On Scope: A Sniper Novel

by Jack Coughlin

  Even in the middle of the night, they would not take the chance of some television news reporter or freelance paparazzi being around when Senator Jordan Monroe was delivered to the secret meeting. A black stretch limousine with blinking red and blue lights showed up and stopped at the White House main gate as a diversion to draw the attention of any passersby gawking at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW. The only person in it was the driver. Meanwhile, an unremarkable sedan slid quietly to a stop across the street before the green canopy that extended out from the singular row of town houses at 1651–1653 Pennsylvania, where the FBI agents turned Monroe over to a pair of uniformed Secret Service officers who hustled him into Blair House, the guest home used by ranking diplomatic visitors. No civilians were waiting inside to greet him, and the white-shirted officers would not speak as they escorted him down to the tunnel complex that worms throughout the executive grounds and nearby federal buildings.

  The senator heard only the whoosh of air-conditioning fans and the click of the heels on his own shoes and those of the Secret Service guides who sandwiched him, one in front and one behind, pistols riding on their hips. He felt claustrophobic, then sweaty, as their steps clicked closer to the off-limits underground section of the White House. Closed and secure doors led away to God alone knew where. Monroe guessed they had crossed beneath Pennsylvania Avenue and must be approaching an elevator to go up again. He sent a silent prayer to let the whole thing collapse on him, for he already felt dead and buried, dreading what might be waiting. Instead, the tunnel split at a Y, and the guards walked him to a door guarded by two Marines in dress blues with sidearms, and another Secret Service agent at a small desk who demanded his identification.

  Cleared and searched, less than thirty seconds later, Jordan Monroe stepped into the conference room of the Deep Underground Command Center. Elsewhere in the DUCC, experts and technicians monitored the world, ever vigilant and ready to give the national leadership whatever was needed to fight a global war. At one end of a long table sat the president, and along the sides were the directors of the CIA and the FBI and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, plus a two-star Marine general, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, and the minority leader of the Senate, both of whom were members of his own political party. They all glared at him with a mixture of anger, distaste, and disappointment as the big door hissed closed and automatically sealed.

  The president pointed to a chair and broke the silence. “Have a seat, Senator Monroe. We have some things to discuss.” Senator Monroe, and not Jordan?

  Monroe settled into the cushioned chair and folded his hands on the table, as if trying to gain some traction to keep from spinning out of control. This has to be about Trident. “Should I have an attorney present?”

  “Has he been charged with anything?” asked the Senate minority leader.

  The FBI director, looking as friendly as a shark, replied in the negative.

  “No lawyer is necessary at this point, under the terms of the NSOS Act.”

  “I believe you are familiar with almost everyone around this table,” said the president in his usual flat voice. “The one you do not know is Major General Bradley Middleton. General, please go ahead.”

  The general was muscular and large, a few inches over six feet, with close-cropped brown hair and fiery eyes beneath menacing brows. He wore two silver stars but none of the usual rows of honor ribbons and other military hardware on his green tunic, making it impossible to see where he had been or what he had done. “Senator Monroe, I am the commander of Task Force Trident, which is an ultra-top-secret unit for special operations. At least it was until you came snooping around and opened your big mouth to the wrong people. Because of you and your aide, a clandestine foreign operation against terrorists who murdered Americans was compromised tonight, and five U.S. agents were placed in extraordinary danger. The mission had to be aborted prior to completion … because you, sir, blew the operation and have exposed our group. They escaped by the skin of their teeth.”

  Monroe gathered himself for a retort, but Congresswoman Sylvia Clark, his old friend who was currently Speaker of the House, interrupted. “Don’t try to deny it, Jordan. Please. I’ve heard the recordings and read the reports. Your aide Doug Jimenez has been arrested.”

  The president’s voice turned glacial, and his eyes were unblinking. “Senator, it looks as if you have done great damage to the security of this nation. Task Force Trident has been in operation for many years, under the tight and direct control of the Oval Office through two presidencies, men from both political parties. It is assigned to do things that need to be done far off the books and out of sight, but cannot be handled through the usual chain of command. General Middleton reports directly to me.”

  The senator was nervous. “Those Trident people sent one of their assassins to kill me tonight, right before the FBI got to my place.” He could still feel that little red laser dot tracking around his body, and his pulse raced. Monroe realized that he was trapped; he was the only fly on a web full of spiders.

  Middleton shook his head. “Negative, sir. That operator came to give you a personal demonstration of our capabilities. There was no actual danger or threat to you. If she had wanted to kill you, you would be dead. You brought on that little visit by giving secret information to your friend Yasim Rebiane, who has been classified as an enemy of the United States and is among the sponsors of the deadly attack on our consulate in Barcelona. In fact, we believe he was the mastermind behind it.” Middleton paused and pointed his finger across at the senator. “I think you deserve the death penalty, but you will just end up in some country-club prison somewhere instead of in an orange jumpsuit with a black bag over your head at Gitmo.”

  The president turned to the FBI director. “Do you have enough to charge the senator with a federal crime?”

