Wars have been fought over less, Swanson thought as he drifted back to his chair. Left unchecked, within a few years, Spain might become the first domino in Europe to fall to Islam. It would be like allowing al Qaeda a vote in NATO military planning and EU economic policies. That’s what the Group of Six had in mind, and it was why the guy on Mallorca was popped and the fat banker was taken out in Madrid and why the woman financier was on the chopping block and why the other three men had to die. He was cool with that.
A sniper prefers not to know the name of his target, for that anonymity drains emotion from the shooter. In a combat situation, that is easy, for it is a rough-and-tumble business that spreads over a wide front and you engage targets of opportunity. Then comes the stalk attack, in which you are after one specific target, such as a colonel in a headquarters area, and a personality is unnecessary. As for Kyle the victims he would be harvesting over the next few weeks, he knew their names, their histories, and much more about them. The Lizard was amazing in compiling information.
He leaned back, both hands around the thick porcelain coffee mug. If security teams for the bankers were any good at all, they would now be anticipating another sniper hit and spreading out the protective perimeter. Kyle would lay aside the rifle this time in favor of collapsing the security pocket like an offensive line in football trying to prevent the vulnerable quarterback from being sacked.
Instead of working his next target by himself, or with Coastie as his only backup, this time he would overwhelm that offensive line by employing a full fourteen-man MSOP, a Marine Special Operations Team, from Camp Lejeune.
That meant planning for more of a footprint and better logistics than just sneaking into a construction site as he had done on the previous one. The target had to be convenient, so they could get in and get back out in a hurry. They needed distraction. He shuffled through the stack, pushing aside two folders.
Winner: Daniel Ferran Torreblanca, chairman of the Spanish holdings of the Islamic Progress Bank, based in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, and run in accordance with Sharia law. Where: Seville, home of his wife and parents. When: Next week, during the Feria de Abril, the April fair. How: Slash his throat.
NEW YORK
DJAHID REBIANE was happy to safely dismount from the SquareBuilt fixed-gear bike when he reached Union Square West. He had ridden only a few blocks from Eighteenth Street, with the alleycat race cards whirring in the rear spokes, just far enough to establish some authenticity as a bicycle messenger and more than enough to make him pray to Allah for protection, particularly after almost getting doored by some man getting out of a yellow cab. He got off at the edge of the open park and walked the bike the rest of the way to the building on Fourth Avenue.
For only a few hundred dollars, a bald, skinny kid named Bobby had given him a quick lesson and the use of the scarred bike for an hour. Bobby said bike messengers were a dying breed, and Djahid believed it, not because of the influence of faxes and the Internet, but because he felt that no one could survive long on the streets of Manhattan. Bobby made more money in that moment than he would make all day hauling garment bags around the fashion district uptown, and asked few questions.
Rebiane pedaled downtown anyway to see a money-grubber named Peter McNamara. The office was on the tenth floor of an address that had been prestigious in the boom times, then slipped to third-rate status with the banking crisis. He locked the bike with a chain to a lamppost. Bobby would retrieve the bicycle in one hour. Djahid removed his plastic helmet, shifted the one-strap bag on his shoulder, and did a little squat. He thought the narrow bike seat might have crushed his testicles. He wore old running shoes, a pair of cargo shorts, and a brown, forgettable T-shirt.
The elevator was claustrophobic as it clanked up the shaft, shifting from side to side along the way as if being blown by the wind. Finally the door opened, and he stepped onto the cracked linoleum squares of the tenth floor. Two doors were on each side, and he knocked on the one that had the name MCNAMARA GLOBAL INVESTMENTS in gold paint on a pane of frosted glass.
“Come in,” called an impatient voice, and Djahid walked through. There was a smell of fear in the room that was as overpowering as a bowl of rotten fruit. The skin of the man inside was pale.
“I got a delivery for a Mr. McNamara. That you? Somebody gotta sign this receipt.” Rebiane was trying for a Brooklyn accent. He held out a pad on which was written: You called Mr. Blanco. Why?
McNamara’s eyes flicked up at the tall biker. “Yeah. That’s me.” He took the pad, which trembled a bit in his hand. “I want to see the man who sent this package.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about none of that,” said Rebiane. He tugged at his ear and raised an eyebrow. McNamara shook his head. No listening devices? Hard to believe. “I got a call to pick up this package and bring it here. I hustled my ass through heavy traffic for you, man. A tip would be good.”
Being face-to-face with the messenger sent by Carlos Blanco scared him. This guy didn’t have the usual vacant slacker look of most bike couriers. Instead, he had a catlike style of moving, and although he spoke in slang, his voice seemed uncomfortable with the American idiom. Whoever he was, he brought Peter one step closer to getting the spooks off his back. They were probably recording this conversation somewhere. Remembering the big guy who had grabbed him in Central Park helped some of the fear evaporate. That spook could take this messenger without much problem.
If anything, Peter McNamara knew how to hustle a client. Show strength and confidence, even a touch of arrogance. He straightened his sky blue tie.
“OK. OK, pal. Enough with the bullshit. I want you to take a message back.” He unscrewed the top of a brushed silver pen and scrawled a note of his own: Set up a meeting now! Something has happened! Others have contacted me! Urgent!
The messenger took the paper, read it, then nodded understanding and folded it once before putting it into his shoulder bag. “You want the package or not, mister?”
“Yeah. Give me the damned package and go get back on your wheels.”
Djahid removed a cream-colored shoebox from the bag, took off the top, and laid it carefully on McNamara’s desk. His father had told him to make his own decision after seeing the young man, so Djahid came prepared for any eventuality. That scribbled note and anxious manner were tantamount to a confession from McNamara that he had talked to somebody else about private affairs. That could not be allowed.
The silenced pistol came out of the box smoothly, and Djahid Rebiane whipped McNamara hard twice across the face with it. The broker was on the floor with a crushed nose, and a wide gash along one cheek was pouring blood. Djahid reached back into the box and retrieved an old-fashioned butcher knife with a blade thirteen inches long and honed razor sharp, and a bag of plastic ties.
“Tell me everything that happened,” he said after stretching out the broker and securing him to solid points. He moved the knife slowly before Peter’s frightened eyes. Then it flashed downward and Djahid began to flay McNamara alive with a blade so sharp that the victim at first did not even understand what was happening. He kept the pistol handy in case the police burst in, but he had seen none outside and figured he had some time yet to spend here.
Rebiane flicked the point around McNamara’s left elbow, circled the wrist, and then made a quick, effortless slice down the forearm between the two cuts. He worked two fingers beneath the flap and pulled. The skin of the arm peeled away with a few jerks as the epidermis layer and the underlying stringy, fibrous dermis parted with the fatty subcutis beneath. Djahid held the skin before his victim’s face, and that was when Peter McNamara understood the correlation between truth and pain. His screams were muffled by a pillow, which was loosened occasionally so he could speak.
14
WASHINGTON, D.C.
COMMANDER BENTON FREEDMAN ran his fingers through his hair. He and the master gunny had ridden the Acela Express up to New York, cornered and threatened the young money guy in Central Park, and returned to Was
hington. Freedman was back in his chair at Task Force Trident the following day, and Peter McNamara was dead at the hands of an unknown killer, actually flayed by someone who knew how to do that sort of thing. It was as if Freedman had made a dot with a pencil only to have someone else erase it.
The NYPD had few leads in the cases of the two stockbrokers who had been violently murdered in the city, but they should uncover the connection soon enough.
Freedman’s concern was that Trident’s own contact with McNamara might be discovered. He silently cursed himself. Had he been careless in setting up the sting just so he could get out of the office for a change? The quick trip to the Vagabond in the Med to update its comm equipment and brief Kyle and Coastie should have been enough for anyone. No, I had to go to New York, too. Liz felt that perhaps he had been sloppy, which was something he would not tolerate.
The Lizard moved to the office of General Middleton, sat uninvited, and stared at the large man. “Did you ever see Jaws, sir?”
Middleton signed a paper and looked up. “Of course. The great white whale.”
Freedman coughed politely into his fist. “That was Moby Dick, sir. This one is a great white shark: Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfuss, and Robert Shaw as the boat captain, Quint. Spielberg thought about casting Charlton Heston as Police Chief Brody and Lee Marvin as Quint, but I don’t think the chemistry would have been the same with those two.”
“Do you have a reason for being in my office, Commander? Of course I saw Jaws, and it was a fine motion picture. I agree about the casting, but I don’t think that’s what you really want to talk about.”
“No, sir.” When his brilliant mind was grinding on a problem, Freedman often had a hard time settling into a single subject, and the general knew that getting to the point might require some time. The naval officer explained the fatal attacks on Mannix Dillon and Peter McNamara in gruesome detail. “It seems likely to me, General, that although our current operation concerning Spain has not been compromised, there is a big shark out there circling our little boat. Like in the movie.”
The general gave his communications officer a full stare. “Has the Group of Six broken our security?”
“No. That would be impossible, sir; we’re buried much too deep. The danger comes if they can somehow piece together information they have available and make some correct assumptions. We know these people are well funded and can therefore hire competent hackers to poke around in the cloud. They have a high degree of motivation, for that entire Muslim financial gamble is at risk if they do not stop us.”
“You think they will move against Trident.”
“Yes, sir. Odds are sooner than later. Also, the killings of those two brokers may be the work of the same guy. They have a pro for the wet stuff.”
Middleton said, “So do we, Commander Freedman. So do we. And remember that our boat ain’t all that little.”
NEW YORK
THE FATHER WAS GIFTED with a quietude that accommodated most problems with the knowledge that time and distance would resolve them, no matter what he did. Yasim Rebiane knew that he had no more control over an accidental setback in his plans than he had over a meteorite crashing into a Siberian town. He was a realist because life had made him that way, and he was proud that he had passed that thoughtful manner along to his son.
In Djahid, the elder Rebiane saw many traces of his own father, including the blue-eyed Berber genes of the wrestler-strong body that had been honed as an oil-field engineer who fought his way up to the executive ranks. That strength had somehow skipped Yasim’s own generation. The mental agility Djahid was demonstrating in his independent field operations came through Yasim’s mother, the grandmother of Djahid. She descended through the Pied-Noir European immigrants of Algeria and brought with her a more formal education. She was honest and trusted, which made her prized as a bookkeeper for businesses. Together they survived wars and revolution, and raised and educated Yasim so he could carry the family name higher. He had done the same with his own boy and had faith that his carefully groomed Djahid was ideal for the world of tomorrow. The turmoil of the so-called Arab Spring showed that the Middle East yearned for true leadership, and Djahid would be ready to enter that political arena, handsome and articulate, with college degrees and military training, and the scalp of Spain on his belt. Who could stand against such a man?
What he had accomplished with the interrogation of that toothy fool McNamara was proof, and Yasim was pleased. The money transfers would simply be shifted through another country, probably Switzerland, and proceed as usual. He should have done that from the start, because Americans could never be depended upon; they always served base needs of their own before considering their clients, and thought in terms of quarterly profits rather than long-term results that would require years, even decades or centuries. While Yasim had wanted Mannix Dillon and Peter McNamara to proceed quietly, they had been too flashy for their own good. The convenience of having them squarely in New York was far outweighed by their overweening ambitions. As if choosing cheese, he had picked American when he really wanted Swiss.
The Rebianes had spent a full day going through the material that Djahid had taken from the McNamara office and found the only thing of interest on the pair of computers was a newly created folder bearing the label CARLOS BLANCO. In the folder were brief notations confirming the receipt of the funds that had been laundered through another of Yasim’s secret accounts, and the resulting transfer to Juan de Lara in Madrid. No information existed that contained references to the meeting between the broker and Yanis.
The man had not been brave under torture. During the private pain session, he admitted that he had been jogging in Central Park when he was accosted by a large, military-looking man, who forced him to sit on a bench beside a black-haired guy who did all of the talking. Neither had identified himself, nor had they displayed any badge or credentials, but they had left McNamara with no doubt that they were from some powerful governmental authority. They now owned him, they said, and a sniper was hiding nearby if Peter tried to make a run for safety.
When Djahid cut some more, Peter was able to give even better descriptions of the men and the meeting. He had been shown photographs of five men and one woman and had identified the familiar face of Mr. Blanco. There was no reason to doubt him. His only order from the men was to contact Carlos Blanco through a false e-mail, he had whimpered. After a little further work by Djahid, some of it purely experimental in nature, McNamara was allowed to die.
The smell of chicken and vegetables cooking in oil wafted from the kitchen, where Djahid was putting together some stir-fry. Yasim moved to the doorway but did not offer to help. “So these people knew about Cristobál Bello in Mallorca and a number of other points, which confirms access to a lot of information. That points to an American agency, for who else has such assets?”
Djahid dripped oil on fresh Italian bread and put it in a toaster oven to brown, then sliced hard-boiled eggs and tomatoes while his father took plates from a wall cabinet and set the table. This was demeaning work, but they had to eat. Over dinner, their talk turned to minor things, and they laughed at the scolding Yasim had received from Mercedes Sarra Bourihane.
“Why do you allow that quarrelsome woman to disrespect you like that, father?”
“We need her right now, just where she is. Keep your eye on the ultimate goal, Djahid. She will be dealt with when she is no longer useful.”
As they cleaned up afterward, the father returned to the subject. “I will present this new information to Senator Jordan and pressure him to move faster in identifying the agency behind these developments. Time is important, so tomorrow, I want you to fly to St. Louis.”
“And once I am there?”
“Then just wait for my call.”
“I can do that,” Djahid said with a broad smile.
“I know you can, son.”
CAMP LEJEUNE, NORTH CAROLINA
KYLE SWANSON propped his arm on the podium in a pale gre
en conference room and looked over the fourteen warriors of the Marine Special Operations Team, all of whom were watching him just as hard. Tier One types: best of the best. “I am not here to give a speech, so I’ll spell it out quick. Who wants a piece of the bastards who murdered our brother Marines and the others in Barcelona?”
There was an immediate stirring in the room. “Hell, yeah.” “Ooo-ah.” “Semper Fi!” “Damn straight!”
Swanson nodded his approval. “Also right up front is that this is a high-stakes mission, and we will assassinate one of the bankers who paid for the hit, a civilian, on his homeland in Spain. Still interested?”
This was greeted by a round of hoots and curses. It was the kind of thing these operators had been trained to accomplish. If they were in the room, they were already volunteers for the elite force, and all had seen combat. “Another thing. You need to know that we will be going on our own, bare-ass naked, with no inside or outside support team, no Quick Reaction Force, and not a shred of air support.”
The team chief, a rangy African American master sergeant named Sam Smith, interrupted with a solemn and deep television announcer voice, “As always, should you or any of your IM Force be caught or killed, the secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions.”
Kyle squashed a sudden burst of laughter. “This is not a Mission Impossible. In fact, I consider it a Mission Very Possible, because we will go in in the dark, do the deed, and get the hell out before anyone even knows we’re there. And we are not murdering a civilian but taking out a real terrorist asshole. Since 9/11, they are not allowed to hide behind borders, peacefully lead normal lives, and pretend to be off-limits.”
He left the podium and walked among the seated Marines. He knew them all, and they knew him. Smith and some of the others had run black missions with Swanson before. A captain was in command, and Smith was the team chief. A gunnery sergeant headed operations, and another noncom was in charge of communications. Staff sergeants led each tactical element, which included three critical skills operators and a Navy corpsman who trained with them. This small, formidable force could bound into action anywhere, ready to fly on a moment’s notice.
On Scope: A Sniper Novel Page 10
