“Some safe house, probably. Why?”
“Maybe I should talk to him personally. Give him some encouragement to help. Like you said, sir, we need a break.”
* * *
DOUGLAS JIMENEZ stared across the small table at the meanest-looking man he had ever seen. An open set of handcuffs lay between them, reflecting the fluorescent lights of the tight interview room. There was nothing and no one else in the room, which was bare of shelves and the usual cop junk like dusty computer screens and file boxes. Two blue plastic chairs and one small table on an easy-clean floor. Nothing else, not even a pinhole camera, microphone, recording device, or the obligatory one-way mirror. He had grown used to the austere surroundings of police work in the past few days, but this was extreme.
“Put these on me,” the stranger ordered with the tight-lipped grin and the hungry gray-green eyes of a predator who has found easy prey. He wore faded jeans and a loose sports shirt that showed strong muscles in the forearms. “Nice and tight. I want you to feel safe.”
“No.” Doug held up his hands as if surrendering, trying to make peace. “That won’t be necessary. I’m good. Who are you?”
Without another word, the stranger put both hands on his side of the table and violently shoved it into Jimenez so hard that it knocked away the lawyer’s breath and toppled him backward out of the chair. He gasped like a fish on a rock as a broken rib radiated a sharp sting in his chest, and his vision reddened.
By the time Doug was able to catch some breathable air again, the man was back in his chair, the table was back in place, and one of the handcuffs was dangling from the stranger’s right wrist. “Get back in your chair and sit back down. Now do my other wrist.”
Doug struggled up, grabbing the injured and throbbing area, which only made it hurt more. “Goddamn, man, you broke my rib!”
“I used measured and minimal force. It should be just a contusion. Hurts about the same but is not broken. Doesn’t matter anyway. Now, if you please, hook me up.” The man held out his arms, and Doug reluctantly locked the other cuff in place. Then they both settled back.
It happened instantly. The stranger lunged across the table and looped the handcuffs behind Jimenez’s neck and yanked him forward and smashed his own forehead on Doug’s exposed nose, which gave way with a snap from the bone-on-bone strike. Pain flooded through Jimenez, the sharpest he had ever felt in his life, and blood poured out of the broken nose, coating his mouth and chin. Without releasing Doug’s neck, the man whipped around the table and got behind him, so that the steel handcuffs twisted and became a noose, and then he kicked the plastic chair from beneath Jimenez. It went clattering across the room and bounced off a wall. He let the victim sag downward, pulled by his own weight. Doug’s fingers clawed helplessly at the chain that was crushing his throat.
He was allowed to sink all the way to the floor before the man knelt beside him, maintaining enough of a grip with the cuffs to choke off the air, and Douglas Jimenez’s eyes bugged from his head as he passed out, certain the last thing he would ever see was the gray-green eyes that were studying him as if he were nothing more than a dust bunny beneath a bed. The last words he heard were, “My name is Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson, you shitbird, and I hear you have been looking for me.”
Jimenez slowly regained consciousness on the floor as the room swirled and he gagged. Blood was caked on his hands and had formed a stiff mask on his face and coated his tongue and blocked his nose. He was on his side, so the puke and blood spilled out of his mouth instead of clogging his throat. He was hurt, but he was alive, and heaving to get some air into his starved lungs.
“Get up. You’re not hurt.” The sharp voice was accompanied by the vise grip of a strong hand that lifted him by the collar, then gave a rough shove to put him back in the chair, and he was back at the table, everything in place again. Swanson moved around to his own chair, fished a key from his pocket, and unlocked the cuffs, putting them once again on the slick table surface.
“That little demonstration was necessary to prove a point without wasting a lot of time. If I can come this close to killing you so easily while in restraints, imagine what I might do with no cuffs on. Back in the day, I learned hand-to-hand combat from a little instructor who really knew his stuff. He was so small, like an elf or something, and looked totally out of place among us badass Marines sitting around him. When he asked for his first volunteer, I made the mistake of standing forward. He whipped my ass for about fifteen seconds, leaving me on the dirt in much the same shape that you are in right now. After that, I became a believer and his best student, and have gone through a lot of even better instructors since then. In other words, I can always find you and kill you in a hundred different ways even before needing to reach a gun. And I can make it pretty painful, you fucking terrorist wannabe.”