  “Yes, sir. There are multiple NSOS violations and some other things.”

  That was delivered without hesitation, and Monroe felt his bowels clench. Violation of the National Security and Official Secrets Act carried brutal penalties. It wouldn’t be a white-collar prison at all. A lonely little cell in a Supermax loomed.

  The president rose and leaned on the table to stare unwaveringly at Monroe. “Seldom in my administration have I been as disturbed as I am right now, Senator. You broke your oath to protect this nation. You have disgraced your high office and have turned against the citizens of your state. You have collaborated with terrorists, and I, like General Middleton, am highly tempted to slap your ass into Guantánamo with our other enemies. Do not expect any mercy or intervention from me.” The president was wearing a light tan jacket with the seal of office sewn over the heart. He zipped it closed, then addressed them all. “Don’t get up. I’m going back to my quarters and try to get some sleep. You guys work this out, and I will support whatever punishment you decide. At minimum, he must resign his office immediately, and any charges will be kept in strictest privacy. I hate leaked secrets.”

  “I’m not a traitor, Mr. President! I was forced to do this! I’ll give the FBI everything I know! I … I had no choice!” Tears were painting wet paths down the senator’s cheeks as the president walked away, and the door opened, then closed behind him with finality.

  Jordan Monroe surged to his feet, light-headed and disoriented, and gulped a great breath, and his left arm involuntarily tightened as the incredible stress of what had just happened descended on him with full force. Everything he had worked so hard to get was being snatched away from him; his position, power, money, his arrogance and status, could not shield him from becoming a common prisoner and the terrible fate sure to await him behind bars. His friends and colleagues would call him a terrorist, and Mary would abandon him. Doug Jimenez, who knew everything, would testify against him to save his own skin. The press would be devastating. It was over.

  Before anyone at the table could move, the blood drained from the face of Senator Jordan Monroe and he grappled at his chest as if trying to tear away his shir
t. Then a great pain crushed him as the heart attack took hold. He fell back into the chair and toppled to the floor.

  ABOARD THE VAGABOND

  SWANSON HELD a cold beer as he leaned against the rail at the sharp bow of the great white yacht, which rode gently as it maneuvered into open water. The Rock of Gibraltar dominated the starboard view, while across the strait lay the edge of the African continent. The wind was strong in his face, and the sun was up behind them. Seated beside him in a deck chair was Lady Pat, working on a Bloody Mary and smoking a thin cigar.

  “Our Miss Coastie Ledford is interfering with the operation of this boat,” she complained. “The crewmen cannot do their work properly because they all have lust in their hearts. Can you please make her wear more clothes?”

  “You make her! Even God doesn’t have that power,” he said. “You should have seen her all dolled up as a gypsy prostitute. That was right before she started killing people.”

  Pat laughed. “I love that girl. She’s like a spirited and beautiful Thoroughbred running free. Even the other women in the crew like her.”

  “They are not lusting?”

  “I exaggerate. Jeff loves her. I love her. Why don’t you love her?”

  “Jesus. Not that again.” He tipped back his bottle. “You’re still trying to get me married.”

  Pat turned her head and blew out a stream of cigar smoke that trailed back in the wind. “It must happen sometime, Kyle. It is nature.”

  “Lecture forty-two,” he said. “I’ve heard it before, Pat. Coastie is my partner, and I trust her with my life. When things got hairy last night, I felt better knowing that she was out there covering me with a big rifle. That innocent-looking little girl took out two bad guys with hellacious shots while being shot at herself. Cinderella is a stone killer. It ain’t exactly the material for a storybook romance.”

  “All stories are different.” Lady Pat stretched her legs out and studied her sandals. “That aside, it’s time for you to give up the Marine Corps and get to work with Jeff running the business. We’re tired of waiting.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Your luck is going to run out sometime, Kyle. You can’t go on doing this forever.”

  He winced inwardly, recalling how luck had played such a big role in the botched attack on Torreblanca.

  “And you’re going to get killed in some no-name place, which will ruin my whole day because I’ll have to plan your funeral, and you will leave me and my husband without grandchildren. Right ungrateful bastard, you are.”

  “Ahoy there on the bow!” Sir Geoffrey Cornwell called. “Avast and belay the tops’ls. Mizzen up the taffrail!” He was in his wheelchair, laughing and being rolled forward by Coastie, who wore a short Japanese-style robe with the belt loose over a red bikini. Her blond hair was in a ponytail, and her smile beamed.

  Pat waved and lowered her voice. “This is so frustrating. You know that girl could fall in love with you, and you do nothing. You can be such a fool, Kyle Swanson.”

  * * *

  GENERAL MIDDLETON’S planed face was on one of the flat-screens in the Vagabond communication center, patched in from Washington. “Son-of-a-bitching senator had a heart attack on us. Keeled over, plop, right there at the table.”

  “Lot of that happens when people talk to you, sir,” Kyle responded. He and Coastie and Jeff were gathered in the sleek room. They had listened with rapt attention as the general related the conspiracy involving Senator Jordan Monroe, and the strange follow-up.

  “Is he dead?”

  “He’s not getting off that easy,” the general snorted. “Monroe is being given the absolute best of medical care at Walter Reed. We intend to keep him alive, even if he only has the brain of a carrot.”

  Coastie joined in. “It’s hard to believe that a United States senator would sell us out.”

  “We cannot change that, Ledford. He did what he did. Claims he was forced to give up the information to Yanis Rebiane, but who knows? Main thing for right now is that we got you people out in time. The Lizard tells me that Seville is now crawling with cops and private security guards.”

  “General Middleton, if I may?” Cornwell was quiet but insistent.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “You do want to turn the senator, don’t you?”

  Middleton smirked. “As usual, you are ahead of the rest of us, Sir Jeff. Yes, we want to make him a double agent to feed disinformation back to the bad guys. I promised that if he refuses, he could look forward to another little visit from Sybelle, who by the way, scared the hell out of him.”

  “Yay, girlfriend,” Coastie chirped.

  The general explained that the senator’s administrative aide, Douglas Jimenez, was also in custody and had already flipped. He would put Monroe’s office on the standard routine for a senator recovering from a medical emergency so the terrorists would not become suspicious. Information would flow.

  “Sounds good. Then we track ’em down and kill ’em.”

  “Close, Gunny Swanson.” Middleton folded his big hands on the desk. “We let them do the tracking this time and let them come to us. We will dangle you and Coastie out there as bait.”

  “Whoa.” Swanson was surprised with the idea. “Why include her?”

  Beth Ledford laughed. “You may not be enough by yourself, while I’m irresistible. I’m in.”

  30

  SEVILLE, SPAIN

  “YOU ARE A COWARD!” Yasim Rebiane whispered hoarsely, drawing not anger but only a derisive laugh from Daniel Ferran Torreblanca.

  “Perhaps. That is a childish remark and makes no difference. What matters is that I am a vice president of the Islamic Progress Bank of Saudi Arabia, and as such I am confirming what you were told earlier today by our friend Marwan in Abu Dhabi. We are terminating the Spanish plan.” Torreblanca had composed himself quite a bit in the hours since being awakened by his child’s scream and the firefight. “It is over, Yasim.”

  They were seated at a round table draped with white linen in the pleasant inner courtyard of the exquisite Hotel Alfonso XIII. The other member of their group was Rebiane’s son, Djahid, who seemed disinterested in the conversation. It was one o’clock in the afternoon, a few minutes after the San Fernando Restaurant had opened for lunch, so the coffee was fresh and strong.

  The paid security teams had all retreated to their rented rooms around town as police took over the protection and investigation duties. Television cameras were staked out along the fashionable street at the house as workmen repaired the hacienda after the blazing gunfight. Fresh flowers were being planted, bodies were hauled away, and bullet gouges were plastered over.

  Rebiane, Torreblanca, and the sheikh had originally planned to meet at the private residence, but the hacienda was being investigated by the police as a crime scene. Marwan had canceled his trip entirely. That left the Rebianes and Torreblanca to rendezvous in the Santa Cruz district hotel.

  “You are being foolish, Daniel. We can still do this. Reconsider, and don’t back out now that we are so close to success.” Yasim fought to remain calm when what he really wanted to do was stick a knife in the banker’s eye. “Look around you here. Look at this place; it is a Moorish palace! The roots of Islam are deep here in Seville.”

  “Look even closer, Yasim, and you will see how those roots are today a hybrid that blends the artistry of Castile and Andalusia. Seville is what the Americans would call a melting pot of culture.”

  “The American assassins are going to be eliminated. We are getting closer to them, and soon there will be riots in cities throughout the world.”

  “I think not. It seems the rest of the world believes Washington is just rubbing out some more terrorists, after they were provoked and attacked first. The cities of Europe are not exactly brimming these days with pro-Islamic pride, you realize.”

  Rebiane tapped the little coffee cup with a fingertip as he thought. There was nothing he could offer to make up for the security breach last night. The promise to pr
otect the Group members was a shambles, and if Torreblanca could not believe his family could be protected, he would not do anything.

  Yanis glanced over at his dreamy-eyed son, who was watching the courtyard’s tiled fountain and listening to it burble. The conversation with Marwan had been brusque and ill-humored. Another coward! This was the problem with making important decisions by committee and trying to run a war of ideals with men and women whose vision was so limited by money. Sitting at that little table, Rebiane vowed never to make that mistake again.

  “Did you bring the assassin’s telephone?” he asked, changing the subject.

  Daniel reached into a side pocket of his suit as he nodded. “I did not mention it to the police. Their investigators are questioning my entire family, so if my boy says anything, I will have to lie and say it was lost during all of the confusion.” The man scrolled the screen, placed the cell phone on the tablecloth, and pushed it across. “That is the picture of a scared little boy. My son.”

  Yasim thought the child seemed more befuddled by sleep than actually frightened. He turned it toward Djahid, who ignored it. “This is a common make and model. It would be clean and untraceable. May I keep it?”