Chapter 14 Chapter Twelve
Gareth Evans is actually living in a law firm office.A trundle bed was moved into the control room.He also occupied the bathroom in the suite, which contained a shower, toilet and sink.The only thing to eat was takeout and salads from the corner deli.He no longer follows the usual meeting procedures, and is on the phone with Somalia at a fixed time.He wished he'd been in the control room when Abdi called from the desert as he suggested.It wasn't long that no one paid attention to him.It was almost noon when the phone rang.It's Abdi.
"Mr. Garris? It's me. I found a satellite phone. But I can't talk too long."
"Then let's cut the long story short, my friend. From what your client did to the boy, we feel: he wants to push us to get over it quickly. It's not unusual. Normally, Somalis are one of the Most have time. This time, both parties are interested in a quick conclusion, aren't they?"
"Yes, I think so," answered the voice from the desert.
"My client thinks so too. Not because of the intern. It's blackmail and too rude to be effective. My client wants his boat back. The key is the final price. In Your advice to your client on this matter is crucial."
The boy was worth ten times the ship and its cargo.Evans knew that if he slipped up, it would be suicide.
"Mr. Garris, what is your suggestion?"
"Final price, five million dollars. We all know that's fair. We could have settled on that price three months ago. I think you know that."
Mr Abdi was sprawled in the desert, a mile away from the fort behind Galaad Bay.He listened to the phone, agreeing with Gareth but saying nothing.He sensed Gareth still had something to say about himself.
"My suggestion is this: Out of the five million dollars, your share is only one million. I can pay the one million to your private account now. When the ship sails, pay you the second hundred. 10,000. No one else knows about this, just you and me. The key is to get it resolved quickly. That's what I want and what I want to pay for."
Abdi is thinking.Afrit will also pay himself a third million.That's three times what I usually charge myself.And he had other considerations of his own.He wants to get out of the current situation now, and it has nothing to do with any other factors.
Gone are the days when it was easy to rob a ship and get a ransom easily.Although it will take a long time for the western countries and their maritime forces to come to a concerted action.But they are becoming more and more aggressive now.
There have been two attacks by commando forces from Western countries targeting coastal beaches.Marines descend from a hovering helicopter on ropes.A stranded vessel was rescued.The Somali guards opened fire, killing two of the sailors, but the Somalis were miserable—all but two were killed.Those people are still in prisons in Seychelles.
Ali Abdi was no hero, nor did he have the slightest intention of becoming one.He blanched with horror at the thought of those "beasts" with night-vision goggles, black uniforms, and gleaming submachine guns sweeping across the brick and mud fort where he now lived.
Plus, he finally wanted to retire.Get a lot of money, stay away from Somalia, go to a civilized place, the most important thing is safety.He said into the satellite phone:
"Deal, Gareth." Then he told Garris an account number, "From now on, I will work for you, Mr. Garris. But you understand, I will settle it for five million dollars as soon as possible, but even so, we still It takes four weeks to prepare."
Fourteen days had passed, Evans thought.But it took only six weeks from being hijacked to being released, which is already a record.
"Thank you, my friend. Let us end this dreadful business together and return to civilized life..."
He hung up the phone.Abdi in the distance also hung up the phone and returned to the fort.The two negotiators may have been off the Somali phone network, but that made absolutely no difference to Fort Meade and Cheltenham, who heard every word both of them had to say.
Following orders, Fort Meade transmitted the contents of the call across the U.S. state to Technical Operations Support.The latter sent a copy of the content to the tracker in London.For a month, the tracker considered.The clock is ticking.He pocketed his BlackBerry.The northern outskirts of Poole Harbor came into view, and trackers struggled to find traces of Hamworth.
