On Scope: A Sniper Novel

by Jack Coughlin

  “Yeah.” The general got up and refilled his coffee cup. “Put your thinking caps on, boys and girls, and let’s comb through this Barcelona thing step by step again. Lizard, crank up your machines. The answer on who led the attack team is right under our noses. Got to be.”

  “Hey, everybody!” Coastie came in and grabbed a chair. She had been back in Washington for a day and had already checked in with Trident. “Sorry to be late. Kyle, did you try to take down Torreblanca without me?” Her brightness had returned to full glow.

  “What’s got you so happy?” Kyle asked.

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just nice to be home.”

  Nice to be home? Kyle looked over at Sybelle, who winked at him.

  The entire group worked the rest of the day, dissecting the attack and follow-up with the Group of Six and coming up with more questions than answers. That someone had overheard Kyle’s call to Torreblanca and timed his own plan to match was impossible. Timing alone would have ruled it out, since Kyle had left only a narrow window of minutes for someone to snatch the information and get into position for the shot.

  Benton Freedman tapped his keyboard to call up the reports of the Spanish police, who had found a shooter’s position in a narrow trench that had been dug beneath the bushes on the hillside. No brass or other data, no fingerprints, just a hole in the ground and crushed dirt and leaves. “The gardener that you saw had the right tools, so it could easily have been prepared in advance.” The Lizard made a note. “A prepared hide.”

  “I think they also had time to make a ghillie suit, using the exact foliage from his surroundings. He would have been impossible to see,” said Swanson. “I didn’t ping on the danger until after he fired, and still never actually saw him.”

  “Any best guess on what kind of weapon was used?”

  The Lizard studied the cop report. “Police say they were 7.62 rounds. Fits a lot of rifles.”

  “AK-47? Plenty of those around,” Coastie suggested, fully engrossed in the topic.

  “Too much of a precision shot for an AK,” said O. O. Dawkins. “They are more for spray-and-pray attacks, not drilling somebody at long range.”

  “I could do it. Kyle could do it,” she challenged him.

  There it is again, thought Kyle, smiling inside. That confidence was back.

  “I’m not talking about you two space aliens,” drawled O. O. Dawkins. “I’m talking about a regular humanoid with basic military skills.”

  Kyle made his own guess. “A Dragunov with a scope is easy enough to get, if they didn’t already have one. Not great, but dependable. Most likely the cops also have found a nice little tunnel trimmed out through the brush, straight toward the target area.” He remembered the actual sound of the shots.

  They talked for a while about the remaining two live members from the Group of Six and agreed that they were now targets for the mysterious shooter. Both men would realize that and have increased their own protective measures.

  “OK, everybody go on home and get some rest,” Middleton said. “I’ll see you back here tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, I will confirm for the president that we were not involved in this latest shoot, although Swanson was sitting right there and watched it. From what we know, the police have not pinned this on an American, because Swanson only spoke to Torreblanca. Maybe the escort service guy can be traced, but that proves nothing. However, you can bet the president is going to keep us in stand-down rather than risk further exposure.”

  Nobody moved. “We need a goddam break,” the general grumbled. Then he added in a softer tone, “Beth, I wish you would have spoken up sooner about what was going through your head.”

  “I was afraid that if you knew, you would throw me out of Trident.” She locked her blue eyes on him.

  “Never happen, and you should know that. We would have helped. We want to help. Everyone in our line of work must deal with the demons. We have medical experts who see this all the time.”

  “I realize that now, sir, but so many emotions are involved, and I was scared. Being able to work with Trident is the best thing I have ever done.”

  “So you’re good?”

  “Good to go.”

  Middleton pushed away from his desk. “Let me know if you want anything. I hope you let us set you up to see a doctor and talk it out. Don’t you ever forget, Coastie, we didn’t pick you for Trident out of thin air, and nobody gets into our little club unless we want them. You are one of us. We need you and respect you and trust you. Whatever decisions you make, we will be there for you.”

