“You were testing me to see if I would do it. That’s just like you, sir. The tests never stop.”
“Wrong. Think about the scrimshaw, Kyle. I gave you this duty because I wanted to engrave it deep in your bones, down below the marrow where the DNA swims. Your next assignment may lead you to a moral crossroads, and if you have any doubts along the way, I want you to remember this trip, those flags, and our dead Marines.”
“I didn’t need that reminder, General. Mike Dodge and I were old friends, and I just left his widow and their son.”
“You are about to venture into dubious territory, Gunny, and that’s where the trust comes in. We don’t have courtroom proof yet against the individual terrorists who murdered our people, but we have plenty of ancillary evidence coming from other sources about where the orders originated. U.S. intel has bugged houses and cars and computers to high heaven, collected miles of photographic footage from drones and stationary video, maybe even waterboarded a maid, I don’t know the details of all of the surveillance, but I’ve examined the evidence and am personally convinced. It’s international in scope.”
Kyle shrugged. “I’ve never felt the need to match fingerprints before pulling the trigger, sir. If you say that it is not just speculation that the target is a threat to our national security, that’s good enough for me. We work for the president, and I know Trident has already done all of the appropriate research. I have neither guilt nor pangs of conscience when I eliminate an apparent threat to our country.”
The general, tall and muscular, walked over to the window and looked out, remembering the day the terrorists plunged an airliner into the building. “There has been a Green Light package issued for us by the big guy in the White House, and I want you to take it, with Coastie as your backup.”
“I thought you were going to fire me.”
“Just the opposite, Gunny. We are going to plow some new ground with this mission, because we are shit-tired of retaliating for an attack by knocking off an al Qaeda Number Two, and they respond by just promoting Number Three. We are going to change the game substantially today, with a lesson to remind them that nobody is off-limits. A conspirator and planner and paymaster will be just as open a target as a thug with a gun. It’s going to be open season. Chop off the head of the snake and all that.”
Middleton went to his safe, removed a dark green folder, and gave it to Swanson. “Here is a Spanish civilian by the name of Cristobál Jose Bello. We will do some background meetings first. Then I want you to go kill him.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“You thought I was going to fire you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“You want out? Are you finally ready to take that big paycheck waiting over in the private sector?”
“No.”
“So stop being paranoid and get back to work.”
6
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“SPAIN IS A basket case,” the gray man told the members of Task Force Trident during one of the briefings laid on before the mission was launched. He was an economist versed in both theory and a clear realism about the way money works. As a bright young engineer during the Cold War era, he had sailed as a technical representative aboard nuclear submarines, responsible for the intricate guidance systems that he had helped design. When he saw that computers had a future, he left the defense industry and started his own financial mutual fund, with a focus on technology. It currently held more than $100 billion in assets. Then he became secretary of the treasury. For Kyle Swanson, those credentials meant the man in gray knew what he was talking about.
“The country had enjoyed extraordinary growth until the financial bubble burst in 2008, and then it went into a downhill slide that was just as sharp. Employment is now over twenty-five percent, the separatist movement is gaining strength in Catalonia, the government is hamstrung because it’s broke, and to stay afloat, the country is sucking billions of euros from Europe’s central banks with no collateral. It has no wiggle room, no hope of a quick recovery. You can read all of that in the CIA fact sheets, and I did not come here today to bore you with numbers.” He paused and looked around the table. The eyes were gray, just like the hair, suit, shirt, tie, socks, and shoes, as if fog had taken human form.
“If Spain were a corporation, it would be ripe for a hostile takeover. As an investor, I would look at that situation as an opportunity for a future turnaround under new management. The country has been run terribly for decades, the culture has grown lazy, and the European Commission is granting bailout funds only when coupled with firm demands for restructuring the economy. Thousands of jobs have been terminated, powerful labor unions have a crisis of their own, and severe austerity is the rule in Spain for today and tomorrow, as far as these old eyes can see.”
Lieutenant Colonel Sybelle Summers pointed out that Spain was not a corporation but an independent nation, and therefore without a price tag.
“Ah,” answered the man in gray. “Bear with me a moment longer. Suppose a way out of the mess suddenly appeared—the country could get the same sort of cash infusion to fuel a recovery but without all of the stringent terms. Madrid could turn away from the European Commission’s demands for immediate change and go with an alternate Plan B, bailout help from a much less demanding source.”
“Is that what is happening? You’re talking billions of euros.”
“We are seeing exactly that. A consortium of banks and financial interests in Muslim countries, that rich in petroleum resources and with nowhere else worthwhile to park their cash during the dark worldwide financial times, have entered talks with some Spanish leaders about the possibility of loans. They are led by the so-called Group of Six. The front man in those talks is a high-flying financial con artist named Cristobál Jose Bello.”
Summers followed up. “The Muslims are trying to take over Spain? Is that what this is all about?”
The gray man answered, “Not in the sense of a military coup. Remember, the Muslims have been there for hundreds of years. The Moors ruled the entire Iberian Peninsula for some seven hundred and fifty years, until the fall of Granada in 1492. That seems like a long time ago to Americans, but it is only yesterday for the million Muslims who still live in Spain, and the Islamic religion is spreading as more immigrants come across from African nations. Their influence is undeniable, and it is growing. So this Group of Six offer is viewed merely as a gesture by old friends protecting Spain from being hammered about by the rest of Europe.”
Sybelle shook her head in a combination of disbelief and disdain. “The other forty-six million Spaniards will not just stand by and watch a Muslim takeover.”
“We can only wait and see,” the briefer replied with a wave of his hand. “So far, Madrid seems to be welcoming the Islamic camel that is working its nose into their tent. A lot of money without visible strings attached makes for a pretty attractive camel.”
* * *
AFTER A COFFEE BREAK, the Tridents were back at the conference table, this time facing a senior spook from the Central Intelligence Agency, a lady who had the pallor of an inside worker bee, for her days at Langley were spent as an analyst delving into reports and photographs and videos and radio intercepts. Fashion was an afterthought, if it was a thought at all. “The United States and the kingdom of Spain have a long history of friendship, which is a fancy way of saying that Spain is important to us.” Her voice was without accent and dry, and she also spoke without notes.
“Until a few years ago, if you named almost any subject, from military to economic matters, Madrid and Washington probably saw eye to eye. That all began changing when the Spanish economy fell apart and they had to literally beg for help from the European Commission.”
This time, Commander Benton Freedman questioned the speaker. “Begging? Asking for help from the richer nations seems to fall far short of begging.”
“Not when almost every report of economic progress is either stagnant or negative. Off the record, of course, they asked Uncle
Sam for loans, but we have problems of our own and not a lot of cash to donate to every failing old-world economy these days, so we decided instead to support the European Commission bailout. Then when we discovered the Muslims are trying to come in, we had to intervene more directly, so about two months ago, the major powers warned the Spanish bankers not to touch that tainted cash offered by the Group of Six.”
The CIA woman adjusted the sweater around her thin shoulders, then steepled her fingers before continuing. “We are now certain that the attack on our consulate in Barcelona, with the deaths of so many people, was in direct retaliation for that intervention by Washington. Our sources say the Group of Six decided during a meeting in Geneva to show they were willing to fight for this lucrative prize, and that we should back off.”
Master Gunnery Sergeant O. O. Dawkins grunted a dark laugh. “As if.”
“Yes,” the CIA briefer said. “Well put, Master Gunny. All they did was change the playing field. Instead of leaving it as bankers talking to bankers, they brought in a team of killers who destroyed our consulate, and that puts it into our ballpark. The Group of Six members themselves, of course, are not directly involved in the killings, but they authorized the attack. Somewhere beneath that benign-looking umbrella is a violent force. So far there has been no response from us beyond a normal diplomatic protest. That’s about to change—CIA and Task Force Trident will be the ones carrying the message.”
Kyle didn’t like that. “I don’t answer to any CIA case officer. My bosses are right here at this table. Them I trust; you I don’t even know.”
The woman gave a wintry smile. “Gunnery Sergeant Swanson, we all have our specialties. Trident will continue to control your assignments, but you will need outside assistance now and then as we accumulate information, and we will furnish those specialists. You have worked with us before.”
Then the CIA representative turned to face Ledford, so there would be no doubt about her comment, although it was directed at General Middleton. Beth returned the sharp gaze. “We do worry, however, about having someone as inexperienced as Ms. Ledford running as your partner. Her training seems incomplete, her previous work is limited, and her physical size and strength may be liabilities.”
Double-Oh Dawkins gave his deep bark of a laugh again and laid his big paw on the table. “If that’s your opinion, then God help our enemies if Coastie ever really learns what she’s doing. She drives me nuts, but she’s been training for almost two years and has already won her spurs.”
“We would prefer that Gunny Swanson pair with Lieutenant Colonel Summers or one of our best field agents.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Summers responded. “You’re looking at our team.”
General Middleton gave his approval, then ended the briefing and thanked the CIA analyst. The Tridents took a break, then sat down again, this time without anyone else in the room.
“Our first move is to take out this guy Bello. Kyle, you and Coastie will do the wet work to open a path for a scraper team of CIA spooks who will go through his house for any useful information.”
“He lives on an island. Do we go in by parachute?” asked Ledford.
“I’m thinking something a little more stylish, like a private yacht,” said Swanson.
She grinned. “The Vagabond. Yeah!”
ABOARD THE VAGABOND
THE $100 MILLION YACHT, a gleaming 180 feet in length, was not only the favorite toy of billionaire businessman Sir Geoffrey Cornwell but also served as a floating laboratory for Excalibur Enterprises Ltd., the umbrella company for his various business interests. Once at sea, the Vagabond often assumed another role, assisting the special operations forces of the United States and Great Britain. It was not the sort of vessel normally associated with commando operations, which made it even more effective. The charming Lady Patricia Cornwell could host a luncheon party on deck for prying eyes to watch while combat swimmers exited through unseen hatches below the waterline.
Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson was more at home aboard the immaculate vessel than he was almost anywhere else in the world: He was a part owner. In fact, much of his new life had started on that deck, when the U.S. Marine Corps had volunteered him to work closely with Sir Jeff to design, develop, and test a futuristic sniper rifle called the Excalibur. Jeff was a retired Oxford-educated warhorse colonel of the British Special Air Service, Lady Pat was a mother hen for elite soldiers, and Swanson was a lost and drifting soul when they had first met.
The following years saw Cornwell make a fortune in various fields, particularly with the Pentagon as his largest customer for new weapons. The Marines gladly gave Swanson temporary duty assignments to assist in those projects, and Jeff, Pat, and Kyle slowly became a family, something Swanson had never experienced as an orphaned kid who grew up on the tough streets of South Boston. When Kyle finished some deadly mission, he frequently ended up back aboard the Vagabond to recuperate while Pat ironed him out and Jeff listened to his stories. The relationship culminated when terrorists attacked the Cornwells at their castle in Scotland and Kyle became their protector, and Jeff and Pat adopted him as their son. Along the way, he became a vice president and major shareholder in Excalibur Enterprises, which technically owned the Vagabond. Someday, when he could no longer be a Marine and Jeff and Pat retired from business, Swanson would be put in charge. Knowing he had a family, and a future, might have turned Kyle into a better person, but there were still a lot of jagged edges.
“He needs a woman,” Coastie told Lady Pat as they lunched at a small table that was dressed in white linen, china, and good silver beside the pool on the stern of the big boat. It was churning lazily out of the English Channel, destination Mallorca, and a light breeze north by east swept away the sun’s heat. She was eating a cheeseburger and slices of deep-fried potatoes.
“That woman won’t be you, child, if you continue eating like that. Your thighs will balloon.” The burger did look good, but Pat picked dutifully at a shrimp salad.
“It won’t be me anyway, Pat. Kyle treats me like a rock. Besides, I already have a boyfriend, one who knows how to treat a girl.”
Pat arched an eyebrow. “Is that right?”
“Yes, ma’am. His name is Mickey, and he’s a captain in the Mexican Marines. Actually, I just love saying his name—Capitano Miguel Francisco Castillo, Infantería de Marina. Unfortunately, we can’t get together much, but when we do, wowzee!”
“Ah, that’s the boy who helped Kyle save you after that Pakistan secret fortress thing, right? Is it serious, Beth?”
Beth swallowed some tea and leaned back in the deck chair. “We want it to be, but it is hard, unless one of us quits our job. We are content to let things happen as they happen for now. We shall see, huh?”
Beth suddenly broke into a wild giggle. “I’ll see if I can find a girlfriend for Kyle in Spain, some doe-eyed beach bunny that will curl his toes in bed.”
“You be careful around him, Beth. Stay professional. Kyle is a perfect example of why special operators should never mix their personal and private lives.”
Ledford slid a pair of big sunglasses that had been resting on her head down onto her nose. “Not to worry, Pat. I’ve got my Mickey, and besides, to Kyle, I’m just a trusted gun.”
“Little Sure Shot.”
“That’s me.”
SPAIN
POLICE WERE PUZZLED, but not exactly surprised or particularly dismayed, when the lifeless body of Cristobál Jose Bello was discovered in his elegant villa in the quiet island community of Palma de Mallorca. The shady financier had created many, many enemies during a long career of doing deals with dirty money from Russia, China, and Iran. His largest infamy was his role in crashing some of the biggest savings banks in Spain when the bubble burst. Thousands of investors went bankrupt, businesses were ruined, and the Spanish national economy was hurled into chaos. Bello had ruthlessly ridden the whirlwind and resigned just ahead of the sale of the vast Cajá de Ahorros del Mediterráneo for the price
of a single euro to Banco Sabadell. Bello came out of the debacle with a fortune in salary, spurious fees, and commissions.
The puzzle was not that Bello was dead but that his bodyguard had also been murdered. The banker was sprawled in his office; the guard lay outside on the columned plaza, with an unfired Uzi machine pistol with a full forty-round magazine underneath him. Each man had a large-caliber gunshot wound in the center of his chest. The house had been methodically ransacked.
The housekeeper who discovered the bodies when she reported for work that morning was more concerned about how to clean up the blood than about the death of her employer. The investigating officers of the Guardia Civil suggested that a strong mixture of ammonia and salt and hydrogen peroxide might be best, and agreed that it was fortunate that the bodyguard fell on the tiled floor of the verandah because scrubbing it would be much less work than doing the carpet that was beneath the banker’s corpse. That blood had all dried, which would make her job even more difficult. Since her employer was now dead, she considered quitting, but leaving the house in such a mess was against her principles. The police said it did not really matter, for the whole place was now an active crime scene and would not be released until all evidence was collected. It would be at least a week.
Neighbors were equally unhelpful for the investigators, with one resident even spitting in disgust toward the home of the deceased. No strangers had been seen in the area, no tradesmen reported recent visits there, and the international delivery companies had made no deliveries. No gunshots had been heard, but there had been an automobile accident somewhere in the area with a lot of yelling. There were no brass cartridge casings, no broken branches on bushes surrounding the villa, no footprints, no signs of kidnappings or drugs. An antique safe with its open door hanging like a puppy’s tongue stood empty in a beautiful wooden cabinet. A locksmith said it was collector junk, made before the turn of the last century, pretty but useless, and could have been popped open by a determined child with a chisel. Not a scrap of paper was left behind. The computer equipment was gone, and the drawers of the big desk were also empty; likewise the night tables in the bedroom.
On Scope: A Sniper Novel Page 5