"Boss, that's a lot of money." Trojan Achievements is clearly a very small company.Trackers estimate that the company is named after that classic scam in history.But the man in front of him is really far behind the Greek army back then. This is a row of ordinary houses in the suburbs, and the company is in one of them.The tracker estimated that there were only two or three people in the company.The man facing him across the table was clearly the main character.Trackers thought he was a former Royal Marine, a senior sergeant. Wheeler was talking about a stack of fifty-dollar bills as thick as bricks. "So what exactly do you want us to do?" "I wish to remove a man from the streets of London without causing any trouble, and take him to a quiet, remote place. Stay there for a month, and then put him back where he came from." Weller thought about it carefully.He knew very well that kidnapping was illegal.But his philosophy was military and very simple.There are good people and bad people in the world, and too many of the latter get away with it. It is also against the law to kill a person.But he has two young girls in school, and if any fool dared mess with them, he wouldn't hesitate to send that guy to another world that might be better. "How bad is this guy?" "He helps terrorists, secretly finances them. This guy he's helping now has killed four Brits and fifteen Americans. He's a terrorist himself." Weller snorted.He had been to Helmand in Afghanistan three times and saw his comrades die before his own eyes. "Are there bodyguards?" "No. Occasionally rent a car with a driver. Usually a black taxi parked on the street." "Do you have room for him?" "Not yet. But I will." "Before I make a decision, I have to step down." "If you don't do that, I'm leaving now," said the tracker. Wheeler looked away from the stack of dollars to examine the American across the table.He didn't speak, and didn't need to say anything.He was sure that the Yankee had been in battle too, heard the bullets whizzing by, seen his comrades shot and fell. "I'm driving to London. Tomorrow, sir?" The tracker smiled slightly, realizing that the man was addressing him to his face the way British Special Forces soldiers address officers, but behind his back it was a different story.Usually Rupert, sometimes worse. "Tomorrow is fine. Here's another thousand dollars. You say 'yes', spend it, or give it back if you don't." "How do you know if I'll say 'yes' or give it back?" The tracker stood up, ready to go. "Mr. Weller, I think we both know the rules. You and I know the area well."
The tracker left, leaving a connection address and time.It is far from the embassy.Brian Weller took the "brick" and counted it.Two thousand five hundred dollars.The cost is only five hundred dollars.Yankees will provide hiding places.He has a wife and two school-going daughters.He had a family to support, which was not much of a sell at the vicar's tea. He wrote down the address, found a fellow commando and spent a week preparing for it.Then he told the tracker: OK.
Ali Abdi mustered up the courage to meet Afrit. "Things are going well," he reported, "and we can get a good ransom from the Malmö." Then he said something else. "The little white boy. If he dies, there will be trouble. Time will go backwards and the ransom will be less." He wasn't counting on the European nation's commando forces to sweep the beach in the rescue operation.It was just his own nightmare.It is likely to irritate the person in front of him. "Why did he die?" the warlord asked loudly. Abdi shrugged. "Who knows? Infection, sepsis?" His strategy was on point.There is a doctor in Galaad Bay who knows at least some basic first aid knowledge.The intern is still locked in the cellar, the wound has been sterilized and bandaged.There was nothing Abdi could do about it, nor did he dare to do anything.
"That place is full of deer," said the person from the intermediary company. "The bucks are about to go into heat, and the hunting season is coming soon." The tracker smiled.He's playing the harmless American tourist. "Oh, the stags are safe, don't worry about me. No, I just want to go and write my book. So I need absolute silence. No phones, no roads, no one coming, no interruptions. A room next to the forest path Cabin where I can write that American novel." Realtors know a little about writers.A bunch of weirdos.He tapped on the keyboard again, staring at the screen. "We have a hunting lodge on our list," he confirmed, "and it will be empty until hunting season." He stood up, walked to the map on the wall, looked up the coordinates, and tapped lightly on an original ecological area on the map.There were no signs of towns, villages, or even roads, just a few cobweb-like paths running through it.It was north of Caithness, the last county in Scotland before reaching the Pentland Firth area. "I have some pictures." He brought the client back to the computer screen, scrolled through the screen, and showed a series of photos.It was a log cabin in a valley among the hills, surrounded by an endless, undulating sea of briar.In a place like that, if the urban jerk tried to escape, he'd be caught by two marines within five hundred yards. There were two beds in the house, a large hall, kitchen and bathroom, a big fireplace, and a pile of logs. "I think, I'm pretty sure I've found my own Shangri-La," said the writer-tourist. "I haven't had a bank account number yet. Would dollar bills be okay?" Cash is fine.The exact directions and keys will be delivered in a few days, but to Hamworth.
