Chapter 15 Chapter Thirteen
The missionary sat in his study in the house in Marca, thinking about his enemy.He's not a fool, he knows there must be such a person somewhere out there.That fake sermon on his own website proves it.That sermon destroyed his reputation very effectively.
For ten years, he has been careful, is the most difficult to find the traces of the "Qaeda" terrorists.He moved from safehouse to safehouse in the mountains of North and South Waziristan, changing names and appearances all the time.He strictly forbids any cameras to come near him.
At least a dozen of his companions were dead by now.He's not like them, he never uses his phone.Because he knew very well what the Americans were capable of--they could detect the slightest whisper on the Internet, follow it, find the house, and blow up the house and its occupants.
Except for one thing, which he regrets now—he never emailed anyone from where he lives now.He always delivers his hateful sermons from far away from where he lives.
However, someone can still pass through his protection.The actor in the fake sermon is too much like himself.Looks alike, talks alike. "He" announced his real name to the world, as well as the pseudonym he used in the Khorasan Jihad Federation.
He didn't know how he was betrayed, or why he was betrayed, or by whom, but he had to accept the fact that those who followed him would definitely be able to find out the real IP of his computer in Kismayo.He did not understand how this was done.The cave giant had assured him that it was impossible.Even the cave giants are dead, though.
He knows about unmanned bombers.He had read about it in columns printed in the Western media and knew what they could do.Even so, there are many specific details that he never even leaked to his technical experts.He had to surmise that he was being tracked--just above his head, out of sight and out of hearing, was a machine hovering constantly, watching over his town, and even this very house of his.
All of this leads him to the conclusion that he must break all ties in his existing life and disappear again.At this moment, Jama came from Kismayo, bringing news of his friend Mustafa in London.Everything has changed.It's $50 million at stake.He summoned his former secretary - who had now replaced the troll.
"Jama, my brother, you are tired. The distance is too far. Rest, sleep, and eat. You are not going back to Kismayo. Give up there. But you have to make another trip. Tomorrow , maybe tomorrow."
Gray Fox wondered.His voice on the secure line speaks volumes. "Stalker, do you mean to make more correspondence between this London accomplice and his associate in Marka?" "That's right. Why do you ask?" "He's already passed on to the preacher what he heard at the Belgovia dinner from some half-assed lawyer." The stalker mulls over his answer.There is a fine line between lying and "hiding parts of the truth" - as a former British cabinet minister once said. "It seems that Dadari said so." "What do the British think?" "They think," said the tracker with all sincerity, "that the bastard is sitting in his London mansion and passing messages to his friends in the South. By the way, haven't I got permission from the higher ups for my request?" He wanted to divert the subject from Mustapha Dadari's message from outside London.Dadari was in Caithness at the moment, with three ex-commandos watching the rain. "Well, tracker, since Opal is still there, no missile strikes are allowed, no landing attacks are allowed, no helicopter attacks are allowed from our base in Mogadishu. We already have another A Somalia disaster—a rocket knocks out a hovering Delta Force helicopter. You've got to think of something else." "Okay, boss," the tracker replied, and hung up.
The missionaries are right.The computer he had used in Kismaayo for his secret transmissions was useless.But he doesn't know that his allies in London - his boyhood buddies and secret supporters - have also been exposed.The message he edited with the password designed by vegetable prices was also cracked.So he sent a request to Dadari from Marka, also compromising his own security.This request was also intercepted and deciphered.
"Lieutenant Colonel Jackson?" "It's me, Ariel." "There are strange things going back and forth between Marca and London." "You have to know, Ariel, that you're the one sending emails under Dadari's name." "Yes. But Malka just replied. He asked his friend to borrow a million dollars." He should have expected it.Your own budget can certainly afford it.Compared with a missile, this is only a small amount.But why waste taxpayer money? "Did he say how he wanted to pay him?" "What is it called Dhabi Hill?" The tracker, alone in his office in London, nodded.He knows what it is.Clever, safe, and virtually invisible.An ancient lending system with a history of hundreds of years. Terrorism costs money, a lot of money.Those body bombers are usually children, and the people behind them are usually adults who don't want to die.Behind these people are the sheykhs who wear rings.Behind the sheykhs are the funders.These investors are often ostensibly living decent lives. For counterterrorism agencies, the origin of terrorism funding is a treasure trove of paper trails that can be traced through the operations of the accounts that provided the funds.Because the transfer of funds will definitely leave paper vouchers.But those Han people don't do that.In the Middle East, this system dates back centuries. It originated because, in the past, it was very dangerous to carry money through bandit-infested territory without a small army escorting it.So the Han Chinese collect funds in country A, and then authorize their cousin to pay the same amount to the beneficiary in country B, deducting the corresponding handling fee.No cash is needed to move across the border, just an encrypted phone call or email. Dhabi Hill was founded in Burao, Somalia in 1970 and is now headquartered in Dubai.It means "alchemy" in Somali, and thousands of people working in foreign lands send the money they earn to their families in their home countries through it.Most of the Somali immigrant community is in the UK, so it has a lot of offices in London. "Can you hack into Dadali's banking system?" the tracker asked. "I don't see why not, Colonel. Give me a day, please?"