Jimenez glared blearily at Swanson. “I understand, Gunny. I’m not a terrorist. I have been cooperating to the best of my ability.”
Swanson stood and checked his shirt to be certain that it had no bloodstains, then took it off and set it aside. The muscles on his torso stood out in sharp definition. “It would be best if you continue to do so.” He balled up his fist and struck Jimenez squarely on the mouth, splitting the lower lip in another shock of pain and sending out another big splash of blood.
“Get it through your thick head that you are a terrorist, asshole! Just because you wore a coat and tie and worked on the Hill doesn’t make you any different from some raghead on a donkey packed with explosives. You were helping a guy that put six of my fellow Marines in coffins. You revealed classified information that has put more special operators, including me, in danger, and you fucked up a sensitive operation. So I’m giving you a little look into our world.”
“Stop! Please stop. Why are you doing this to me? You don’t need to beat me up. I’m already helping clear up this mess. Anyway, you are violating my rights as an American citizen!”
A quick twist of the right ear, with Kyle digging his fingernails into the soft flesh, brought another yelp, and Swanson was in his face again. “You don’t like me, do you? You want to hurt me like I’m hurting you, but you’re too much of a pussy to even try.”
“No! Owwww!”
Another twist on the opposite ear, and a spark of anger flared deep within Douglas Jimenez, the part of his mind from the street days reacting. Swanson caught the flicker, and it earned a hard slap that spilled Jimenez from the chair again.
“You don’t like me, Doug, and I don’t care. In fact, I want you to hate me, to think about me all the time, knowing I’m likely to keep coming back and hurting you on my days off when I have nothing better to do. Fucking piece of horse crap.”
Jimenez, on the floor, kicked out, and Swanson stomped on the extended ankle and heard it crack. Jimenez curled into the fetal position, crying and holding his leg. “The only way you can stop me is to kill me, asshole, and you can’t do that by yourself. You need big-league help.” Swanson walked away and leaned against the smooth wall. A splatter of blood had crossed his chest.
“Here is your only way out. You are going to be asked pretty soon to call the terrorist that your boss had talked to earlier. You will have to do the sales job of your life, because I want him to break cover and try to take me down. Who knows, you and your terrorist buddy might even get lucky. Then I won’t be able to slap you around anymore.”
Swanson stepped easily across the floor with a leopardlike economy of movement, grabbed Jimenez by the lapels of the orange jail suit, and slammed him against the wall, raising him up on his toes and pressing a knee into his groin. “I want you to hate me as much as I hate you, you little prick. I can see it happening already back there deep in your eyes, the way your mind is shifting from outright groveling fear to a hope of some revenge. You want somebody to bring me down. This is your only chance.”
Jimenez spat a gob of blood and mucus on the floor. He had been brutally handled, but that part was over. His ankle and nose were broken,
but not his brain. He wiped his face with a sleeve. “Don’t you ever hit me again,” he warned, and Swanson laughed at him.
Kyle walked to the door, putting on his shirt, certain that the attitude adjustment had been successful.
Doug stared with fury at the man who walked out of the room. Jimenez had always prided himself on his gift of gab; he could talk his way out of tight places, peddle backroom deals for votes, and even make people donate cash to candidates they really did not like. When it came to making deals, he was in his element. So he would make that call to whoever it was, and do his best to paint a target on the back of that fucking Swanson.
34
CAIRO, EGYPT
ONE CROWD was gathering in Mostafa Mahmoud Square, unrolling its banners beneath cloudless skies and handing out ink-smeared antigovernment leaflets, getting into the spirit of the day’s demonstration aimed at forcing the Muslim Brotherhood out of political power. Another crowd, supporting the Brotherhood government, was assembling at the same time in the Sayyida Zeinab area near Garden City. It was nine o’clock in the morning, and by noon the battle would be joined once again in Tahrir Square. It happened frequently, and today showed no indication of any change from the usual useless oratorical thunder from the loudspeakers and a few cracked heads. President Hosni Mubarak had been ousted early in 2011, and Egypt still had not settled into a long-range government. Revolution was still in the air. Both sides remained stridently anti-American.
