A Deal to Die For

by Albert Able

  Mustafa took a deep breath. “Finding a volunteer to die for the cause is easy. Getting the deal approved will be much more difficult.” He paused. “There is, of course, only one group who could contemplate this proposal and it will take time. I will not bore you with the details. I know you understand full well who and what I mean.” Mustafa leaned forward. “Now let me get this quite clear; are you really telling me that you are actually going to give this weapon to my client for free- no fee at all?”

  Peterson nodded slowly. “That is correct. No fee, but I get to choose the target, that’s the deal. However, I am confident they will approve of my choice.”

  “That just leaves one item to be agreed,” Mustafa cocked his head to one side. “Can I take it, that you are not asking me to contribute to this charitable gesture?”

  Carl Peterson smiled thinly. “No my dear Mustafa” he knew that was not his real name any more that Mustafa believed Mr Black was his.

  “It is, of course, hard in this case to offer a percentage commission as there is no fee?” Their eyes met. “I suggest therefore two hundred thousand American Dollars, paid, as in all previous transactions, into your Swiss bank account, fifty percent immediately the deal is agreed, balance on completion?”

  Mustafa unfolded his arms, but as he was about to speak, Peterson leaned forward: “Please, don’t try to negotiate. You won’t get an improved offer.”

  Mustafa hesitated; negotiating was as natural as breathing to him but the piercing look in those steel grey eyes was abundantly clear. “My dear friend,” he reluctantly proffered his hand to seal the bargain. “I consider the proposal to be more than generous.”

  They drove Carl Peterson back to the waterfront and stopped in the shade a few metres from the landing stage.

  “Call me on one of these numbers on the appropriate days.” Mustafa gave Carl Peterson a plain business card with mobile telephone numbers, hand written against four different dates.

  “The numbers only work on the day indicated. If I have not organised it by the last date, I will give you some more numbers. Is that clear?” Mustafa queried.

  Carl Peterson looked at the card, satisfied that he could understand the writing, and agreed. “That’s all quite clear. Just don’t take too long or I may find a different client!”

  “Have a little faith my friend.” Mustafa saluted in the traditional Arab way then closed the window and the Toyota moved away into the crowded boulevard.

  In order to be certain that he was being followed, Carl Peterson strolled casually along the waterfront just like any tourist enjoying the sights and sounds of the busy port. It wasn’t long before he spotted the man with the all too obvious newspaper keeping pace on the opposite side of the road.

  Satisfied, Peterson hailed a passing cab. “King George V Hotel please,” he told the driver slowly and deliberately, like a tourist trying to make a foreigner understand; hopefully it was loud enough for the man to hear.

  It took only a few minutes for the cab to pull up outside the tired old building.

  ‘Another colonial relic,’ Peterson mused as he paid the taxi. Then, just as he moved inside the hotel he spotted what he presumed to be one of Mustafa’s men watching from a car that had just stopped across the road. He didn’t see the man take out his mobile and dial the number conveniently displayed on the poster that appeared on a sign outside the hotel advertising ‘Late Nite Cabaret’ reservations.

  “The manager,” the man in the car demanded curtly.

  A female voice cooed respectfully in his ear. “I am the Duty manager Monsieur, how can I help?”

  “Security Police. I need to know if a Monsieur Black has checked in.”

  “Just a moment Monsieur,” the voice requested. “Yes, we have a Monsieur Black and his two daughters. They are checked in and booked for the week. Is there any thing else I can assist you with?”

  “Thank you, that will be all for the moment.” The man replied more gently and then called another number.

  “He’s apparently checked in for the week,” adding “with his two daughters I understand.”

  “Yes, he goes everywhere with them. I want you to stay there and see where they go if they leave the hotel,” the voice at the other end of the telephone commanded. “Keep me posted.”

  The men in the car sat back and waited. They were rewarded less than one hour later when Mr Black, now wisely wearing a wide brimmed Panama hat to combat the searing North African sun, appeared at the hotel entrance, with two modestly dressed young ladies held on to each of his arms.