Mustafa Dadari didn't own a car in London, nor did he drive.Parking has always been a driver's nightmare, and you don't have to worry about it if you don't have a car.He lives in the Knightsbridge area, as long as the bid is high, taxis are not a problem, there are definitely, and they are very convenient.But to go to a dinner party in a black tie and dapper, he'll have to find a car rental company.He always goes to the same company, usually the same driver. He was having dinner with friends a mile away.After saying goodbye after dinner, he used his mobile phone to tell the driver to come to the porch of the hotel, but there is a yellow warning line on the side of the porch, and parking is prohibited all day long.The driver on the corner answered the phone, started the engine, and stepped on the gas.The car moved only a yard before the rear tire blew out. The driver got out of the car to check, and found that while he was dozing off behind the wheel, some scoundrel had slipped a small square piece of plywood under the tire, with a steel nail inserted into it.The driver called his client and explained the situation.He has to change a tire.But because the limousine is big and heavy, it will take some time. Mr. Dadari stood under the porch as the other guests moved away from him.At this time, a taxi came on the corner of the street with its idling light on.He raised his hand, and the taxi turned around and drove towards him.Good luck, he thought.He got into a taxi and gave the driver the address.The taxi is heading in that direction. After the customer sits down, the taxi driver in London usually locks the back door. This is to prevent the customer from escaping without paying, and also to prevent people who try to get into the car to harass the customer.But this time the idiot seems to have forgotten. The driver of the limo crouched there, fiddling with his car jack.The taxi was almost out of his view, then swerved, heading for the side of the road.A strong man opened the car door and got in.Dadari protested, saying that the car was already occupied.But the strong man closed the car door heavily and said: "That's true, sir, but it's me." The Pakistani tycoon was clamped tightly by one arm, and his mouth and nose were forcefully covered with a large pad soaked in anesthetic.Within twenty seconds, he stopped struggling. The taxi drove a mile away, then changed to a minivan.The driver was a third former commando.The taxi was used by another comrade-in-arms to make a living, and they borrowed it.At this moment, I parked the car as I said in advance, and put the car keys under the car seat. The two sat on the bench seat behind the driver, with their guest unconscious between them.They tucked him into a single bed in the back of the car seat after a long drive from north London.Twice, he tried to wake up, but was knocked out again. It was a long journey, but with the car's satellite navigation system and GPS guiding the way, it took them less than fourteen hours.The last stretch required a cart and took a while, but they were there when the sun went down.Brian Weller made a call.There were no antennas around here, and he had bought a satellite phone in advance. The tracker called Ariel.He was on his own secure line, which neither Fort Meade nor Cheltenham could listen to.It was about three o'clock in the afternoon in Centerville, Virginia. "Ariel, do you remember that London computer you slowed down? Can you now send an email as if it came from that machine?" "Of course, Lieutenant Colonel. I can connect to it from here." "You don't need to leave Virginia, do you?" Ariel was very confused: these people, whoever has a tone, are so naive when it comes to the Internet.With a few taps of his fingers, he can "become" Mustafa Dadari and send emails from London's Pelham Crescent community. "And you remember that guy coded the prices of fruits and vegetables? Can you use the same code to encrypt the contents of the email?" "Of course, sir. I can decipher it, and I can reedit it." "Exactly the way it is? Like the old guy typed himself behind the computer keyboard?" "Exactly the same." "Excellent. I want you to send an email from your London IP address to the recipient in Kismayo. Do you have a pen and paper?" "what do I have?" "I know this is dated, but I wanted to tell you by secure phone, not email, just in case." The call was interrupted for a while.Ariel climbed down the stairs and came back with "equipment" that he barely knew how to use.The tracker read the email to him. The content of the email was edited exactly with the same password that Dadali had used before, and then sent.Since everything Dadari sends to Somalia is monitored and recorded, this email was also monitored by Fort Meade and Cheltenham and decoded again. The monitoring posts in both places have noticed this email, but the order is to only monitor and not interfere.Following the order, Fort Meade sent a copy to Technical Operations Support.This copy was then forwarded to the tracker.He was not surprised to receive this copy. Kismayo The person who received this email is no longer a cave giant.The cave trolls are dead.His replacement was the previous secretary, Jama.He used the comparison table left by the cave giant to decode it word by word.But he is not very good at it, even