Clean Kill

by Jack Coughlin

  Taja was not as brave. She loved Risha and Hanaa but both of them pushed the bounds of propriety. “Be quiet, Risha. People can hear.”

  “So let them listen. I don’t care.” She went back to her cell phone when it buzzed in her palm, and passed it over to Hanaa. “Gabir wants me to send him a picture.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Taja was horrified.

  “Oh, I won’t.” Then the dark eyes flashed beneath the long bangs of dark hair that swept across her forehead. She spun the cell phone around, held it at arm’s length and snapped a picture of herself, holding up the cardboard coffee cup with the company’s green logo in plain view. She attached it to a text message and hit the SEND button.

  “You fool!” Taja hissed. “Don’t you understand what you just did? He already knew your name and now he knows exactly where we are because this is the only Starbucks in Khobz. What will we do if he comes here with his friends? He can blackmail you into doing anything he wants just by threatening to show your picture to your family, or even to the muttaween. He owns you now, Risha. He owns you! We must leave.”

  “Well, you didn’t do anything at all, Taja,” said Risha. “Anyway, Gabir would never betray me, so nothing is going to happen. The Religious Police cannot monitor cell phone traffic and Wi-Fi. So we can go, but let’s do some shopping first. I feel like buying a bright new scarf with daddy’s money. And wouldn’t it be just terrible if Gabir actually decided to come down to the mall for a café au lait?”

  R ISHA WAS THE FIRST one grabbed when the girls emerged from the upscale clothing boutique on the second floor, then rough hands snatched Hanaa and Taja and pinned them both against the glass display window.

  “You little whore!” roared a deep voice as a man with a shaggy beard and in the robes of the muttaween, the feared Religious Police, hurled Risha to the floor. As she fell backward, the abaya rode up past her ankles, and then was snatched upward further along with the edge of her denim skirt to expose her knees and thighs. The first stroke of the camel-hide whip was instant and hard, and laid a bloody stripe across her right shin.

  Risha screamed, more from surprise than pain. She had hit the floor so hard that she bounced and slid a few feet, and clawed for balance. The second whip stroke slashed her right knee and brought another yelp, this time in pain. Two muttaween were wielding the whips, one on each side of her, the signature loose red clothes circling their heads and with their eyes lustfully on her naked legs. She heard Taja and Hanaa scream and saw them being held against the storefront by other muttaween.

  “Stop! Don’t hurt me! I have done nothing wrong,” she yelled as loud as possible.

  Another whip stroke came down, but she rolled away from it, only to go into the path of the whip of the second man. It sliced her thigh with a deep sting and blood flowed from the wound. A crowd was gathering and some young men were laughing, one of them recording the beating on his video camera. In the front row, cheering on the whip handlers, was Gabir.

  A dark sense of betrayal and outrage seized Risha’s soul. He was a police informant and had used the Web to track her down! They intended to make an example of her to instill fear in other girls. Hot tears came to her eyes.

  Another whip stroke fell across her legs, but this one didn’t seem to hurt as much, hardly at all as the pain was soaked up by her rage. Risha knew she had only a few moments before they took her away and she grabbed for her shoulder bag and fumbled it open. The muttaween were still yelling. She could not understand what they were saying and did not care. Gabir! The bastard!

  Her palm found the canister of pepper spray, she yanked it out and pointed the nozzle at one of the whip men and pressed down. The surprise was total. A mere girl was fighting back! Her attacker stumbled backward, dropping his whip and rubbing his eyes with a yowl of pain, causing the second one to pause briefly before coming at her even harder. He dodged in close until he was standing directly over her, then knocked the can from her grip. It bounced away into the crowd.

  His lashes were being aimed at her upper body and her face, in pure vengeance. Although she felt the whip crack her cheeks, Risha was not going to give up. She reached into the bag again and her fingers closed on the bone handle of the knife. The little button! Her thumb found it and she pressed hard, and the blade flipped out and locked. She would kill Gabir for betraying her!

  Using her left hand trying to protect her eyes from the whip, Risha jabbed directly upward with the knife and the sharp point slid smoothly into the groin of the attacking man standing over her. She pulled back and jabbed again, and again, as hard as she could. He screamed and dropped his whip and she slashed even more, the blade ripping into the femoral artery deep in his inner thigh. Blood spurted out in a purple rope.

  The crowd went silent. This petite girl had blinded one muttawa and stabbed another one in the balls! Both had fallen. Impossible!

  Risha still had the stained knife in her hand and her own blood oozed from the long whip marks. She ignored the pain and rolled to her knees. The scarf and the abaya had been torn from her head and her long black hair hung before her face in disarray, giving her the look of a rising evil spirit. Her eyes locked on Gabir and she moved toward him. He dropped his coffee cup and backed away.

  The two muttawas who had been holding her friends had released them and now crashed into her, knocking Risha back onto the slippery, bloody tiles, screaming and punching her. The thick butt ends of their whips became bludgeons that rose and fell against her head. Risha managed to deeply slash the hand of one before the knife was knocked away and the two heavy policemen beat her savagely. She was already unconscious by the time one of them grabbed a handful of her raven-black hair and repeatedly slammed her face onto the hard stone until she was dead.