  “A taxi to take us to the shops please,” Mr Black cheerfully asked the hovering doorman.

  The girls giggled and clung lovingly to their chaperone.

  The man observing the scene from behind the wheel of the car on the opposite side of the road grunted luridly. “Daughters, my eye!”

  “Whatever,” the other added without feeling. “Let’s just follow and do our job, eh?”

  The taxi pulled away and the car followed at a discreet distance; they did not see the tourist in the flowery shirt and baseball hat leave the hotel a couple of minutes later and walk in the opposite direction.

  ***

  Alex Scott, his wife, Rosie and their two children, just loved their home in Falmouth in Cornwall, a delightful old converted fisherman’s cottage. Poised close to the waters edge, Alex had sunk a mooring just beyond the low water mark to ensure that his beautifully restored ‘Dragon’ sloop would remain afloat and available to sail at all states of the tide.

  Following his retirement from SONIC Alex’s new roll with Hans in their security business resulted in a much more routine lifestyle, a significant change from the hectic and frequently hazardous activities with SONIC. His prime duty now was to assess and recommend the overall security requirements for their clients. Hans and his assistant would then have to create and implement them; it was an excellent arrangement.

  Alex junior was almost two now, his new sister just six months old and gradually taking over the household.

  Rosie’s genes comprised a cocktail of her Oriental ancestors with a powerful draught of Welsh blood to compliment the mix, and provided her with a wise and patient demean that frequently disguised her real feelings.

  Having unintentionally participated in one of Alex’s most harrowing cases before their children were born, Rosie understood full well the dangers her husband faced as an agent for SONIC, but she was also wise enough to understand that these dangers were an essential part of such a man’s life.

  Rosie was not outwardly surprised therefore when, on his return from his visit with the Boss in London, Alex did not immediately seek out his effervescent son and go for a sail. Instead, he stood gazing out across the estuary, deep in thought.

  Rosie moved to him and curling her arms around his waist, whispered: “Trouble my Darling?”

  Alex turned. “It looks that way.”

  He pulled her close and paused holding her tight until he made up his mind. “Syndicate, I think!”

  She flinched in his arms as if she had received an electric shock.

  “But I thought they were finished.” She pulled away and moved protectively to the carry-cot where Blossi, named after Rosie’s Grandmother, lay innocently asleep.

  “Yes, so did we all. In fairness, we are not yet certain exactly what the situation is. But you know the Boss; he’s had that funny feeling.”

  “Yes, and I know you both and your funny feelings,” she snapped, unusually bitter, and added irritably: “I thought he was supposed to be retired as well?”

  Alex moved across to stand looking down at their little daughter, still, in spite of their raised voices blissfully and totally unaware of the dangers of life. Alex looked up and turned towards Rosie and slipped his arm around Rosie’s waist, already slim and firm again after the baby, h
e noticed, in an odd out of context moment.

  “I know I don’t have to tell you, but there can be no peace and security for any of us until any possible threat from the Syndicate is resolved,” Alex said in a low serious tone.

  “I know.” Rosie buried her head in his chest. “I know, forgive me.” She sighed. “They’re both so young and vulnerable.” She looked lovingly at the child.

  “So where is Alex junior?” Alex asked suddenly in a mild flush of panic.

  “Don’t panic my love.” Rosie smiled. “It’s Wednesday, remember? Nursery school?” She punched him affectionately in the stomach.

  Alex relaxed and held her close, kissing her gently on the mouth they lingered seeking mutual comfort and security, hugging tightly together.

  Slowly Rosie became more and more passionate; responding to her rising lust Alex whispered hopefully: “How long do you thing we have?”

  Rosie took a final peep at their sleeping daughter, held her index finder to her lips in the ‘be silent’ gesture and tugged at his arm, whispering “Long enough”.