Ariel returned to his computer screen, in a state of bliss.He began rummaging through the Pakistani tycoon's payments and the way he completed his purchases.All of these point to a series of offshore accounts, the most important of which is in the Cayman Islands.That account was protected by a very sophisticated firewall, very advanced technology.The teenage Asperger's stayed in the Virginia loft, infiltrated it in ten hours, and transferred a million dollars to Daddari's personal account in London.When he left, he did not leave any traces except for a legality confirmation like Dadari himself had done before. The money was officially transferred from a bank in London to De Habi Hill's London office.Along with the payment, there is also the specific situation of the beneficiary listed by the missionary in the mail.Ariel decoded the email after receiving it.Financial brokers in Somalia reminded that such an amount of US dollars would take three days to get together in Somalia.Yes, they have a branch in Merca. Communications to and from the London computer were intercepted and recorded at Fort Meade and Cheltenham.However, their intelligence is limited to speculation, which was sent and received by Dadari.
"Jamma, I have a task for you. You need to be very careful. Because all the people you will be dealing with are Somalis, so this matter must be done by Somalis." All the advanced technology of Western countries can't listen to the messenger.For a decade, Osama bin Laden lived not in a cave at all, but in a string of safe havens.He has never used a mobile phone to communicate with supporters around the world, and has never been monitored.He is the messenger.The last messenger he used was Quweidi.After Kuweidi was exposed, he was tracked all over the world.His stalkers eventually followed him to a building in the town of Abbottabad. The missionary had Jama stand before him and read the message to him in Arabic.Jama translated it into Somali in her head and repeated it until she got it right.He left with a Pakistani bodyguard. He still drove the pick-up truck that had brought him the news from London from Kismayo two days earlier.High in the air, foreign powers watched him load another five-gallon plastic tank. People in bunkers outside Tampa saw them cover fuel tanks with tarps, but it was just an ordinary precaution.Two people got into the cab.Neither the well-clad preacher nor the slender young man in the red baseball cap.The pickup truck left, turned toward Kismaayo, and headed south.When the car was out of the Global Hawk's field of vision, the Global Hawk was instructed to continue monitoring the building.Then the pickup truck pulled over, and the people in it removed the tarpaulin and painted the top of the cab black.After this camouflage, it drove back, bypassing Marka to the west, and then north.As the sun set it came to the edge of the Mogadishu enclave and continued towards Puntland.There are countless pirate dens there. The roads are rutted, potholed, and often run through deserts full of sharp rocks.They refuel, change the tire; change the tire, refuel.After driving for two days, I came to Gala Ade.
"Mr. Garris, it's me." Ali Abdi called from Galaad and looked excited.Gareth Evans was tired and nervous.These pirates have absolutely no idea of the passage of time or a quick solution to a problem. Negotiating with them endlessly is exhausting and torture for Europeans.That's why top hostage negotiators are so rare and so well paid. Evans has also been under pressure from Harry Anderson.Anderson calls at least once a day to ask for news of his son.Evans tried to explain that if London showed even the slightest sign of panic, things would be ten times worse than they were now, let alone show signs of desperation.The Swedish millionaire is a businessman after all, so at least half of him accepts this logic.But he's also a father, so the phone never stops ringing. "Good morning, my friend," said Evans calmly, "what does your client have to say about such a fine day?" "I think we're getting close, Mr. Garris. We're offering seven million dollars to settle the matter," he added, "and I've done my best." Even if he had just overheard it from the English-speaking Somali who served Afrit, it wouldn't have sounded presumptuous.That, Evans realized, meant the Galaad Bay negotiator wanted to earn his second million.However, there are two different understandings of the word "as soon as possible" on both sides of the Mediterranean Sea. "Very well, Mr. Abdi, but only so far," said Evans.Two days ago, Afrit could accept at least 10 million U.S. dollars, and Evans offered 3 million U.S. dollars.He knew Harry Anderson would agree to settle the matter for ten million in an instant.He also knew that in this way, those Somalis who thought it should be four or five million dollars would immediately become alert. If the Europeans backed down abruptly, it would be a sign that they were panicking.Then the price is likely to rise back to $15 million. "Look, Mr. Abdi, I've been on the phone with Stockholm almost all night, and my client, with the utmost reluctance, has agreed that four million dollars can be paid to your client's international account within an hour. aboard; and in another hour the Malmö weighs anchor. That is a very good offer, Mr Abdi. I think we all know it, and your client must understand it." "I'll pass on this new offer to him immediately, Mr. Garris." Hanging up the phone, Gareth Evans repeatedly recalled the history of successful transactions with Somali pirates.The layman is always amazed at the fact that the money is wired into the account first and then the ship is released.How to prevent these pirates from taking the money but not releasing the ship? But that's where the weirdness comes in.Of the 180 agreements they made with negotiators, whether on paper, by fax or by e-mail, as long as both parties signed them, there were only three cases where the Somalis defaulted. Basically, pirates all over Puntland know that they pirate for money.They don't need or want those ships, cargo or prisoners.Blowing up a deal would destroy their livelihood.They may be cunning and cruel, but making money for yourself is making money, and that is the supreme law. Usually this is the case, but this time was unusual.Of those three incidents, Afrit was responsible for two.He is as notorious as his clan.He is Sased, an offshoot of the Howbar Jidir tribe.The tribe's most famous figure, Farah Aidid, was a brutal warlord who stole international relief supplies for those without food.This brought the Americans to Somalia in 1993.As a result, he shot down the Black Hawk helicopter, killed the American Rangers, and dragged their bodies through