  ABU DHABI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES

  THIS HAD TO STOP. Marwan Tirad Sobhi was getting calls and electronic messages that were bringing him to the surface as surely as a steel hook hauling up a sailfish. The sailfish might not want to go up, but did not have that option. Even the media was awakening to the story, with Al Jazeera, the BBC, and the Spanish press leading the charge. The American press ignored the murders because they happened abroad and there was little sign of U.S. involvement, but conspiracy rumors were bouncing all over the Internet.

  “Another member of the controversial Group of Six has been assassinated,” intoned a blank-faced news reader from London. “The murder of Daniel Ferran Torreblanca in Seville yesterday has brought to four the number of Islamic-connected financiers who have died in an unexplained series of recent attacks in Spain and France. The Group of Six were creators of a multibillion-euro package of bailout loans designed to assist the Spanish government’s economic rescue efforts. That offer was withdrawn earlier this week, following the third murder, that of Mercedes Bourihane in Paris. Police said their investigations were continuing.” When the reader took a breath to start another story, Sobhi muted the sound.

  He was not taking any calls from the press. Publicity was no friend of a man who made his fortune in the shadows and the corridors of real power. His barrier of aides told almost everyone that he was in conference and could not be disturbed, and they took messages from well-wishers who hoped he was safe. The banker personally contacted leaders throughout the region. They wanted to know more about the killings, but he had little to give them.

  There was only one call that Sobhi really wanted to receive, and it had not come. Yasim Rebiane had telephoned him right after the morning meeting with Torreblanca, outraged at the decision to halt the Spanish episode. He described with cold fury how Torreblanca had also insulted him in public. Since then, nothing.

  Sobhi was certain in his soul that Djahid Rebiane, not any American, had pulled the trigger on Daniel. It was not for some overarching financial scheme or a change in government, but for old-fashioned revenge. The father had coated the bullets with his poison of hatred, and the son delivered the final message. Sobhi was just as certain that Djahid would do the same to him, if given the opportunity.

  Heavily lined curtains were drawn across the windows of his office to prevent anyone from seeing inside, and the sheikh’s security people had been put on a higher alert. The police had been asked to participate and they had stationed uniformed men at the doors of the office building and sent marked patrol cars to cruise the streets around his location in Abu Dhabi. When the influential financier grew tired of waiting for Yasim to call, he summoned one of his assistants, a smooth fellow from the United States who had read his law at Yale University, and told him to pack a bag and get to the airport, where a private plane would be waiting. He would leave soon for Cairo.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  IT WAS DIFFERENT THIS TIME. Kyle Swanson had been to this place many times before, when the black water of the imaginary swept by with unrelenting force, conquering everything with its roaring tide and hauling the booty to hell. Sound asleep and dreaming, his body felt nailed to the spot on a narrow bloodred beach at the border of a stinking marsh. This was the domain of the Boatman, Charon, the skinny, frightening figure in black rags that waved like pirates’ flags, who seemingly could visit Kyle’s dreams at will to taunt him about the many deaths on his account. The Boatma
n’s job was to ferry souls into the underworld, but over the years of nightmares, he had mellowed enough to communicate in rhyme and riddle. Swanson really hated the Boatman.

  Yet there he stood once again in his long skiff, idle in the storm, facing Kyle. The steering oar was under one arm, and his eyes glowed. The ruined skull face smiled, and the voice inside Swanson’s head said, “My boat is already full tonight, but I can always make room for you.”

  “Why am I here? I’m not killing anyone.” He saw the dead bodies of Cristobál Jose Bello, Juan de Lara, Mercedes Sarra Bourihane, and Daniel Ferran Torreblanca all seated neatly along the benches. “I only did two of those. The woman and that guy in back aren’t mine.”

  A discordant thunder of laughter bellowed from the Boatman. “That doesn’t matter tonight. Don’t you see?” He waved his ragged sleeve. “Look and see.”