  Grabbing Alex’s hand, they tip-toed impishly to the bedroom, just like two naughty children.

  ***

  Ever since the notorious and devastating September 11th terror attack, New York has become a symbol of America and the world’s determination to resist the insidious scourge of terrorism. By the same token, Al Qaeda has become the bench mark for all terrorist activities, with its leader Omar Ben Laden, the iconic grand controller.

  The same was true in areas like Northern Ireland, where murderers and other opportunist villains frequently carried out acts of sabotage and other criminal activities, conveniently hiding under the shadow of a supposed IRA attack.

  So it is today when, almost without fail, Al Qaeda - guilty or otherwise - is the first suspect of any terrorist style activities.

  Mustafa Ben Lorie was by nature an opportunist. Educated in the best British traditions afforded to wealthy foreign students, he was being prepared for a life of affluent luxury, or at least that was the case until his father crossed-swords with the King and ruler of his birth place, Saudi Arabia.

  Whatever his father did wrong, few outsiders would ever learn the truth. Certainly the only thing the young Mustafa cared about was the sudden total withdrawal of the funding for his extravagant life style.

  Shell shocked by the catastrophe, he drifted for a while, sponging from his diminishing circle of fair weather friends. Then the day came when he was approached with a job proposal to earn a living. To his initial consternation, such a prospect had never been included in his fundamental philosophy of life.

  “Just what on earth do you think I could do?” Mustafa snapped with rare honesty, in reply to the seemingly ridiculous question.

  “Oh, you don’t have to get sweaty or anything like that, just use your charm. What do you say?” the questioner replied.

  It was quite simple; all he had to do was to mingle with some VIP guests at an Embassy cocktail party. It was second nature to him; occasionally for instance he would have to flirt mildly with some particular ladies to encourage a further invitation to the ‘garden party,’ being organised to welcome some middle-east oil Sheiks, on their visit to England as part of their European tour.

  The Sheiks, of course, were not just selling oil but seeking to buy arms as part of the trade. Inevitably, however, the menu of weapons available to them had certain limitations imposed by United Nations charter. Mustafa’s roll was to advise the Sheiks of the ‘special opportunities’ available to acquire arms from his secrete ‘NO GO’ list.

  Mustafa handled the role with such panache that he soon became the unofficial backdoor salesman for several prominent British arms manufacturers.

  It wasn’t long before his skill at acquiring ‘special items’ for foreign arms buyers came to the attention of a couple of other unofficial buyers. Without the least sense of conscience, Mustafa immediately seized the opportunity to make substantial additional commissions by charging both parties for his services.

  That was how he came to be the intermediary between the Syndicate and the most powerful Warlord of the Southern Philippines. It was also to be his first failed delivery.

  The Syndicate had of course tried everything in their power to fulfil the contract but in the end failed because of Alex Scott’s even more determined efforts to block delivery of the huge cargo of arms.

  After finally admitting defeat, fortunately for Mustafa, the Syndicate surprisingly refunded all the pre-paid fees and added a substantial sum to cover their disappointed client’s expenses.

  Mustafa would never know just how close he came to being sacrificed by the angry War Lord, but as a result of the unexpected ‘refund’ he managed, by the skin of his teeth, to talk his way out of ‘the tightest corner of his whole life.’ He had no intention of taking such a gamble again.

  The client, who Mustafa believed would be the most suitable for Mr Black’s (alias Carl Peterson’s) new deal, was of course the infamous Al Qaeda, but the only way for Mustafa to contact them was via that same terrifying Philippine Warlord - and that, unfortunately for Mustafa, meant sharing the rewards.

  Then by chance, fate dealt Mustafa an Ace card in the form of the press statement from the head of the British MI5. The headline read. “Dirty Bomb, only a matter of time” The article went on to question weather the war on terrorism could in fact be won, given the seemingly endless supply of extreme elements in the world with whom breaking the link between religious ideology and terrorism was difficult. The article finished by implying that although other groups posed a potent threat, the only truly global enemy was Al Qaeda.

