make it known more widely until I had formulated a plan.’ Moresby seemed unconcerned by any shortcomings in approved procedure, and stared hard at both controllers, who said nothing. He gestured at the folders, which contained a map showing the distribution of forces in the country, including government, Kenyan and other African troops … and the huge Islamist-controlled region in the centre around the capital.

  ‘But you’re correct. The Islamists do have a serious foothold. However, they don’t control every clan. The plan – my plan – is simple: we will send an officer to meet with Xasan and Musa at a time and place of their choosing. They will state their demands and we will negotiate the release of these hostages. They have also indicated that there are other groups known by Musa looking to do similar deals for hostages and boats held along the Somali coast.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Ruth Dresden again. ‘How do we know we can trust them?’

  Moresby tapped the folder in front of him. ‘Because we must. This is, lady and gentlemen, the opening I believe we’ve long been waiting for: the chance to secure the release of hostages and shipping on a scale nobody has managed before.’ He smiled suddenly as if warmed by his own brilliance, and looked round as if for approval. ‘Anyone care for coffee?’

  Four

  ‘Interesting idea,’ said the CIA’s deputy chief of station, James Scheider, who was staring at the briefing paper with a faint frown. ‘I’m not sure why it involves us, though, and not the Dutch. It’s their man and yours. According to our sources in the region, none of the captive aid workers is an American citizen.’

  ‘I invited you as a courtesy, first of all,’ Moresby replied easily. ‘But in acknowledging your agency’s considerable knowledge of the region, any advice would be gratefully received. We will, of course, be bringing in the Dutch at the appropriate time.’

  Scheider shrugged. ‘Of course. Glad to help.’

  ‘What support will this officer have?’ Vale queried. He was referring to hard protection and assistance. In areas such as the Middle East and eastern Africa, where tensions were high and dangers unpredictable, the general convention was to plan for trouble, which was why high-risk ventures usually involved armed escorts.

  ‘Minimal.’ Moresby’s response was almost dismissive. ‘Too much accompanying traffic is likely to attract attention. There will, of course, be the standard operational rules and systems in place, and we’ll be keeping a close eye on the personnel involved throughout the transition.’

  ‘How close?’ Vale insisted. He was growing increasingly worried by Moresby’s almost cavalier attitude, and neither Cousins nor Wilby had shown signs of concern beyond their initial comments. What the hell was going on? This was their back yard, but they were letting Moresby run the show. Operational rules and systems? He made it sound like a Health and Safety assessment. Didn’t he know how dangerous the world was out there?

  ‘Communications traffic will be monitored throughout by GCHQ’s feeder stations in the region, and I hope our friends in the CIA and National Security Agency will offer whatever assistance they can.’ He looked at Scheider with raised eyebrows, adding, ‘It would be nice to have coverage via any drones you might have in the region.’

  Scheider nodded, as Vale knew he would. The CIA man was in a difficult position; saying an immediate no to the availability of unmanned camera drones or UAVs, used so effectively to track down insurgents in Iraq, Pakistan and Afghanistan, would not go down well; even a maybe would question his ability to make on-the-spot decisions without running back to his superiors.

 
Vale had to intervene. As superb as they were at monitoring signals intelligence and comms networks around the world, GCHQ, the Government Communications Headquarters in Cheltenham, couldn’t perform miracles. ‘Satellites and drones are not the same as boots on the ground. There’s no protection if anything goes wrong, and camera footage merely gives us lots of nice grainy photos for the archives. These people need a support team.’

  Moresby turned to him with a faint huff of impatience. ‘I disagree. The risk to any personnel has been judged extremely unlikely, in view of Xasan’s assurances and his record so far. In any case, they will be on the ground for a brief period only – a couple of days at most.’ He waved a hand to emphasise his point and turned away.

  But Vale wasn’t finished. ‘They? So there’s more than one.’

  ‘Yes. The officer will have an escort – a specialist. We demanded that and Xasan agreed.’

  ‘And if anything does go wrong?’ Vale pressed him harder, if only for the record.

  ‘Why should it? As I said, the risks are minimal. The other side has nothing to gain by putting our people in harm’s way. This is a straightforward opening negotiation where each side stands to gain in the long run and nobody loses.’

  ‘I’m glad you see it that way,’ Vale countered. ‘Sending officers or assets into regions such as this is never without risk. And you’re talking about an area known to be under the influence of terrorist groups including al-Qaeda. Risk is only minimal if you never leave the office.’

  A sharp intake of breath from a Ministry of Defence representative along the table was the only indication that Vale’s comment was seen as a personal dig. Moresby had served time as a field officer, but it had been brief and, by most standards, uneventful. As Vale was well aware, the younger man’s meteoric rise through the ranks had been seen by some as too far, too fast, with no real hands-on experience of the kind that had tested many others.