McKay Bannermann used extreme caution in threading his way from his hotel to the United States Embassy, and he was pleased that the taunting protesters who usually loitered around the area were gone to their respective camps for the demonstrations. At the embassy gate, he put aside the burgundy red German Reisepass he was carrying in his hand and retrieved his blue American passport. He was a dual citizen, with a parent from each nation. Bannermann was an attorney who had been in private practice in Abu Dhabi for many years, but his only real client was Marwan Tirad Sobhi and the billionaire’s myriad interests.
Once past the exterior guards, he avoided the lines of people who were there on regular embassy business and spoke to a young man in a blue blazer and tan slacks, the so-called cultural attaché who had been expecting him. In less than ten minutes, Bannermann was easing his soft bulk into a chair across from a resident agent of the Central Intelligence Agency. The faux diplomat had perfect black hair and a square jaw, and Bannermann was delighted to see the Yale diploma on the office wall. Since he had one of those himself, that got them off to a good start, mutually loathing the Harvard Crimson.
In his unexpectedly high-pitched voice, the attorney said, “My client sent me to pass along a piece of vital intelligence information to you. I will be brief.”
“I’m listening, Mr. Bannermann.”
“Ordinarily, I would invoke client-attorney privilege, but in this case, my client has authorized the release of his name. He is Marwan Tirad Sobhi. You probably knew that before I sat down here.”
CIA did not react other than with the bland offer, “Would you like a drink?”
Bannerman waved it away. “As you are also aware, the sheikh was a member of the ill-fated Group of Six that attempted to give the Spanish government a different option during its economic crisis.”
“They tried to buy a way in for the Muslims.”
Bannerman ignored the jibe. “A series of deadly murders decimated the Group after the American Consulate in Barcelona was attacked.”
CIA pursed his lips as if in thought. “Is that right?”
The lawyer was just as relaxed, for he was only a messenger. He opened his briefcase and removed a note. On it was written the names of Djahid and Yanis Rebiane. He gave it to the CIA agent. “These are the two men who were directly responsible for Barcelona, and they acted without the authorization from the others in the Group. Djahid is a very dangerous man and actually led the ground attack. Yasim, his father, planned it. It is probable that they also killed Mr. Torreblanca when he canceled the Spanish project.”
The CIA man realized Yanis Rebiane was one of the two remaining members of the Group of Six, and he had vanished. Marwan Sobhi was giving them both up, which indicated the Rebianes perhaps did murder Torreblanca and the sheikh did not want to become another notch on the gun of Djahid. “How solid is this, McKay? Do you have photos of these two?”
The attorney gave a lopsided smile. “Extremely solid. The sheikh would not be at all displeased if Yasim and his son, who is truly a mad dog, encountered some unfortunate luck, and the sooner the better. I’ve never seen a picture of Djahid Rebiane. You should have many of Yasim.”
“Does your man know where they are?” He was not ready to bet a lot of chips on Sobhi’s word. The CIA had taken a serious black eye from a similar walk-in kook called “Curveball” during the run-up to Iraq. The more information that could be gleaned, the better.
“Unfortunately, no. If you give me a number, I will notify you immediately should we hear anything new.”
“That’s not going to be good enough, McKay. No matter what the movies say, we don’t have electronic trackers on everybody in the world. We need to get these mutts out in the open.”
“I will take that request back with me. Perhaps the sheikh can reach out to friends for assistance.” He picked up his briefcase, ready to leave, but the Agency man had one more question.
“So what does your guy want in exchange for us getting the Rebianes off his back? Nothing comes free from a lawyer.” CIA was willing to give up a few bricks of cash, but Marwan Sobhi was already richer than the average American teenaged dot.com gazillionaire, so that wouldn’t be effective.
“Why, nothing at all!” The lawyer protested as if shocked at the very idea of doing something like this with a price tag attached. “He always stands ready to help his American friends.”
Neither of them believed that for a moment. This was a situation of convenience. The sheikh was adroitly recruiting the Americans to stab his former friend Yanis Rebiane in the back before this Djahid Rebiane muscle could silence Sobhi. It was the worst kind of deal in the Middle East: a favor owed, to be collected at some future date. CIA took it in a heartbeat.
ANNANDALE, VIRGINIA
DOUGLAS JIMENEZ rubbed his sore face. For what he had endured, there was little external damage. The Feebs had asked no questions about the private session with Swanson, but gave him two mild painkillers that also contained a special brew of a relaxant that took off just enough of an edge to keep him under control while leaving him wide awake. He had no idea how long he had been in custody.
Senator Jordan, according to the FBI agents, was still in the intensive care unit at Walter Reed Hospital. His physical condition should have been improving, but the man seemed to have lost his will to live. The hospital reported two flatline incidents the night before that required the crash carts to pull him back from the brink, only to have the doctors discover an unexpected buildup of fluid in the lungs. They said his condition was critical, and he was being sustained by machines that breathed for him, pumped nutrients directly into his veins, and evacuated his bladder and bowels. Adding to the misery were drug-induced hallucinations that made him mumble and thrash. When the senator’s wife had come down from New York to see her hospitalized husband, she had been informed that he was a suspect in a national security matter and was taken in for some questioning herself. She returned to Manhattan as soon as possible. His mistress and their daughter stayed away, hating him for putting them in grave danger because of one of his schemes. Once one of the most powerful men in Washington, Monroe now faced eternity all alone, and nobody cared.
That included Doug Jimenez, who had hooked his own career wagon to the senator’s rising star, only to have it turn out to be nothing but a piece of falling space junk. His own dreams had evaporated, and he just wanted this whole thing to be done, so he could get the hell out of Washington and never talk to another politician or cop or Swanson as long as he lived. The best way out—the only way
—was the deal offered by the FBI. As a lawyer, he bargained for a while, jacking up the payout to $250,000, then looked over the fine print closely and signed his name. He imagined his future shingle hanging on a little office somewhere in Oregon, where he would conduct a practice based on a low-profile lawyer’s best friends: WILLS & TRUSTS & PERSONAL INJURY. Anything else would have dire consequences.
After that, they became best friends, Doug and his agents. They let him walk around in the daylight, then they served him a good lunch, let him watch a little TV, take a shower, and put on fresh clothes, and gave him plenty of easy time to climb back into his skin after the harrowing experience. He was shocked to find that he had been in custody for less than forty-eight hours.
When they gave him a script to follow for his talk with Yanis Rebiane, Jimenez read it and exclaimed, “Who the hell is Catherine Elizabeth Ledford?”
“You don’t need to know that,” said the agent. “Just spill her name along with Swanson’s. Call her Beth.”
“I’m getting fucked over by you guys for disclosing Swanson as a so-called secret special operator, and now you want me to give away both him and another one? That ain’t hardly fair.”
The agent cocked a dark eyebrow. “Life ain’t fair, Dougie. You have to give Rebiane something he does not already have, and that is confirmation of Kyle’s position, and the additional prize of Beth Ledford. No sweat, pal. It’s all part of the plan.”
“God. A government plan. What could go wrong?” he whispered to himself, exasperated, then began to edit the script down to a couple of main talking points, arguing that he had to sound extemporaneous. Any script would sound stilted and false. “I did this bullshit for a living, man,” he protested to the agents. “I have to be offhand to make it believable. He has to believe that I’m legit before he buys anything from me. It’s Telemarketing 101.”
“OK, then. Let’s do it,” said the agent. Recorders were in place, as were tracking devices, and Doug held a familiar private cell phone. His own. The agents went into an adjacent room, able to communicate on a computer screen that Jimenez could read. No outside noise could distract the parties involved. “Dial the number. Make this dude a believer, Dougie.”
On Scope: A Sniper Novel Page 26
