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“Names,” he said. “Columns of names, mostly foreign. And cities—airports, harbors, docks. And titles—they look like officials of some kind or another. And bank accounts. Account numbers and lodgments. Who are these people?”
“Just print them out for me. Yes, black-and-white. On paper. Indulge an old man.”
He went to a phone that he knew to be ultra-secure and called a number in Alexandria’s Old Town. The Cobra answered.
“I have the Rat List,” he said.
JONATHAN SILVER called Paul Devereaux that evening. The chief of staff was not in his best humor, but he was not known for it anyway.
“You’ve had your nine months,” he snapped. “When can we expect some action?”
“So kind of you to call,” said the voice from Alexandria, cultured, with a hint of Boston drawl. “And so fortuitous. Starting next Monday, actually.”
“And what will we see happening?”
“At first, nothing at all,” said the Cobra.
“And later?”
“My dear colleague, I wouldn’t dream of spoiling your surprise.” And he replaced the receiver.
In the West Wing, the chief of staff found himself staring at a buzzing handset.
“He’s hung up on me,” he said in disbelief. “Again.”
PART THREE
STRIKE
CHAPTER 10
BY CHANCE IT WAS THE BRITISH SPECIAL BOAT SERVICE that secured the first prey; a question of the right place at the right time.
Shortly after the Cobra issued his “open season” edict, Global Hawk Sam picked up a mystery vessel on the ocean far below, which was tagged “Rogue One.” Sam’s wide-spectrum television scanner was narrowed as she dropped to 20,000 feet, still completely out of sound and sight. The images concentrated.
Rogue One was clearly not big enough to be a liner or Lloyd’slisted freighter. She might be a very small merchantman or coaster, but she was miles away from any coast. Or she might be a private yacht or fisherman. Whatever she was, Rogue One had passed longitude 55° heading east for Africa. And she behaved oddly.
She cruised through the night and then disappeared. That could only mean that at sunrise she closed down, her crew spread a sea blue tarpaulin and bobbed the day away on the water almost impossible to spot from above. That maneuver could only mean one thing. Then at sundown she rolled up the tarp and began to cruise east again. Unfortunately for Rogue One, Sam could see in the dark.
Three hundred miles off Dakar, the MV Balmoral turned south and went to flank speed to intercept. One of the two American comms men stood beside the captain on the bridge to read out the compass headings.
Sam, drifting high above the rogue, passed her progress details to Nevada, and AFB Creech told Washington. At dawn the rogue closed down and went under her drape. Sam returned to Fernando de Noronha Island to refuel and was back before dawn. The Balmoral steamed through the night. The rogue was caught at dawn of the third day, well south of the Cape Verdes, and still five hundred miles from Guinea-Bissau.
She was about to cover herself for her penultimate day at sea. When her captain saw the danger, it was too late to spread the canopy or roll it up and pretend to be normal.
High above, Sam switched on her jammers, and the rogue was enveloped at the base of a cone of “no transmit, no receive” electronic dead space. At first the captain did not try to transmit a message because he did not believe his eyes. Speeding toward him was a small helicopter barely 100 feet above the calm sea.
The reason he could not believe it was the matter of range. Such a chopper could not be that far from land, and there was no other vessel in sight. He did not know that the Balmoral was twenty-five miles due ahead of him and invisible just over the horizon. When he realized he was about to be intercepted, it was too late.
His drill was memorized. First you will be pursued by the unmistakable gray shape of a warship, which will be faster. It will overhaul you and order you to stop. When the warship is still far away, use the hull of your boat to shield you and deep-six the cocaine bales over the side. These we can replace. Before you are boarded, inform us by computer with the prerecorded message to Bogotá.
So the captain, even though he could see no warship, did as he was told. He pressed Send, but no message went out. He tried to use his sat phone, but it, too, was dead. Leaving one of his men repeatedly calling on the radio, he went up the ladder behind the bridge and stared ahead at the approaching Little Bird. Fifteen miles back, still not visible but racing at forty knots, were two ten-man RIBs.
The small helicopter circled him once and then hovered at 100 feet forward of the bridge. He could see that a rigid wasp aerial jutted downward, with a stiff flag spread behind it. He recognized the design. On the boom of the helicopter were the two words, “Royal Navy.”
“Los Ingléses,” he muttered. He still could not work out where the warship was, but the Cobra had given strict instructions; the two Q-ships must never be seen.
Peering up at the helicopter, he saw the pilot, black-visored against the rising sun, and beside him, leaning out but harnessed in, a sniper. He did not recognize a G3 scoped rifle, but he knew when a gun was pointing right at his head. His instructions were clear: Never try to outshoot any national navy. So he raised his hands in the international gesture. Despite the lack of “Transmission accomplished” signal on his laptop, he hoped his warning had gone out anyway. It had not.