the streets.This is the Sassad clan. Ali Abdi and Gareth Evans secretly agreed over a satellite phone that if the old monster in that mud fortress agreed and didn't suspect that his own negotiators had been bought, they'd settle for five million dollars this matter.In any case, five million dollars is an acceptable figure for both parties.Harry Anderson bribed Abdi with an additional two million dollars, only to allow the time delay not to exceed ten days, if possible. The Malmo on the sea was exposed to the sun, and things started to stink.In order to save fuel, the refrigerator was cut off.The food that Europe brought was gone, either eaten or rotting.Somali guards brought live sheep aboard and slaughtered them on deck. Captain Ikrud wanted to wash the deck with water, but the electric pump, like the air conditioner, used oil.So he sent the crew to fetch water from the sea with buckets and brush with brooms. Fortunately, there are many fish in the surrounding waters, all of which were attracted by the sheep thrown into the water by the side of the boat.Both Europeans and Filipinos love fresh fish.But it's boring to eat all the time. After the power shower broke, they used sea water to wash it down.Fresh water is liquid gold and is for drinking only.But after putting the purifier, the smell is disgusting.To the relief of Captain Iklud, there have been no serious illnesses so far, except for occasional diarrhea. But he wasn't sure how long that would last.When the Somalis need to defecate, they do it on the rail at the stern without sticking out their buttocks.The Filipinos watched angrily, repeatedly brushing the filth down the weep holes in the endless heat. Captain Iklud can no longer even talk to Stockholm.His satellite phone was cut by what he called a "little bastard in a suit."The offices of Ali Abdi and Chauncey Reynolds don't want any outsiders in the way of delicate negotiations. The Swedish captain was thinking, when his Ukrainian mate shouted: There is a ship coming.Through the binoculars he could make out the sloop, and the neat little figure in the safari jacket on the bridge.The captain greets the visiting guests.He had another chance to ask about the status of the merchant marine trainee named Carlson.In this area, he is the only person who knows the true identity of the child. But what he didn't know was that the boy had been beaten badly.Abdi simply told him that Off Carlson was fine and that he was kept in the fort just to make sure the crew on board behaved properly.Captain Ikrud begged for Carlson's return, but it was in vain.
While Mr Abdi was on board the Malmö, a dusty pickup truck drove into the courtyard of the fort behind the village.There was a huge Pakistani in the car who spoke neither English nor Somali.There is another person. The Pakistani remained in the truck while another was ushered in to see Afrit.Afrit knew someone from the Hatty Darod clan, from Kismaayo.This Sassad warlord didn't like Haty's people, in fact, he didn't like anyone from the South. Although Afrit is technically a Muslim, he never actually goes to a mosque and rarely prays.In his mind, Southerners are all Shabaab and lunatics.Those people torture people for the sake of Allah and he is just for his own pleasure. The visitor introduced himself, named Jama, and expressed his respect with the etiquette of the chief.He said he was a courier for a Sheikh in Marka.The message he carries can only be addressed to the Lord of Galaad. Afrit had never heard of a jihadist preacher named Abu Assam.Afrit has a computer, but only young people on his staff know how to use it.But even knowing what a computer does, he never would have dreamed of visiting a jihadist website.Afrit listened, with growing interest. Jama stood before him, reciting the message she had jotted down.It starts with the usual long tribute, and then the focus of the content.After he finished reciting the message, he stood there without saying a word, and the old Sassad stared at him for a few minutes. "Does he want to kill him? Cut his throat? Film it? And show it to the world?" "Yes, Chief." "Pay me a million dollars? Cash?" "Yes, Chief." Afrit considered it carefully.Kill that white heathen, he knows that.But for the world to see what he's doing, it's crazy.Those heretics will come for revenge, and they have many weapons.Alfred robbed their ships and took their money, but he wasn't crazy enough to turn him against the heathen world. In the end, he made a decision - a decision to withhold.He sent his guests to the guest rooms, where they rested, and provided them with food and water.After Jama left, he ordered them not to keep their car keys, not to carry any weapons on them, and not to have cell phones.He carried a Yemeni scimitar across his belt, but he didn't like having any other weapons near him.
An hour later, Ali Abdi returned from the Malmo.He hadn't been there before, so he didn't see the truck coming from the south, nor did he see the two visitors.Not to mention that one of them is a messenger with a strange mission. He knew the time of the phone call he had promised Gareth Evans earlier.Since London is three time zones west of the Horn of Africa, they spoke at noon Galaad time.Well, there was no reason for him to leave his room too early tomorrow. As dawn broke, Afrit spoke at length to one of his most trusted men.The man was Yusuf, a one-eyed beast.Abdi wasn't there, so he didn't know.He didn't see either. An hour later, the pickup truck with the roof painted black drove out of the yard. He had vaguely heard of a jihadist fanatic who preached death and hatred to the world on a website.But he didn't hear about the man's self-destructive reputation, nor did he see his online statement that he was maliciously slandered by a pagan conspiracy.Still, like Afrit, albeit for different reasons, he hates Salafists and jihadists and all other extremist lunatics.His understanding of dogma is limited to exonerating himself from guilt. When he met with his client in the morning, he was surprised and pleased to find that his client was in a good mood.It was so good that he suggested that they lower the requirement, from seven million to six million, so that the matter could probably be settled, and the leader of the clan actually agreed. There was a hint of complacency on the phone with Gareth Evans.He really wanted to say "we're almost there".But he knew that this sentence could only show that the two of them were plotting an agreed price.He thought to himself: In another week, maybe five days, that monster will set sail for the Malmö. By the time the second million was added to his savings, he could already feel the comfort of a civilized retirement beckoning to him.