  19

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  P RINCE A BDULLAH NORMALLY WOULD be wearing a well-tailored business suit when he visited the Oval Office. His driver would slip quietly through the back gate on East Exec and stop beside a green-canopied walkway used by special guests to enter the White House with some protection from the media cameras. This time was different: The prince was driven up the long, curving driveway in full view of the press corps, which had been alerted to his visit and was waiting in a pack as he arrived at the front entrance of the West Wing.

  The immaculate ebony limousine halted beneath the colonnaded entrance and a Marine guard in dress blues opened the car door. The prince stepped out, wearing elegant white robes that flowed like a wind-smoothed sail and an Arab kaffiyeh, a square of pristine white cloth folded into a triangle and held to his head by cords of spun gold threads.

  He paused to smile and wave for the cameras and then turned to his left to do the same for the startled tourists gathered across the green lawn, beyond the big fence. Reporters shouted out questions, but he only continued to smile and wave, and then he stepped inside. Neither the president nor any senior member of the administration had been sent out to greet him.

  It was an intentional piece of media theater, a show carefully crafted for maximum effect. Before even setting foot inside the White House, Prince Abdullah had sent an open visual message, that despite the dire news coming from Saudi Arabia, the House of Saud was still in control. This was a time to display strength and confidence, and not whimper. He had received reports that some of the weaker princes were thinking of fleeing the country during this crisis. Where was their pride? To do so was to deny their heritage and their names. Shameful. Abdullah had determined that whoever left now would be called to a severe accounting for their actions later.

  Chief of Staff Steve Hanson was waiting just beyond the entrance portal and formally welcomed Abdullah, then escorted him directly to the Oval Office. President Mark Tracy was waiting, ready with a diplomatic smile that masked the bitterness he felt inside. This was not going to be pleasant.

  The prince showed an equally formal smile as he shook the hand of Tracy, who was an old friend, exchanged polite greetings with others, and bowed slightly toward forme
r Senator Catherine Hart, the new U.S. secretary of state. “Congratulations on your appointment, Madame Secretary, although it is terrible that you have been called into the position due to the tragic death of Secretary Waring. Your experience in foreign affairs will serve us all well in this troubled time.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. We are all happy that you were not seriously injured in that same, horrible terrorist attack.” Hart had been chairwoman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and when Waring was killed, President Tracy demanded an experienced hand at the reins over at Foggy Bottom. Hart would not miss a step in transferring her political power to the State Department, where career diplomats knew that her bite was worse than her bark. She was a stylish woman with short red hair and light blue eyes that expressed nothing she did not want them to show.

  When everyone was seated, President Tracy began the conversation. “We have been monitoring the news reports, Mr. Ambassador. Perhaps you could advise us as to what is actually happening in your country. It appears quite serious.”

  Abdullah knew that question would be asked and had chosen his response carefully. “There was already some unrest in a few places because of the proposed treaty with Israel. That was expected and being watched. The unexpected terrorist strike unleashed more disruption, but only in scattered areas. For the present, our security forces believe that the trouble is limited and that they have it under control. A handful of rogue conservative extremists stirring up trouble.”

  “That seems quite contrary to many of the public reports,” said Secretary Hart. “The pictures on television show a situation that could only be described as rioting in some urban areas.”

  “Television,” Abdullah said with a smooth smile. “The cameras will rush to a house fire and portray it as an entire city in flames. The TV people are using that broad brush approach because we have strict rules on censorship. Madame Secretary, Mr. President, I assure you both that we have it under control.”

  “What about security in the oil fields?” President Tracy decided to get to the point.

  “Nothing untoward is happening, thankfully. It seems quiet in those important places. We have forces stationed at all of the production facilities and they are on the highest alert.”

  The president pushed casually back on the small sofa and let Secretary Hart roll out the next point. “And what is your conclusion on the assassination of the commander of the king’s private guard, and his family? Is there a loyalty problem within the Saudi military, Mr. Ambassador?”

  Abdullah still remained unruffled. No questions that he had not anticipated. “The work of a solitary lunatic. Just as your intelligence people occasionally find a single spy in their own ranks, this zealot was swept up in the excitement. I can assure you that our troops remain committed to His Majesty and to the protection of the kingdom and its people.”

  President Tracy looked across and met those powerful eyes. “Prince Abdullah, please be totally honest with us. We only want to help. Just ask for our support and we are here for you,” he said. “Whatever you want in supplies or materiel or manpower will be provided. Your government must not be overthrown. My planners tell me we could have boots on the ground in a matter of hours. I have spoken with other world leaders who are also willing to form an international coalition to protect those fields while your forces quell the uprising.”

  Abdullah knew this was a turning point. “No. The kingdom appreciates your support, Mr. President, but a foreign military presence is the last thing we want or need. We are aware of your carrier battle group that has entered the Arabian Gulf and must insist that you keep your distance. This is an internal problem for our country. We are under assault by a gang of terrorists and we will deal with them appropriately. U.S. combat troops would only exacerbate the situation, not help resolve it.”

  Cathy Hart spoke again, her voice firm. “Those oil fields need to be tightly guarded, Mr. Ambassador, and we cannot stand idly by if the fanatics somehow do gain the upper hand. Establishment of another theological government that is violently anti-American and anti-Western cannot be tolerated in the region.”

  “Madame Secretary, you must learn to veil your threats better.” Abdullah laughed softly. “What you describe is a nightmare scenario that simply will not take place. Impossible. Your troops are not wanted. Do not make the mistake that was made in Iraq, when Muslims of various sects united in common cause against you as a foreign invader.”

  There was a moment of silence as the development soaked into everyone present. The United States was thinking of committing forces. Saudi Arabia might deploy against the U.S. to increase its popular support. By changing the face of the enemy, the internal rebellion might be quelled.

  “It may not be that easy any longer, Mr. Ambassador,” said President Tracy.

  The president paused, then walked to his big desk and sat down to give one final read to the extraordinary document that was the main topic of the meeting, and one of which Abdullah was not aware.

  “We have uncovered a very serious issue: your country possesses nuclear weapons, Mr. Ambassador.” The president removed some satellite photos of specific bases. Once the CIA and the other intelligence agencies knew what they were looking for, the locations were identified. “We demand that you get rid of them.”

  Abdullah fought to keep a straight face and not appear stunned by this development. How did they find out? “We have no nuclear bombs,” he said, his eyebrows rising in protest. “How could you have gotten such an idea, Mr. President?”

  “Do not bother to deny that they exist, my friend.” He tapped the satellite photographs. “And I did not say ‘bombs.’ I said ‘weapons.’ There are five nuclear-tipped missiles stashed around the country and they must be dismantled forthwith. The risk of a nuclear device falling under the control of the terrorists who are trying to take over your country is simply unacceptable to the international community. Those madmen would not hesitate to fire one and ignite a global holocaust.”

  Abdullah fought to maintain his composure. “I will certainly have to consult with my government in Riyadh on this matter, Mr. President. The weapons were secretly emplaced only as defense weapons for the utmost emergency, one on each border.”

  “Please convey to His Majesty that this administration, a long-time ally of your country, considers this a matter of paramount importance, Prince Abdullah. When I learned of it, I felt personally betrayed. So in the interest of world peace, I must spell out a terrible consequence. Dismantle those nuclear missiles and show us proof, or the United States will go to the United Nations to seek a resolution to both demand their removal and to have the oil fields placed under the protection of an international security force. After that, it won’t really matter who is in charge in Riyadh.”

  “Mr. President! You cannot be talking about a possible war between our two countries?”

  “No, sir. Not at all. It is not our wish to take any action against your country. But I am talking about reality. Your government is drifting toward the rocks and the fanatics may pick up some nuclear missiles as part of the coup. That would place Israel and the oil shipping routes under a nuclear threat. We cannot let that happen.” The president stood, signaling an end to the meeting.

  “Very well. I understand your position,” said the prince as he also stood. “Sadly, I am sure I speak for my government in stating that we will not allow any outsiders to meddle in what we consider to be internal Saudi affairs. But I thank you for your time and guidance, sir.”

  President Tracy said, “Please express our warmest regards and friendship to His Majesty.” The president grasped the hand of the ambassador and placed his other hand on the man’s elbow and looked him in the eyes to be sure he had his attention. “Now, off the record, you guys have gotten yourselves, and us, into a hell of a mess and you have to figure a way out in a hurry. Don’t let things get out of hand.”

  S CRETARY H ART RETURNED TO the State Department immediately after the meeting to start picking up
the reins of her new job. Once she had cleared the White House grounds, President Tracy went down to the Situation Room, which was as secure as electronics could make it. CIA Director Bartlett Geneen and General Hank Turner, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, stood when he entered the room, and he shook their hands. Steve Hanson sat to one side of the room, leaving only the three men at the big table.

  “It didn’t go well,” Tracy said. “I think the ground is shaking beneath their feet over there, and the information about the nukes blindsided him. He even indicated the Saudis would fight us if we tried to militarily intervene.”

  General Turner picked absently at a loose thread on his tunic. “It’s not our best option. It would take months to really do it right, and we don’t have the time. If we have to go in, it could get messy.”

  “Nevertheless, the United States must not allow another government in the Middle East to be taken over by religious fanatics. Particularly Saudi Arabia. What about the guy who is leading the rebellion, Bart?”

  Bart Geneen had been around the spook business for a long time. Wisps of white hair curled around his balding head and deep worry lines etched his face. He opened a folder, then worked a keyboard and a grainy picture of a tall, bearded man wearing a red headdress flashed onto a wall screen. He had deep, dark, mad eyes that seemed to reach through the lens of the camera. Geneen had spent a career looking at ruthless men like this one. “He is Mohammed Abu Ebara, the top dog in the Committee for the Propogation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice, better known as the muttaween, or the Religious Police. Officially, the Grand Mufti is in charge of religious matters in Saudi Arabia, but Ebara already has become the face of the coup. He and his cops are absolutely vicious.”

  “If the king falls, would Ebara replace him?” asked the president.