if there are loopholes, he can't find them, let alone there are no mistakes or omissions at all.Even the required printing error codes are edited in the content according to the rules. Sending e-mails in Urdu or Arabic is cumbersome, so Dadari, cave trolls and missionaries always use English.The content of this email is also in English.Jama, who is Somali, understands English but is not very comfortable with it.But his English was good enough for him to know that the news was important and must be brought to the missionary without delay. Only a few people knew that the online video of the missionary ostensibly giving up all his claims was fake.He is one of those few.Because he knew his master hadn't delivered any sermons for over three weeks.He used to look at those posted comments for a long time.He knew there was a lot of revulsion from the fan base throughout the Muslim immigrant community in Western countries.But his own loyalty was not diminished.It was a long way from Marka, and though the journey was exhausting, he would return with news from London. Just as Jama was sure he had received a message from Dadari, so Fort Meade and Cheltenham thought the pickle baron was at his own desk in London, helping his friends in Somalia. In London, which has just entered September, the rain is pouring down.At this moment, the real Dadari was staring out in pain.Behind him was a blazing fire in the fireplace.In front of the flames are three ex-Marine Rangers.They look back, laugh, and talk about all the battles they've been through.A curtain of gray clouds hung over the canyon and poured rain on the roofs. Kismayo is extremely hot right now.The loyal Jama fills up the fuel tank of the pickup truck and prepares for the evening trip to Marka. Gareth Evans of London wired Harry Anderson's first million dollars into Abdi's secret account in the Cayman Islands, thinking in three more weeks he could get the Malmo, its cargo and The crew, escorted by NATO destroyers, returned to the open sea. In a secure room at the U.S. embassy in London, the tracker wonders, will his fish bite?As dusk fell on Virginia, he called Technical Operations Support headquarters. "Grey Fox, I think I need a Grumman. Can you bring it back to Northolt to pick me up?"
Notes:
"Boss, that's a lot of money." Trojan Achievements is clearly a very small company.Trackers estimate that the company is named after that classic scam in history.But the man in front of him is really far behind the Greek army back then. This is a row of ordinary houses in the suburbs, and the company is in one of them.The tracker estimated that there were only two or three people in the company.The man facing him across the table was clearly the main character.Trackers thought he was a former Royal Marine, a senior sergeant. Wheeler was talking about a stack of fifty-dollar bills as thick as bricks. "So what exactly do you want us to do?" "I wish to remove a man from the streets of London without causing any trouble, and take him to a quiet, remote place. Stay there for a month, and then put him back where he came from." Weller thought about it carefully.He knew very well that kidnapping was illegal.But his philosophy was military and very simple.There are good people and bad people in the world, and too many of the latter get away with it. It is also against the law to kill a person.But he has two young girls in school, and if any fool dared mess with them, he wouldn't hesitate to send that guy to another world that might be better. "How bad is this guy?" "He helps terrorists, secretly finances them. This guy he's helping now has killed four Brits and fifteen Americans. He's a terrorist himself." Weller snorted.He had been to Helmand in Afghanistan three times and saw his comrades die before his own eyes. "Are there bodyguards?" "No. Occasionally rent a car with a driver. Usually a black taxi parked on the street." "Do you have room for him?" "Not yet. But I will." "Before I make a decision, I have to step down." "If you don't do that, I'm leaving now," said the tracker. Wheeler looked away from the stack of dollars to examine the American across the table.He didn't speak, and didn't need to say anything.He was sure that the Yankee had been in battle too, heard the bullets whizzing by, seen his comrades shot and fell. "I'm driving to London. Tomorrow, sir?" The tracker smiled slightly, realizing that the man was addressing him to his face the way British Special Forces soldiers address officers, but behind his back it was a different story.Usually Rupert, sometimes worse. "Tomorrow is fine. Here's another thousand dollars. You say 'yes', spend it, or give it back if you don't." "How do you know if I'll say 'yes' or give it back?" The tracker stood up, ready to go. "Mr. Weller, I think we both know the rules. You and I know the area well."
The tracker left, leaving a connection address and time.It is far from the embassy.Brian Weller took the "brick" and counted it.Two thousand five hundred dollars.The cost is only five hundred dollars.Yankees will provide hiding places.He has a wife and two school-going daughters.He had a family to support, which was not much of a sell at the vicar's tea. He wrote down the address, found a fellow commando and spent a week preparing for it.Then he told the tracker: OK.
Ali Abdi mustered up the courage to meet Afrit. "Things are going well," he reported, "and we can get a good ransom from the Malmö." Then he said something else. "The little white boy. If he dies, there will be trouble. Time will go backwards and the ransom will be less." He wasn't counting on the European nation's commando forces to sweep the beach in the rescue operation.It was just his own nightmare.It is likely to irritate the person in front of him. "Why did he die?" the warlord asked loudly. Abdi shrugged. "Who knows? Infection, sepsis?" His strategy was on point.There is a doctor in Galaad Bay who knows at least some basic first aid knowledge.The intern is still locked in the cellar, the wound has been sterilized and bandaged.There was nothing Abdi could do about it, nor did he dare to do anything.
"That place is full of deer," said the person from the intermediary company. "The bucks are about to go into heat, and the hunting season is coming soon." The tracker smiled.He's playing the harmless American tourist. "Oh, the stags are safe, don't worry about me. No, I just want to go and write my book. So I need absolute silence. No phones, no roads, no one coming, no interruptions. A room next to the forest path Cabin where I can write that American novel." Realtors know a little about writers.A bunch of weirdos.He tapped on the keyboard again, staring at the screen. "We have a hunting lodge on our list," he confirmed, "and it will be empty until hunting season." He stood up, walked to the map on the wall, looked up the coordinates, and tapped lightly on an original ecological area on the map.There were no signs of towns, villages, or even roads, just a few cobweb-like paths running through it.It was north of Caithness, the last county in Scotland before reaching the Pentland Firth area. "I have some pictures." He brought the client back to the computer screen, scrolled through the screen, and showed a series of photos.It was a log cabin in a valley among the hills, surrounded by an endless, undulating sea of briar.In a place like that, if the urban jerk tried to escape, he'd be caught by two marines within five hundred yards. There were two beds in the house, a large hall, kitchen and bathroom, a big fireplace, and a pile of logs. "I think, I'm pretty sure I've found my own Shangri-La," said the writer-tourist. "I haven't had a bank account number yet. Would dollar bills be okay?" Cash is fine.The exact directions and keys will be delivered in a few days, but to Hamworth.
Mustafa Dadari didn't own a car in London, nor did he drive.Parking has always been a driver's nightmare, and you don't have to worry about it if you don't have a car.He lives in the Knightsbridge area, as long as the bid is high, taxis are not a problem, there are definitely, and they are very convenient.But to go to a dinner party in a black tie and dapper, he'll have to find a car rental company.He always goes to the same company, usually the same driver. He was having dinner with friends a mile away.After saying goodbye after dinner, he used his mobile phone to tell the driver to come to the porch of the hotel, but there is a yellow warning line on the side of the porch, and parking is prohibited all day long.The driver on the corner answered the phone, started the engine, and stepped on the gas.The car moved only a yard before the rear tire blew out. The driver got out of the car to check, and found that while he was dozing off behind the wheel, some scoundrel had slipped a small square piece of plywood under the tire, with a steel nail inserted into it.The driver called his client and explained the situation.He has to change a tire.But because the limousine is big and heavy, it will take some time. Mr. Dadari stood under the porch as the other guests moved away from him.At this time, a taxi came on the corner of the street with its idling light on.He raised his hand, and the taxi turned around and drove towards him.Good luck, he thought.He got into a taxi and gave the driver the address.The taxi is heading in that direction. After the customer sits down, the taxi driver in London usually locks the back door. This is to prevent the customer from escaping without paying, and also to prevent people who try to get into the car to harass the customer.But this time the idiot seems to have forgotten. The driver of the limo crouched there, fiddling with his car jack.The taxi was almost out of his view, then swerved, heading for the side of the road.A strong man opened the car door and got in.Dadari protested, saying that the car was already occupied.But the strong man closed the car door heavily and said: "That's true, sir, but it's me." The Pakistani tycoon was clamped tightly by one arm, and his mouth and nose were forcefully covered with a large pad soaked in anesthetic.Within twenty seconds, he stopped struggling. The taxi drove a mile away, then changed to a minivan.The driver was a third former commando.The taxi was used by another comrade-in-arms to make a living, and they borrowed it.At this