The trackers are getting worried.In fishing terms, he dropped a chunk of bait into the water and waited for the monster to come and bite.But the float on the water did not move.Not even up and down. From his embassy office in London, he was able to see in real time what he saw in the bunker on the outskirts of Tampa.A senior sergeant in the Air Force sat there, silent, with a joystick in his hand directing the Global Hawk over the building in Marka.He could see what the sergeant-major had seen—narrow street, cluttered with a fruit market at the end; three houses within the walls, all silent. There was no sign of any life activity in that building.No one left, and no one went in.Global Hawk can not only monitor, but also listen.It could hear the slightest whisper in that building.Whether they use a computer or a mobile phone, it can extract the syllables of their speech from the Internet.So could the Fort Meade NSA, with its satellites in inner space. But all these technologies fell through.He didn't see Jama's pickup paint its roof black, then turn around and head north instead of south.He didn't know that it was on its way back now.It is even more impossible for him to know that his bait has been bitten.A deal had been struck between the tyrannical Sassad sheikh of Galaad Bay and the hysterical Pakistani Malka.To use Donald Rumsfeld's unusual logic, he now faces an unknown uncertainty. He can only wonder.He suspected that he had lost and was calculated by a barbarian who was smarter than himself.At this time, the confidential phone rang. It's Sergeant Major Ord calling from Tampa. "Lieutenant Colonel, there is a convertible vehicle approaching the target." The tracker stared at the screen again.That building takes up about a quarter of the size of the center of the screen.Next to the door was a pickup truck with a black roof.He didn't recognize the car. A figure in a white robe came out of the house on the side of the yard, walked across the sand, and opened the gate.The pickup truck drove in and the gate closed.Three figures flashed out of the truck and walked into the main house.The missionary has a visitor.
The missionary received the three men in his office, and the bodyguard went back to his room.Opal introduced the messenger from the north to the missionaries.Yusuf, a native of Sassad; he has only one eye, but his eyes are piercing.The message he brought was also recited.The missionary gestured that he could begin.Afrit's words were succinct and to the point. He was going to trade his Swedish captives for a million dollars.He wants cash.Yusuf, his servant, saw the money, counted it, and told his master that he had indeed seen the money. All that was left was to say that Afrit would not enter Shabab territory and that they could trade at the border.Yusuf knew where the exchanges were and could direct the cars with the money there, looking at the money at the same time.The northerners would take the prisoners to the rendezvous. "Where is the meeting place?" asked the missionary.Yusuf just stared at him, shaking his head. Missionaries have seen people from such tribes among the Pathan people in the border areas of Pakistan.You could pull out all the nails, fingers, and toes of this guy, but he'd die before he could speak.The missionary nodded, a smile on his face. He knew that there was no real north-south border on any map.But maps are for pagans.Tribal people have their own maps in their minds.They can know the exact location of various events in the previous generation, such as where clan and clan fought each other over the ownership of a camel, where people died, and so on.These marked places are the origins of generational feuds.They knew that if someone who did not belong to the local clan crossed the border, he would die.They don't need a white man's map. He also knew that he could hide the money.But what can be the result?What good was that Swedish boy to the head of the clan in Galaad who was going to get the money anyway?Only he, the missionary, knew the incredible value of that Stockholm merchant cadet.Because his good friend in London told him.A hefty ransom would make him rich again, even among the possibly devout Shabaab.No matter in the south or the north, money can not only express its position, but also has the absolute right to speak. Someone is knocking on the door.
There was a new car in the yard, this time a sedan.Above 50,000 feet, the Global Hawk has been hovering, monitoring everything.The same man in white crossed the sand and said a few words to the driver.Americans in Tampa and in London saw it. The car did not drive into the yard.The driver handed over a large suitcase, the man in white signed for it, and headed for the main house. "Follow the car," said the pursuer.The outlines of buildings slid across the screen, and the set of cameras in the stratosphere focused on the car.The car didn't go very far.After driving less than a mile, it stopped outside a small office complex. "Come closer. Let me see the building." The office buildings are getting closer.Malka is now in the hot sun, so there are no shadows.When the sun sets in the western desert, there are shadows, which are long and dark.Light green and dark green; there is a logo, and a word spelled in Roman letters, beginning with D.De Habi Hill.The money has arrived and has been delivered.Heavenly surveillance returned to the missionary's quarters.
Stacks of hundred-dollar bills were taken out of the box and placed on the long smooth table.Although the missionary is far away from his old home in Rawalpindi, he loves traditional furniture. Yusuf has stated that he must count the ransom.Jama went on to translate Arabic into Somali.It is the only language Yusuf knows.Opal brought the suitcase over and stayed where he was in case he was needed.He is the younger of the two private secretaries.Seeing Yusuf touching the bundles of money, Opal asked in Somali: "Do you need help?" "Ethiopian dogs," growled the Sasaid, "I count myself!" He counted two hours, then snorted. "I need to make a call," he said.Jama translated his words.The missionary nodded.Yusuf pulled a mobile phone out of his robe and tried to make a call.In a house surrounded by brick walls, he couldn't find a signal.He was escorted out into the open courtyard. "There's a guy in the yard on the phone," said Master Sergeant Ord of Tampa. "Intercept it. I want to know the content of the call." The tracker said suddenly. The call came through the adobe fort in Galaad.The phone was connected, with a trembling voice.The call was extremely brief.Malka said four words, and the answer was only two words.Then the phone disconnected. "How?" asked the tracker. "It's Somali." "Ask the NSA." Almost a thousand miles away in Maryland, a Somali-American removes his headset. "One man said, 'The money has arrived'; the other replied, 'Tomorrow night'." Tampa called trackers in London. "We know what those two sentences were," the communications monitor told him. "They're using a local telephone network called Holmud. The first person to speak was in Marka. We don't know the answer." Who is that person and where he is is unknown." "Don't worry," thought the tracker, "I know."
Notes:
Gray Fox wondered.His voice on the secure line speaks volumes. "Stalker, do you mean to make more correspondence between this London accomplice and his associate in Marka?" "That's right. Why do you ask?" "He's already passed on to the preacher what he heard at the Belgovia dinner from some half-assed lawyer." The stalker mulls over his answer.There is a fine line between lying and "hiding parts of the truth" - as a former British cabinet minister once said. "It seems that Dadari said so." "What do the British think?" "They think," said the tracker with all sincerity, "that the bastard is sitting in his London mansion and passing messages to his friends in the South. By the way, haven't I got permission from the higher ups for my request?" He wanted to divert the subject from Mustapha Dadari's message from outside London.Dadari was in Caithness at the moment, with three ex-commandos watching the rain. "Well, tracker, since Opal is still there, no missile strikes are allowed, no landing attacks are allowed, no helicopter attacks are allowed from our base in Mogadishu. We already have another A Somalia disaster—a rocket knocks out a hovering Delta Force helicopter. You've got to think of something else." "Okay, boss," the tracker replied, and hung up.
The missionaries are right.The computer he had used in Kismaayo for his secret transmissions was useless.But he doesn't know that his allies in London - his boyhood buddies and secret supporters - have also been exposed.The message he edited with the password designed by vegetable prices was also cracked.So he sent a request to Dadari from Marka, also compromising his own security.This request was also intercepted and deciphered.
"Lieutenant Colonel Jackson?" "It's me, Ariel." "There are strange things going back and forth between Marca and London." "You have to know, Ariel, that you're the one sending emails under Dadari's name." "Yes. But Malka just replied. He asked his friend to borrow a million dollars." He should have expected it.Your own budget can certainly afford it.Compared with a missile, this is only a small amount.But why waste taxpayer money? "Did he say how he wanted to pay him?" "What is it called Dhabi Hill?" The tracker, alone in his office in London, nodded.He knows what it is.Clever, safe, and virtually invisible.An ancient lending system with a history of hundreds of years. Terrorism costs money, a lot of money.Those body bombers are usually children, and the people behind them are usually adults who don't want to die.Behind these people are the sheykhs who wear rings.Behind the sheykhs are the funders.These investors are often ostensibly living decent lives. For counterterrorism agencies, the origin of terrorism funding is a treasure trove of paper trails that can be traced through the operations of the accounts that provided the funds.Because the transfer of funds will definitely leave paper vouchers.But those Han people don't do that.In the Middle East, this system dates back centuries. It originated because, in the past, it was very dangerous to carry money through bandit-infested territory without a small army escorting it.So the Han Chinese collect funds in country A, and then authorize their cousin to pay the same amount to the beneficiary in country B, deducting the corresponding handling fee.No cash is needed to move across the border, just an encrypted phone call or email. Dhabi Hill was founded in Burao, Somalia in 1970 and is now headquartered in Dubai.It means "alchemy" in Somali, and thousands of people working in foreign lands send the money they earn to their families in their home countries through it.Most of the Somali immigrant community is in the UK, so it has a lot of offices in London. "Can you hack into Dadali's banking system?" the tracker asked. "I don't see why not, Colonel. Give me a day, please?"
Ariel returned to his computer screen, in a state of bliss.He began rummaging through the Pakistani tycoon's payments and the way he completed his purchases.All of these point to a series of offshore accounts, the most important of which is in the Cayman Islands.That account was protected by a very sophisticated firewall, very advanced technology.The teenage Asperger's stayed in the Virginia loft, infiltrated it in ten hours, and transferred a million dollars to Daddari's personal account in London.When he left, he did not leave any traces except for a legality confirmation like Dadari himself had done before. The money was officially transferred from a bank in London to De Habi Hill's London office.Along with the payment, there is also the specific situation of the beneficiary listed by the missionary in the mail.Ariel decoded the email after receiving it.Financial brokers in Somalia reminded that such an amount of US dollars would take three days to get together in Somalia.Yes, they have a branch in Merca. Communications to and from the London computer were intercepted and recorded at Fort Meade and Cheltenham.However, their intelligence is limited to speculation, which was sent and received by Dadari.
"Jamma, I have a task for you. You need to be very careful. Because all the people you will be dealing with are Somalis, so this matter must be done by Somalis." All the advanced technology of Western countries can't listen to the messenger.For a decade, Osama bin Laden lived not in a cave at all, but in a string of safe havens.He has never used a mobile phone to communicate with supporters around the world, and has never been monitored.He is the messenger.The last messenger he used was Quweidi.After Kuweidi was exposed, he was tracked all over the world.His stalkers eventually followed him to a building in the town of Abbottabad. The missionary had Jama stand before him and read the message to him in Arabic.Jama translated it into Somali in her head and repeated it until she got it right.He left with a Pakistani bodyguard. He still drove the pick-up truck that had brought him the news from London from Kismayo two days earlier.High in the air, foreign powers watched him load another five-gallon plastic tank. People in bunkers outside Tampa saw them cover fuel tanks with tarps, but it was just an ordinary precaution.Two people got into the cab.Neither the well-clad preacher nor the slender young man in the red baseball cap.The pickup truck left, turned toward Kismaayo, and headed south.When the car was out of the Global Hawk's field of vision, the Global Hawk was instructed to continue monitoring the building.Then the pickup truck pulled over, and the people in it removed the tarpaulin and painted the top of the cab black.After this camouflage, it drove back, bypassing Marka to the west, and then north.As the sun set it came to the edge of the Mogadishu enclave and continued towards Puntland.There are countless pirate dens there. The roads are rutted, potholed, and often run through deserts full of sharp rocks.They refuel, change the tire; change the tire, refuel.After driving for two days, I came to Gala Ade.
"Mr. Garris, it's me." Ali Abdi called from Galaad and looked excited.Gareth Evans was tired and nervous.These pirates have absolutely no idea of the passage of time or a quick solution to a problem. Negotiating with them endlessly is exhausting and torture for Europeans.That's why top hostage negotiators are so rare and so well paid. Evans has also been under pressure from Harry Anderson.Anderson calls at least once a day to ask for news of his son.Evans tried to explain that if London showed even the slightest sign of panic, things would be ten times worse than they were now, let alone show signs of desperation.The Swedish millionaire is a businessman after all, so at least half of him accepts this logic.But he's also a father, so the phone never stops ringing. "Good morning, my friend," said Evans calmly, "what does your client have to say about such a fine day?" "I think we're getting close, Mr. Garris. We're offering seven million dollars to settle the matter," he added, "and I've done my best." Even if he had just overheard it from the English-speaking Somali who served Afrit, it wouldn't have sounded presumptuous.That, Evans realized, meant the Galaad Bay negotiator wanted to earn his second million.However, there are two different understandings of the word "as soon as possible" on both sides of the Mediterranean Sea. "Very well, Mr. Abdi, but only so far," said Evans.Two days ago, Afrit could accept at least 10 million U.S. dollars, and Evans offered 3 million U.S. dollars.He knew Harry Anderson would agree to settle the matter for ten million in an instant.He also knew that in this way, those Somalis who thought it should be four or five million dollars would immediately become alert. If the Europeans backed down abruptly, it would be a sign that they were panicking.Then the price is likely to rise back to $15 million. "Look, Mr. Abdi, I've been on the phone with Stockholm almost all night, and my client, with the utmost reluctance, has agreed that four million dollars can be paid to your client's international account within an hour. aboard; and in another hour the Malmö weighs anchor. That is a very good offer, Mr Abdi. I think we all know it, and your client must understand it." "I'll pass on this new offer to him immediately, Mr. Garris." Hanging up the phone, Gareth Evans repeatedly recalled the history of successful transactions with Somali pirates.The layman is always amazed at the fact that the money is wired into the account first and then the ship is released.How to prevent these pirates from taking the money but not releasing the ship? But that's where the weirdness comes in.Of the 180 agreements they made with negotiators, whether on paper, by fax or by e-mail, as long as both parties signed them, there were only three cases where the Somalis defaulted. Basically, pirates all over Puntland know that they pirate for money.They don't need or want those ships, cargo or prisoners.Blowing up a deal would destroy their livelihood.They may be cunning and cruel, but making money for yourself is making money, and that is the supreme law. Usually this is the case, but this time was unusual.Of those three incidents, Afrit was responsible for two.He is as notorious as his clan.He is Sased, an offshoot of the Howbar Jidir tribe.The tribe's most famous figure, Farah Aidid, was a brutal warlord who stole international relief supplies for those without food.This brought the Americans to Somalia in 1993.As a result, he shot down the Black Hawk helicopter, killed the American Rangers, and dragged their bodies through the streets.This is the Sassad clan. Ali Abdi and Gareth Evans secretly agreed over a satellite phone that if the old monster in that mud fortress agreed and didn't suspect that his own negotiators had been bought, they'd settle for five million dollars this matter.In any case, five million dollars is an acceptable figure for both parties.Harry Anderson bribed Abdi with an additional two million dollars, only to allow the time delay not to exceed ten days, if possible. The Malmo on the sea was exposed to the sun, and things started to stink.In order to save fuel, the refrigerator was cut off.The food that Europe brought was gone, either eaten or rotting.Somali guards brought live sheep aboard and slaughtered them on deck. Captain Ikrud wanted to wash the deck with water, but the electric pump, like the air conditioner, used oil.So he sent the crew to fetch water from the sea with buckets and brush with brooms. Fortunately, there are many fish in the surrounding waters, all of which were attracted by the sheep thrown into the water by the side of the boat.Both Europeans and Filipinos love fresh fish.But it's boring to eat all the time. After the power shower broke, they used sea water to wash it down.Fresh water is liquid gold and is for drinking only.But after putting the purifier, the smell is disgusting.To the relief of Captain Iklud, there have been no serious illnesses so far, except for occasional diarrhea. But he wasn't sure how long that would last.When the Somalis need to defecate, they do it on the rail at the stern without sticking out their buttocks.The Filipinos watched angrily, repeatedly brushing the filth down the weep holes in the endless heat. Captain Iklud can no longer even talk to Stockholm.His satellite phone was cut by what he called a "little bastard in a suit."The offices of Ali Abdi and Chauncey Reynolds don't want any outsiders in the way of delicate negotiations. The Swedish captain was thinking, when his Ukrainian mate shouted: There is a ship coming.Through the binoculars he could make out the sloop, and the neat little figure in the safari jacket on the bridge.The captain greets the visiting guests.He had another chance to ask about the status of the merchant marine trainee named Carlson.In this area, he is the only person who knows the true identity of the child. But what he didn't know was that the boy had been beaten badly.Abdi simply told him that Off Carlson was fine and that he was kept in the fort just to make sure the crew on board behaved properly.Captain Ikrud begged for Carlson's return, but it was in vain.
While Mr Abdi was on board the Malmö, a dusty pickup truck drove into the courtyard of the fort behind the village.There was a huge Pakistani in the car who spoke neither English nor Somali.There is another person. The Pakistani remained in the truck while another was ushered in to see Afrit.Afrit knew someone from the Hatty Darod clan, from Kismaayo.This Sassad warlord didn't like Haty's people, in fact, he didn't like anyone from the South. Although Afrit is technically a Muslim, he never actually goes to a mosque and rarely prays.In his mind, Southerners are all Shabaab and lunatics.Those people torture people for the sake of Allah and he is just for his own pleasure. The visitor introduced himself, named Jama, and expressed his respect with the etiquette of the chief.He said he was a courier for a Sheikh in Marka.The message he carries can only be addressed to the Lord of Galaad. Afrit had never heard of a jihadist preacher named Abu Assam.Afrit has a computer, but only young people on his staff know how to use it.But even knowing what a computer does, he never would have dreamed of visiting a jihadist website.Afrit listened, with growing interest. Jama stood before him, reciting the message she had jotted down.It starts with the usual long tribute, and then the focus of the content.After he finished reciting the message, he stood there without saying a word, and the old Sassad stared at him for a few minutes. "Does he want to kill him? Cut his throat? Film it? And show it to the world?" "Yes, Chief." "Pay me a million dollars? Cash?" "Yes, Chief." Afrit considered it carefully.Kill that white heathen, he knows that.But for the world to see what he's doing, it's crazy.Those heretics will come for revenge, and they have many weapons.Alfred robbed their ships and took their money, but he wasn't crazy enough to turn him against the heathen world. In the end, he made a decision - a decision to withhold.He sent his guests to the guest rooms, where they rested, and provided them with food and water.After Jama left, he ordered them not to keep their car keys, not to carry any weapons on them, and not to have cell phones.He carried a Yemeni scimitar across his belt, but he didn't like having any other weapons near him.
An hour later, Ali Abdi returned from the Malmo.He hadn't been there before, so he didn't see the truck coming from the south, nor did he see the two visitors.Not to mention that one of them is a messenger with a strange mission. He knew the time of the phone call he had promised Gareth Evans earlier.Since London is three time zones west of the Horn of Africa, they spoke at noon Galaad time.Well, there was no reason for him to leave his room too early tomorrow. As dawn broke, Afrit spoke at length to one of his most trusted men.The man was Yusuf, a one-eyed beast.Abdi wasn't there, so he didn't know.He didn't see either. An hour later, the pickup truck with the roof painted black drove out of the yard. He had vaguely heard of a jihadist fanatic who preached death and hatred to the world on a website.But he didn't hear about the man's self-destructive reputation, nor did he see his online statement that he was maliciously slandered by a pagan conspiracy.Still, like Afrit, albeit for different reasons, he hates Salafists and jihadists and all other extremist lunatics.His understanding of dogma is limited to exonerating himself from guilt. When he met with his client in the morning, he was surprised and pleased to find that his client was in a good mood.It was so good that he suggested that they lower the requirement, from seven million to six million, so that the matter could probably be settled, and the leader of the clan actually agreed. There was a hint of complacency on the phone with Gareth Evans.He really wanted to say "we're almost there".But he knew that this sentence could only show that the two of them were plotting an agreed price.He thought to himself: In another week, maybe five days, that monster will set sail for the Malmö. By the time the second million was added to his savings, he could already feel the comfort of a civilized retirement beckoning to him.
The trackers are getting worried.In fishing terms, he dropped a chunk of bait into the water and waited for the monster to come and bite.But the float on the water did not move.Not even up and down. From his embassy office in London, he was able to see in real time what he saw in the bunker on the outskirts of Tampa.A senior sergeant in the Air Force sat there, silent, with a joystick in his hand directing the Global Hawk over the building in Marka.He could see what the sergeant-major had seen—narrow street, cluttered with a fruit market at the end; three houses within the walls, all silent. There was no sign of any life activity in that building.No one left, and no one went in.Global Hawk can not only monitor, but also listen.It could hear the slightest whisper in that building.Whether they use a computer or a mobile phone, it can extract the syllables of their speech from the Internet.So could the Fort Meade NSA, with its satellites in inner space. But all these technologies fell through.He didn't see Jama's pickup paint its roof black, then turn around and head north instead of south.He didn't know that it was on its way back now.It is even more impossible for him to know that his bait has been bitten.A deal had been struck between the tyrannical Sassad sheikh of Galaad Bay and the hysterical Pakistani Malka.To use Donald Rumsfeld's unusual logic, he now faces an unknown uncertainty. He can only wonder.He suspected that he had lost and was calculated by a barbarian who was smarter than himself.At this time, the confidential phone rang. It's Sergeant Major Ord calling from Tampa. "Lieutenant Colonel, there is a convertible vehicle approaching the target." The tracker stared at the screen again.That building takes up about a quarter of the size of the center of the screen.Next to the door was a pickup truck with a black roof.He didn't recognize the car. A figure in a white robe came out of the house on the side of the yard, walked across the sand, and opened the gate.The pickup truck drove in and the gate closed.Three figures flashed out of the truck and walked into the main house.The missionary has a visitor.
The missionary received the three men in his office, and the bodyguard went back to his room.Opal introduced the messenger from the north to the missionaries.Yusuf, a native of Sassad; he has only one eye, but his eyes are piercing.The message he brought was also recited.The missionary gestured that he could begin.Afrit's words were succinct and to the point. He was going to trade his Swedish captives for a million dollars.He wants cash.Yusuf, his servant, saw the money, counted it, and told his master that he had indeed seen the money. All that was left was to say that Afrit would not enter Shabab territory and that they could trade at the border.Yusuf knew where the exchanges were and could direct the cars with the money there, looking at the money at the same time.The northerners would take the prisoners to the rendezvous. "Where is the meeting place?" asked the missionary.Yusuf just stared at him, shaking his head. Missionaries have seen people from such tribes among the Pathan people in the border areas of Pakistan.You could pull out all the nails, fingers, and toes of this guy, but he'd die before he could speak.The missionary nodded, a smile on his face. He knew that there was no real north-south border on any map.But maps are for pagans.Tribal people have their own maps in their minds.They can know the exact location of various events in the previous generation, such as where clan and clan fought each other over the ownership of a camel, where people died, and so on.These marked places are the origins of generational feuds.They knew that if someone who did not belong to the local clan crossed the border, he would die.They don't need a white man's map. He also knew that he could hide the money.But what can be the result?What good was that Swedish boy to the head of the clan in Galaad who was going to get the money anyway?Only he, the missionary, knew the incredible value of that Stockholm merchant cadet.Because his good friend in London told him.A hefty ransom would make him rich again, even among the possibly devout Shabaab.No matter in the south or the north, money can not only express its position, but also has the absolute right to speak. Someone is knocking on the door.
There was a new car in the yard, this time a sedan.Above 50,000 feet, the Global Hawk has been hovering, monitoring everything.The same man in white crossed the sand and said a few words to the driver.Americans in Tampa and in London saw it. The car did not drive into the yard.The driver handed over a large suitcase, the man in white signed for it, and headed for the main house. "Follow the car," said the pursuer.The outlines of buildings slid across the screen, and the set of cameras in the stratosphere focused on the car.The car didn't go very far.After driving less than a mile, it stopped outside a small office complex. "Come closer. Let me see the building." The office buildings are getting closer.Malka is now in the hot sun, so there are no shadows.When the sun sets in the western desert, there are shadows, which are long and dark.Light green and dark green; there is a logo, and a word spelled in Roman letters, beginning with D.De Habi Hill.The money has arrived and has been delivered.Heavenly surveillance returned to the missionary's quarters.
Stacks of hundred-dollar bills were taken out of the box and placed on the long smooth table.Although the missionary is far away from his old home in Rawalpindi, he loves traditional furniture. Yusuf has stated that he must count the ransom.Jama went on to translate Arabic into Somali.It is the only language Yusuf knows.Opal brought the suitcase over and stayed where he was in case he was needed.He is the younger of the two private secretaries.Seeing Yusuf touching the bundles of money, Opal asked in Somali: "Do you need help?" "Ethiopian dogs," growled the Sasaid, "I count myself!" He counted two hours, then snorted. "I need to make a call," he said.Jama translated his words.The missionary nodded.Yusuf pulled a mobile phone out of his robe and tried to make a call.In a house surrounded by brick walls, he couldn't find a signal.He was escorted out into the open courtyard. "There's a guy in the yard on the phone," said Master Sergeant Ord of Tampa. "Intercept it. I want to know the content of the call." The tracker said suddenly. The call came through the adobe fort in Galaad.The phone was connected, with a trembling voice.The call was extremely brief.Malka said four words, and the answer was only two words.Then the phone disconnected. "How?" asked the tracker. "It's Somali." "Ask the NSA." Almost a thousand miles away in Maryland, a Somali-American removes his headset. "One man said, 'The money has arrived'; the other replied, 'Tomorrow night'." Tampa called trackers in London. "We know what those two sentences were," the communications monitor told him. "They're using a local telephone network called Holmud. The first person to speak was in Marka. We don't know the answer." Who is that person and where he is is unknown." "Don't worry," thought the tracker, "I know."
Notes: