On Scope: A Sniper Novel

by Jack Coughlin

  There was the flutter of an international ringtone, then a second one, and Yanis Rebiane recognized the calling number. “Senator Monroe,” he said smoothly.

  “No, sir. This is Doug Jimenez, Senator Monroe’s chief of staff. I am afraid that I have bad news. The senator has been hospitalized with a heart attack. The doctors say he will live but is in for a long recovery. I spoke to him in the intensive care unit, and he said that you and I need to talk.”

  “I don’t know you.” Yanis did not hang up. Anyone tracking the call could only discover that the phone was somewhere in the busiest part of Venice, the popular area around Piazza San Marco and the majestic St. Mark’s Basilica. Thousands of tourists were milling about, and cruise ships disgorged more by the hour. He would give this man a minute, no more.

  “But I know you, Mr. Rebiane. The senator has taken me into his confidence since I had been doing the legwork for him on some, uh, military matters that you discussed.”

  “What are you talking about, Mr. Jimenez? I am just a contributor to the senator’s campaigns. We have met exactly one time, and it concerned agricultural issues in Missouri. I regret his illness, but I know nothing about anything to do with the military.”

  Doug sighed enough to be heard on the phone. “Let us just say that our interests are exactly the same, sir, and I will be running the senator’s office during his absence. It is important for constituents like yourself to understand that anything he could do for you, I can do instead, everything but vote.”

  Rebiane still had not hung up, so Doug felt he was almost home. “For instance, I can confirm now that as the senator advised earlier, the commodities trader Kyle Swanson is indeed the man handling the operations for Trident Manufacturing, including its international work in Spain.”

  “I suspected that already, Mr. Jimenez. So it is not information that my business would find useful.”

  A brief message came up on the computer screen: HE IS IN ITALY. Doug silently raised his fist in anticipated victory, and the agents silently applauded behind the glass window to encourage him. Now. Ring the bell.

  “I also have the name of his partner. Would that be of interest?”

  There was a dramatic pause in the conversation as Rebiane found a pen and a piece of paper. “Yes. Very much.”

  “Surprisingly for that line of work, it is a woman. Catherine Elizabeth Ledford. She goes by the name of Beth.” The computer screen put up a new word, VENICE.

  Rebiane scribbled the name. “Do you know where I can find them? Where are they?”

  “I can probably obtain the location, sir.” Make him want it. Ask for money. Make a deal. “It may be an expensive and time-consuming endeavor, however. They will not be listed in any, uh”—pause, struggle for an appropriate word—“conventional databanks, like a telephone book or Who’s Who in America.”

  Small laugh. “I see. That can be arranged. I appreciate your call, Mr. Jimenez. It was timely because this number will no longer be in service after today, so I shall have someone contact you at your office soon.”

  “That works. Good to speak with you, sir.”

  “Please give the senator my best wishes for a speedy recovery.” He hung up and stepped between two shops to join the mingling customers along the covered stone walkway of the Rialto Bridge, from which he tossed his phone into the Grand Canal.

  35

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  A WEEK PASSED following the Jimenez call to Rebiane in Venice, then another, and no one showed up at the senator’s office to meet with the aide. There were no telephone calls, no contact at all. Meanwhile, the senator was being kept alive at the hospital by machines, because letting him die was out of the question if Doug Jimenez was to maintain legitimate importance. The FBI covered both of them night and day, but it appeared that the bad guys were not going to step forward.

  Rebiane had been traced to Venice but had vanished again. There was no point in sending a Trident team to the water-laced city if there was no target there. The Rebianes could still be there, or they could have left by train, plane, or boat after the call. As days passed without further contact, the suspects could be anywhere in the world.

  Swanson padded along the Rock Creek path at a comfortable pace, trying to fit things together, and was drawing a blank. The sheikh in Abu Dhabi who had given up the identities of Yanis and Djahid Rebiane to the CIA in Egypt became a dry well as far as further information. Agency watchers reported that Marwan Sobhi had even reduced his security presence, moved about freely, and was maintaining a normal schedule. To Kyle, that indicated Sobhi no longer felt afraid, which led to the conclusion that a deal had been struck between the final two members of the infamous Group of Six: You don’t bother me, and I won’t bother you.

  One sure thing was that Task Force Trident was done with the Spain operation. It had been a political and diplomatic scandal waiting to happen if they had been caught shooting Spanish civilians. Four of the Group of Six paymasters had been killed, one not by Trident hands, and now with summer approaching, the rioters in Madrid would have better weather in which to argue about many other things. Their livelihood trumped any other concerns.

  Kyle had done the best that he could do for Mike Dodge, but the helium was obviously leaking out of the balloon, and the operation was fizzling to an incomplete conclusion.

  As Swanson’s thoughts drifted, he found himself watching the water in the big rowdy creek as it poured over huge boulders and rushed along its shaded corridor in one of the most beautiful settings around the District. It was also among the most polluted and bacteria-ridden brooks in the nation, taking in metropolitan sewage overflows and other repugnant matter. Like so much else in Washington, what looked serene and trouble-free could kill you. He loped along, one foot in front of another in easy strides, rolling off six kilometers and deciding that would not be enough today. He had started on the neat stones near his Georgetown apartment, then hit the Rock Creek Trail, and now swung off onto the well-kept C&O Canal path and headed south into wilderness, letting the workout smooth out his frustration.

  We’re not going to find these Rebiane guys if they don’t come out of hiding, he thought. Terrorism elsewhere had not come to a stop just because this evil pair had returned to the shadows. Iraq was a bombing range for warring religious sects. Afghanistan was like supergum stuck to Uncle Sam’s boots. American troops were still dying over there, and Kyle thought he probably should go back to MARSOC for a period of active duty gun work. He doubted if Middleton would approve that.

  He was sweating harder, feeling the sun on his back and shoulders. The next Green Light package could come down at any moment, and there had been some chatter about a new warlord in Africa that was stoking his army of kids with dope, giving them machetes, and turning them loose in harmless villages to chop wildly and yell “God is great!” The reality was that as the harsh spotlight that had been on the Rebianes dimmed, the FBI and the CIA would slide the matter down to a lesser importance as newer cases came in.

  In his logical mind, where he tried to think like the enemy, Swanson still thought they had presented a gift that the killers would not pass up. This was a rare chance for them to bring down the pair of American special operators who had wrecked their dreams of a new caliphate anchored in Spain. It was a matter of pride. Then again, maybe they weren’t as good as originally thought and did not have the ability to track Coastie and Kyle into a kill zone. A deal-sweetener might be needed. He thought, Come to us, guys. Take your best shot. Let’s finish this.

  The cell phone clipped to his running shorts began to chime, and he trotted to the shade of a grove of trees, catching his breath as he flipped it open. The digital ID showed that Beth Ledford was calling from Mexico. “Yo,” he said.

  “Kyle!” Coastie was screaming, laughing, and crying all at the same time. Drunk? In trouble? Had they gotten to her?

  “What? What’s wrong?” He went from casual to business in a heartbeat.

  “Nothing’s wrong. Absolu
tely nothing! Mickey and I are going to get married!”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  SHE MET with General Middleton a few days after returning from Mexico to turn in her resignation papers. “I am happy for you, Petty Officer Ledford,” he said, sounding as if he had a rock in his throat. “May your marriage to Captain Castillo be as happy as mine.”

  “Thank you, sir. It wasn’t an easy choice for me. I just could not be Mickey’s wife and run with Trident at the same time. A bihemispherical global relationship can’t work. I had to choose.”

  “Understood. Well, I will put through the papers with a glowing recommendation for your personnel jacket, which will remain top secret. You’ve been a hell of an operator, and your shooting talent is incredible.”

  “I plan to be a hell of a Mrs. Castillo, too.”

  “It will take a few weeks for this separation work to clear the paper-pushers, Ledford, because you are still under deep cover. Unfortunately, that means that you can’t send out engraved invitations and put your name out in public.”

  “Yes, sir. Mickey and I talked about that. He will stay in the service, but Beth Ledford will just vanish. Since we will get married down in Mexico, where I’m unknown, I will start using my first name and become Catherine Castillo. The Lizard says he can work with State and CIA to line up my new identity with a passport, driver’s license, and some other papers in that name to get me out of the memory banks here. Then I’ll slow down my life.”

  The general had his hands on his hips, watching her closely. So much talent in such a little package. She was good people. “You gave us three good years, Coastie. I couldn’t ask for any more. Thanks for a job well done.”

  “Thank you for giving me the chance and believing in me, General.”

  * * *

  ANOTHER MONTH EXPIRED, and on the final night of Ledford’s military career the team met for a good-bye dinner and drinks in a Georgetown pub. The Rebianes still had not raised their heads.

  Middleton, Summers, Freedman, Dawkins, and Swanson raised shot glasses brimming with good tequila and chanted a loud toast, “To Coastie!” They knocked them back, slapping the little glasses back on the bar for refills. Beth Ledford raised a glass of her own and countertoasted, “Right back at you!”

  They were around a tall table in the bar area, with a piano playing show tunes in the background, waiting for the karaoke to begin at ten o’clock. Each wore casual civilian clothes, and Coastie looked radiant in her tight jeans and a trendy green cotton top from her recent shopping jaunt in Paris. Despite the celebratory mood, the Tridents were also glum: Losing Coastie back to the world, even in a wedding to a guy they all liked, was almost as bad as losing her in action. Either way, the lively spirit that she brought to her job was going to be missed. That was military life, and the machine would move on, no matter how individuals stepped off the train.

  “Don’t you think being a June bride at a resort is kind of a cliché?” Master Gunny O. O. Dawkins called across the table. “How about you jumping out of a plane and saying the vows on the way down? Make it memorable.”

  “Oliver,” she replied, using his hated first name for emphasis. She no longer had to call anybody by their ranks. “That is, like, so stupid. Anyway, the wedding is in July, not June.” They talked a while about unusual weddings, and after a few more drinks, the music changed, a microphone was brought out and a spotlight came on, and the karaoke began. Benton Freedman got up and started a country song with a surprisingly smooth baritone. Sybelle darted up next to him to make it a duet, an unlikely Willie and Waylon, and they breezed through “Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.”

  Kyle Swanson sat back in the slender chair with a boozy grin on his face and a small hole in his heart as he listened to them croon about smoky old pool rooms, faded jeans, warm puppies, and clear mountain mornings; his life. He had talked with Lady Pat and Sir Jeff earlier in the day, and they wanted to pay for the entire wedding, anything Coastie wanted. Then Pat berated him. “You let a real winner get away this time, Kyle. This is all on you. All you had to do was show your feelings, just for a moment. A real smile would have done it. You can be such a shit sometimes. You are a hateful and disappointing boy, and I will never have grandchildren.”

  Mickey Castillo was a good friend. He and Coastie would be good for each other. Kyle understood her, though, understood her better than anybody else, probably. They had communicated without speaking during the long hours together on watch, as they had done in Seville. He trusted her with his life; she trusted him. He was the best sniper around; she had the potential to become just as good. She was beautiful and young and full of life, but she wanted more than he could ever give. Why start, why give hope when there was none?

  “What?” snarled Dawkins. “You look like a tank just ran over your kitten.”

  “Fuck you and have another drink,” Swanson snapped back. He realized his face was giving away some feeling. Not allowed.

  Coastie spun around at the growl from Double-Oh and caught Kyle’s somber look; she registered shock but recovered quickly, her cheeks flushed red. She bit her lip slightly, that unconscious little thing she did when nervous, one of those things that nobody else ever noticed. She leaned close and grabbed his arm and looked deep into his soul. “Hey. Still BFF, right?”

  She had declared them to be best friends forever after their first mission together, infiltrating and taking down a terrorist fortress in Pakistan. He eased his hand over hers. “Yep. BFF, partner. Till the wheels fall off the wagon.”

  The song had reached the part about always being alone, even with someone you love. “Did you know the Liz could sing like that?” Coastie asked, trying desperately to change the subject and talk about anything other than what they were both really thinking at that moment.

  Kyle raised his beer bottle to the sweet face. Could have been worse. Willie also sang “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.” He couldn’t take that one right now. He would later remember this moment as the instant that he dropped his self-pity and hatched the idea. She would never be his girlfriend, his lover, or his wife, but she was his field partner, and a damned good one.

  “Hey, Cinderella,” he called over to her, suddenly excited as the song ended and Sybelle and Liz rejoined them. “Sorry, but your pumpkin is going to be a bit late tonight.” Kyle motioned for them all to lean in close over the table. “We can use this wedding to get to the Rebianes, if Coastie agrees to stay on the payroll just a little longer.”

  She flared, as he knew she would. “I’m not postponing my wedding, Kyle. Forget it. Don’t start being a jerk.”

  “Just the opposite. We want it to go ahead on schedule. The thing that may have been keeping the Rebianes from making a move is they are not sophisticated enough to track us down in the United States. We overestimated their ability once we wrecked their network. The wedding is a chance for us to guarantee that both of us will be in the same spot, on the same day, at the same time. It’s an assassin’s dream!”

  “You want to turn her wedding into a shooting gallery?” Even Sybelle was stunned, and her cheeks grew rosy with indignation.

  “I want to turn it into a trap.”

  “That’s too harsh, Kyle,” the Lizard said. “Even for us.”

  All eyes swung to Coastie, who took a sip of beer as she thought it over. She rubbed a rim of suds from her upper lip. “I kinda like it,” she said. “One last job. A day to remember.”

  “You’re both insane,” Brad Middleton said. “Let’s do it.”

  CONSTANTINE, ALGERIA

  HOME. SAFE. Yanis Rebiane had exchanged one city of bridges, Venice, for another, although the bridges that spanned the Rhumel River and the deep ravine of Constantine dwarfed the little footpaths of the Italian tourist town. He had been born on this mountain plateau, and he was safe because he was a good friend of the president of Algeria, who, although elected to office, ran the country like a dictator. Enemies of Islam never had an easy time here.

  Yani
s and Djahid had left Venice not long after he had thrown the cell phone into the water. International law enforcement would have used the telephone signal to at least put some agents on the ground, although any search would be fruitless. They could search every gondola and never find a trace, and now even that tenuous chance had evaporated. The police had nothing. If they wanted to try this fortress, well, let them come.

  He had been certain from the moment he began talking with the senator’s aide that it was a setup. Making the deal for the secret information had been too easy. Everybody bargains, but the abrupt young man had been too nervous by far. It would have been foolish to buy into his game.

  The fact that Senator Monroe had a heart attack was not a concern. If he died, whatever he knew would not matter. Even if he lived, Yanis would never contact him again. Plus, the Spanish operation had collapsed totally, leaving only a tenuous peace with the sheikh. The senator’s usefulness was done, but Yanis would never forget what had happened with Marwan; he would get even someday, but for now, it was time to move on.

  “The major thing the fellow gave up was proof that the United States was behind the response to our victory in Barcelona,” he said. “Why else would anyone in Washington have pursued us?”

  Djahid was also happy to be back in the home near the cliffs. He let his bare feet grope the softness of the large Berber rug that had been woven by some unknown women in the Sahara more than a hundred years ago. He wore torn jeans and a favorite black T-shirt bearing the logo of a German beer company. “Are you going to need me around for safety now that we’re back?”

  His father drank mint tea from a glass with a gilt border and tried a cookie made with rosewater. The weather was just beginning to feel like summer on the plateau, and he was also in casual clothes. “No one is coming after us.”