  “See what? I see you and some corpses, all of you on the way to the nine circles of hell. Big deal. I’ve seen it before.” Kyle put his hands up to shield his face from the tremendous amount of heat searing the water. That was a difference this time. The Styx normally was black and cold and evil, but tonight it was alive with rolling waves of intense flames that torched the dead bodies in the boat and caused them to scream over the hissing din.

  The Boatman was motionless, watching him. His rags caught and burned brightly, but the demon was unaffected. Swanson felt his own flesh start to blister, and he thrashed for freedom. At the far end of the marsh was a little sign in the air, a single green word: EXIT.

  “Ha. Now you see, so now you know. Farewell.” He spun the oar a little, and the burning hulk moved off along its boiling path, trailing the first screams of the souls heading to everlasting punishment and maybe eventually to Satan himself, who was trapped in the middle of hell, from where even he was unable to escape.

  A horn sounded inside his head and Kyle jerked awake, soaked with sweat, swatting at his arms, smelling the stench. He realized that he was not on fire, and he saw rain falling against the windows. Swanson hurried to his balcony, threw open the door, and stepped into the spring shower to wash away the dream. Then he held his arms above his head like a boxer dancing after winning a fight. He saw—he knew—just as the Boatman promised.

  33

  VENICE, ITALY

  THE LITTLE SIDEWALK CAFÉ, shaded by old cypress trees and climbing bundles of oleander, was located three bridges away from the Piazza San Marco. The distance was just enough to deter tourists who did not like to walk. Yanis and Djahid Rebiane shared a table at the edge of the stone street, near some gigantic potted plants. The only other customers were a young couple at a table beside a weather-beaten statue. The paving stones were still wet from the previous night’s high-tide flood, and almost everyone in the city wore rubber boots to work that morning, changing into regular shoes once at their offices. Both father and son were booted as they sipped tiny cups of espresso con panna, double shots of caffeine topped with whipped cream.

  “I have been considering ways that we may have our revenge on that pig Marwan Sobhi.” Djahid’s manner was casual and quiet, appropriate for the morning, but his father knew he was wound tightly.

  My son is mentally unstable, he thought, not for the first time. “Good. I agree.” Yanis spooned up the thick cream and tasted it while the puttering motor of a passing water bus echoed in the courtyard. “For now, Djahid, we must be careful until we determine what the police and intelligence agencies are doing. Our sources remain active and will stay in contact.”

  “I am not afraid.” Spoken with the bravado of a careless warrior.

  The father gave a rueful shake of his head. “I am afraid enough for both of us. Things went well for us in Seville because of a mixture of preparation and surprise and good fortune. After I telephoned Torreblanca with the fake warning, it was obvious that he would be coming out quickly. I just did not expect him to do so immediately. It was fortunate that we had built that sniper’s hole for you during the night so that you were in position and ready. There was no time to spare.”

  Following the morning murder in Spain, they had been able to board an international flight without a problem, and it took them directly to Marco Polo Airport in Venice. They used trains and a private water taxi to reach their hotel by nightfall. Less than twenty-four hours after the assassination of Torreblanca, the Rebianes were more than a thousand miles away, in another country, sipping coffee, just two of the some two hundred thousand visitors who would enter Venice that day.

  Djahid pulled up the collar of his light jacket, for the day was still cool and a strong wind stirred the greenery. “How long must we wait, father?”

  “As long as it takes, my boy. This is not over. Marwan will tire of the tight protection soon enough. Having to employ guards in plain view is bad for business, for they are a sign of fear. Marwan loves his freedom of movement too much to sustain a long siege.”

  Djahid raised his cup, licked off some foam, and drank the strong coffee. “What if he acts against us?”

  The elder Rebiane was certain that would not happen. He held too much evidence of Marwan’s years of corrupt practices, and it was all safely hidden. The scale was in a precarious balance between them, and if neither side moved, it would stay that way. Sheikh Marwan Tirad Sobhi, the shrewd billionaire businessman, would understand the same thing. There was nothing personal in the dispute between the two old acquaintances; this was just business, and time would heal the wound, and life would go on for both of them. In fact, he planned to telephone the sheikh in about a week to be certain both of them were on the same page. He did not plan to tell Djahid about the call, because he would not understand settling of differences without spilling blood. Yasim did not want Sobhi as an enemy. The man had too many resources.

  “If he tries anything, then you will kill him,” Yasim said, and his son smiled, content for the time being.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THE MORNING BRIEFING in General Middleton’s office did not add much to their base of knowledge, at least during the first hour. The killer who had taken the life of the last Spaniard still had not surfaced in the Lizard’s international law enforcement databases, so they chewed around the edges of what they knew some more, getting nowhere slowly.

  Swanson chose his words carefully when he told them about something he had realized subconsciously late last night, not wanting to mention the Boatman, his own private specter, to the group, who would think he was nuts. “The thought came to me while I was taking a shower,” he said. “I do some of my best thinking in the shower.”

  “Were you showering alone?” Coastie needled.

  He flashed a look to shut her up, then continued. “The First Amendment guarantees us the right of free speech, but it is a limited right; that means you can’t shout ‘fire’ in a crowded theater. I was thinking about how Torreblanca came charging out of his house so fast. I had given him plenty of time to meet me at the café, and the cops were already there. His movement seemed rushed and awkward from where I was in my car. For the sake of this argument, let’s suppose he was not coming to see me at all, but was reacting to something entirely different, something more urgent.”

  Double-Oh was nodding his head, getting the picture straight, thinking tactics. “Maybe somebody was saying his kids were in danger, or another attack was coming his way, to draw him into running.”

  Kyle had closed his eyes and leaned his head back, trying to get it straight himself. “I had called the private number of the cell phone that I left behind, so the rest of his lines were open.”

  “You think somebody else called him between the time that you did and the time you got to the house?” Sybelle frowned. “I don’t like it, Kyle. We don’t do coincidences.”

  Middleton carelessly sloshed another mug of dark coffee. “No, we don’t. But strange shit can happen at any time. Carry on, Gunny Swanson.”

  “I think he got an emergency call, sir, just like Double-Oh says. And just like anybody sitting in a dark the
ater munching popcorn and someone yells ‘fire,’ he reacted immediately by heading for the green exit sign, to clear out of there as fast as possible.”

  “Right into the kill zone,” said Coastie. “Wow. What a slick move.”

  Middleton said, “Maybe. That would explain the how.” He went back to his big desk. “Still leaves the big question of who, as in who done it, and why?”

  They all fell silent for a while, mulling the possibilities in a group-think of veteran special operators who didn’t always need words to communicate. Commander Freedman screwed up his lips, blinked a few times, then spoke. “We have been saying this sniper is a mystery man. Since we are opening up to coincidences, try this: That was the second time our people had been chased away from that hacienda because of a botched operation.”

  Coastie picked at her fingernail. “First time was when we got the call to abort the mission because our identity had been compromised. Now Kyle has to egress because the cops were about to swarm down on the place following the murder. Same force behind both the leak and the hit?”

  Silence again. Kyle said, “It fits. So the dance started with Senator Jordan giving up my name and that of Trident to Yasim Rebiane. And Rebiane is someone to whom Torreblanca would listen in an emergency. He could have made the call in Seville.”

  They went silent for a minute. Double-Oh asked, “How is that old bastard Monroe, anyway?”

  “He’s sucking oxygen and morphine in the ICU at Walter Reed, with the FBI parked at his door but not allowed to question him right now. Stable condition, but it could still go either way. Quadruple bypass surgery tomorrow morning.” The Lizard had checked his laptop computer. “No help to us.”

  General Middleton interrupted. “Maybe the senator doesn’t have to talk. The Feebs are trying to figure out how to use him anyway, maybe through his administrative aide, the little rat they have in custody as an accomplice.”

  “Where is he?” asked Swanson.