  Mustafa Ben Lorie not only had supreme confidence in his own ability but was also an extremely greedy man. He had taken little convincing that he should find a direct purchaser and handle the whole transaction personally thus avoiding the need to share the profit.

  Of the three enquiries Mustafa received, he judged that only one seemed to have the right credentials and, more importantly, enough funds. Further enquiries confirmed that the party he had identified was fully prepared to carry out Mr Black’s mandatory requirements as part of their own ambitions.

  A deal was agreed and Mustafa Ben Laurie was finally in business without the need to trade through intermediaries allowing Mustafa to wallow briefly in self-satisfaction as calculated the significantly enhanced commission.

  ***

  Alex Scott reported to the Boss at the Chelsea Arts Club as arranged. Henshaw led him to the library where the Boss was sitting in his deep high back leather chair browsing through the Daily Telegraph.

  “Your usual, Sir?” Henshaw looked towards the Boss.

  “Thank you.” The Boss replied and gestured Alex to the chair opposite him “And what will you have?”

  “Fresh orange, I believe it was, Sir?” Henshaw intervened before Alex had time to reply.

  “Spot on, thank you.” Alex smiled his appreciation and returned his attention to the Boss.

  “Well I can confirm you still have some influence,” Alex greeted him as he sat down.

  The Boss shrugged his shoulders in a matter-of-fact gesture. “So tell me, what did you find?” he asked eagerly.

  “I found a different world to the one we knew just two years ago.” Alex settled comfortably into the other wing chair. “The new headquarters, or as you said (and as everyone else in the district calls it), ‘the mushroom’, is certainly very impressive. But for all the supposed impenetrable security I can tell you that one of Hans’ little transmitters managed to foil their blocking system, assuming they have one!” Alex smiled with satisfaction. “Quite honestly, at the moment I cannot be certain of anything specific but I do agree that several things simply don’t tie up over Watkins death.”

  Alex leaned forward. “His section leader, Lydia Rowland, is now p
robably the only other long serving member connected with the old SONIC organisation. She obviously had a bit of a soft spot for Graham Watkins, so was in no condition to be seriously questioned after I told her about his murder.”

  “Lydia Rowland? I remember her,” the Boss nodded slowly, “but she was one of the clerical team. How come she is - or was - Watkins’ section leader?”

  The Boss squinted slightly as he tried to understand the situation.

  “That’s bureaucracy for you: Watkins was senior in almost every way except for his Civil Service grade, which should have been down-graded when he was transferred to ‘Archives’, but because of the scheme to preserve his pension rights it had been omitted. So you end up with a situation where a man holding a top security rating is under the command of a person with a much lower one. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

  “Bloody ridiculous if you ask me.” The Boss shook his head in wonder.

  “I think the fundamental problem is that the records department was a convenient place to loose the last of the old school and so little attention was paid to their relative positions. Anyway I have agreed to have further discussions with Lydia. I’m sure that she will be the key to making some kind of assessment of what Wilkins was on to, and what he wanted so desperately to talk to you about.” Alex sat back.

  “What I’d also like you to do, if you can, is to find out everything possible about Gerald Rive. He is the new young man with overall responsibility for the archive section?”

  “Certainly, leave it to me.” The Boss passed Alex a card with a hand written telephone number. “This is my mobile number just in case, and I don’t think we should use the club any more; don’t want to draw any unnecessary fire here do we?” The Boss frowned. “Oh and the other important thing for you to consider, and you will have to decide quite soon, is exactly how you want to play this, because at the moment, as you must be aware, we are both well outside all the conventional rules. Quite honestly, even I don’t know how to handle it yet.”

  “Don’t worry Boss, we’ve been friends for too long to let a little thing like jurisdiction get in the way of business.” Alex shook his head, winked and thrust out his hand but then his expression changed to deadly serious. “Whichever way you decide to act, Hans and I will be with you.”