moment, I parked the car as I said in advance, and put the car keys under the car seat. The two sat on the bench seat behind the driver, with their guest unconscious between them.They tucked him into a single bed in the back of the car seat after a long drive from north London.Twice, he tried to wake up, but was knocked out again. It was a long journey, but with the car's satellite navigation system and GPS guiding the way, it took them less than fourteen hours.The last stretch required a cart and took a while, but they were there when the sun went down.Brian Weller made a call.There were no antennas around here, and he had bought a satellite phone in advance. The tracker called Ariel.He was on his own secure line, which neither Fort Meade nor Cheltenham could listen to.It was about three o'clock in the afternoon in Centerville, Virginia. "Ariel, do you remember that London computer you slowed down? Can you now send an email as if it came from that machine?" "Of course, Lieutenant Colonel. I can connect to it from here." "You don't need to leave Virginia, do you?" Ariel was very confused: these people, whoever has a tone, are so naive when it comes to the Internet.With a few taps of his fingers, he can "become" Mustafa Dadari and send emails from London's Pelham Crescent community. "And you remember that guy coded the prices of fruits and vegetables? Can you use the same code to encrypt the contents of the email?" "Of course, sir. I can decipher it, and I can reedit it." "Exactly the way it is? Like the old guy typed himself behind the computer keyboard?" "Exactly the same." "Excellent. I want you to send an email from your London IP address to the recipient in Kismayo. Do you have a pen and paper?" "what do I have?" "I know this is dated, but I wanted to tell you by secure phone, not email, just in case." The call was interrupted for a while.Ariel climbed down the stairs and came back with "equipment" that he barely knew how to use.The tracker read the email to him. The content of the email was edited exactly with the same password that Dadali had used before, and then sent.Since everything Dadari sends to Somalia is monitored and recorded, this email was also monitored by Fort Meade and Cheltenham and decoded again. The monitoring posts in both places have noticed this email, but the order is to only monitor and not interfere.Following the order, Fort Meade sent a copy to Technical Operations Support.This copy was then forwarded to the tracker.He was not surprised to receive this copy. Kismayo The person who received this email is no longer a cave giant.The cave trolls are dead.His replacement was the previous secretary, Jama.He used the comparison table left by the cave giant to decode it word by word.But he is not very good at it, even if there are loopholes, he can't find them, let alone there are no mistakes or omissions at all.Even the required printing error codes are edited in the content according to the rules. Sending e-mails in Urdu or Arabic is cumbersome, so Dadari, cave trolls and missionaries always use English.The content of this email is also in English.Jama, who is Somali, understands English but is not very comfortable with it.But his English was good enough for him to know that the news was important and must be brought to the missionary without delay. Only a few people knew that the online video of the missionary ostensibly giving up all his claims was fake.He is one of those few.Because he knew his master hadn't delivered any sermons for over three weeks.He used to look at those posted comments for a long time.He knew there was a lot of revulsion from the fan base throughout the Muslim immigrant community in Western countries.But his own loyalty was not diminished.It was a long way from Marka, and though the journey was exhausting, he would return with news from London. Just as Jama was sure he had received a message from Dadari, so Fort Meade and Cheltenham thought the pickle baron was at his own desk in London, helping his friends in Somalia. In London, which has just entered September, the rain is pouring down.At this moment, the real Dadari was staring out in pain.Behind him was a blazing fire in the fireplace.In front of the flames are three ex-Marine Rangers.They look back, laugh, and talk about all the battles they've been through.A curtain of gray clouds hung over the canyon and poured rain on the roofs. Kismayo is extremely hot right now.The loyal Jama fills up the fuel tank of the pickup truck and prepares for the evening trip to Marka. Gareth Evans of London wired Harry Anderson's first million dollars into Abdi's secret account in the Cayman Islands, thinking in three more weeks he could get the Malmo, its cargo and The crew, escorted by NATO destroyers, returned to the open sea. In a secure room at the U.S. embassy in London, the tracker wonders, will his fish bite?As dusk fell on Virginia, he called Technical Operations Support headquarters. "Grey Fox, I think I need a Grumman. Can you bring it back to Northolt to pick me up?"
Notes: