Clean Kill

by Jack Coughlin

The general put on his reading glasses and scanned a briefing paper before responding. “His death caused a temporary outbreak of violence and unrest in some locations, particularly in Jeddah. It seems not to have inspired the population to general revolt. In fact, there seems to be a sense of relief spreading throughout the country as people realize that normality may be returning. The Religious Police are drawing in their horns and showing signs of caution. They are clearly worried. Meanwhile, our troops are regaining control in every region.”

  “The revolt is not over,” observed Abdullah.

  “No, Your Highness. It is not. But it is slowing dramatically. No one has stepped forward to replace Mohammed Ebara as leader of the muttaween.”

  There was a pause as the counselors waited for the king to speak. “It seems that clerics are dropping like flies around the country,” he observed.

  The interior minister responded. “Yes, Your Highness. There is a striking similarity between the assassination today of Mohammed Ebara and the murder of the rebel imam in Khobz. Then there was the traitorous cleric who was responsible for the revolt at the Ash Mutayr base.”

  Abdullah went silent, rubbing his hands slowly, an unconscious habit while he considered a new idea. Kyle Swanson again. He just happened to be in Khobz, Ash Mutayr, and Jeddah at the time of each one. A dangerous man.

  The king gave a sharp laugh. “It is one thing to incite rebellion from the safety of a mosque and to distort Islam to cover treason. It is entirely something different to find one’s self on the firing line. These men routinely sent others to their deaths, but never expected to be in danger themselves.”

  “We expect to turn the corner on this revolt within about forty-eight hours, Your Highness,” said the interior minister. “As the rebel imams go into hiding, their followers have no leadership and guidance. When they get tired, they will go home.”

  “Very well. Now let me pass along some good news. I just spoke with President Tracy in Washington and he informed me that the missing nuclear device has been recovered by the Americans and is safe. He did not have the details yet. The important thing is that we now have secured three of the weapons and Prince Mishaal informed me that the fourth one will be transferred within a few hours from al-Taif. One more and that problem will be solved.”

  There were murmurs of approval among the counselors. They were impressed by the manner and the actions of their new king.

  The interior minister studied him closely. As cousins, they had known each other since boyhood. From his years as a diplomat, Abdullah had developed an outward appearance of being suave and calm, radiating confidence and trust. The deep-set dark eyes, however, could tell a different story, a soldier’s story, and often mirrored his inner feelings. Right now, the eyes were almost glowing in anger.

  “It is time for us to establish a back-channel contact with the Grand Mufti and other important religious leaders,” Abdullah declared with a firm voice.

  “W HAT DOES H IS M AJESTY wish for me to convey?”

  The king stood up and adjusted his robes, then walked to a broad desk, pulled out the center drawer and held up some notes that he had jotted during his long hours of pondering the next step. “First, I want to firmly remind them that all of us are devout in our religious beliefs. Faith is not the issue here. Then give them a little history lesson on the long and mutually beneficial relationship between the House of Saud and Muhammad ibn Abd-al-Wahhab, dating back to the year 1744. Until now, despite some difficult days, that relationship has worked. We ran the country and they ran the mosques. We allowed them a lot of power.”

  The king looked hard at each man in the room. “That trust was torn apart by this rebellion, in which some religious leaders have tried to overthrow the House of Saud! Even the moderate clerics stood idly by while a coup was launched, our king was assassinated, and the crown prince and other leaders, both Saudi and foreign dignitaries, were murdered. In short, they breached their sacred trust and brought the country into a civil war. You can emphasize now that these are my words: Things will never be the same between us.”

  The interior minister waited, with his pencil and notebook in hand, but the king stopped speaking. “This will not be well received, Your Majesty.”

  Again the king was firm. “I do not intend for it to be considered anything less than it is: a direct order from the king of Saudi Arabia. Tell them clearly, my cousin, that the House of Saud has survived…and that now it is our turn.”

  45

  JEDDAH

  A DUEL OF WILLS was underway in the villa of Dieter Nesch as the two terrorists-the money man and the killer-inched toward important decisions.

  The chef had outdone himself to prepare a special meal that might cool the tempers while the demonstrations still plagued the city. The maid served a salad studded with fat rubiyan shrimp and a main course of grouper, sliced open and smothered in sautéed onions, tomato, garlic, hot peppers, and lemon wedges. Bowls of spices and platters of fresh bread and cheeses were at hand. The two men touched glasses of white wine in a salute and settled into the lavish meal, talking only of little things during the meal.

  A FTERWARD, THEY MOVED TO the big room, which was warm and bathed in sharp orange by the midafternoon sun. Outside in the street, a small mob roamed past the villa, yelling and wildly firing AK-47s into the sky.

  “I assume you have been considering what to do next.” Nesch let his eyes flick briefly over to Juba. It was important to keep him satisfied. This was almost like being in a basket with a cobra. Let him lead himself to the decision.

  Juba tasted the sharp, dark Remy Martin and welcomed its warmth. He looked out at the passing men. “Hardly more than a handful of rebels in the streets of a major city that should have been blowing apart at the seams by now,” he observed.

  “I agree totally,” Nesch replied, settling into a chair beside a small table with a lamp, an ashtray carved from stone, and a humidor of dark Spanish cedar. “The question I now put before you is whether we can push things forward at all, perhaps on a new track entirely? I trust that tactical brain of yours, Juba. Find me an answer.”

  Juba sat on the low windowsill and put his drink beside him. Hands on knees, thoughts racing. “No. The few remaining rebel groups will be crushed. Too many elements changed from the original plan and the time-line has been destroyed. By now, all of my contacts will have gone to ground. I doubt if any of them would even answer my call. The pressure needed to cause the volcanic eruption of a revolution has drained away. Ebara was weak and stupid.”

  “Ah, Ebara? Yes. All of my sources had promised that he could deliver what he promised. We needed him in power.” Nesch rubbed the flat box. “Unfortunate. How about a cigar to accompany this swish of cognac? Let me tell you first that there is a 9 mm pistol in the box.”

  Juba waved the offer away. “I don’t smoke, and I removed the bullets.”

  Nesch was unperturbed. He asked, “Would you mind if I have one? They come from Costa Rica. The gun was one of my bodyguard’s little toys. Didn’t do him much good, did it? Did you also find the one on the top bookshelf?” Dieter removed a cigar, clipped the end, and took his time to light it.

  “Yes. I did.”

  “Amir was unprofessional. I could only have reached that one if I stood on a stool.” Nesch laughed and got a wry smile from Juba. Good. “So does this all come down now to, um, shall we call it, ‘the nuclear option?’”

  “Since Saudi Arabia is not going to turn into some radical Islamic state, that is all that is left of interest,” said Juba. “Whoever has the missile holds some power. I want it.”

  Nesch exhaled and a cloud of fragrant smoke rolled around his chair. “Juba, I respectfully have to disagree. As a banker, I simply look at it all as numbers on a balance sheet. Our man in Moscow is going to be very nervous about the death of Ebara, and I will have to recommend that he forget about this particular enterprise. Doing this on the quiet was one thing, but Russia cannot afford to be seen as openly involved in the cou
p. At least, that’s my opinion.”

  “You want to back off of everything? Give up the nuke, too?”

  Nesch tapped the cigar ash into the stone receptacle. “Yes. With your approval, that would be my recommendation. I will be honest about Ebara’s mistake in calling you to come here. I will also stipulate that both of us have done everything possible to carry out our assignments and, therefore, I keep my entire commission and you receive a nice bonus. Say, another million euros. How does that sound? You return home to Indonesia while I return to Germany and lay low for a while. Maybe next year, I will start shopping for another lucrative mission. Give up the nuclear missile idea, Juba. Trying to take it now would be suicide.”

  “Dieter, I simply don’t care.” Juba tilted his cognac snifter and emptied it, then placed the fragile glass on another small table.

  Nesch kept a steady gaze on the battered man. “You don’t care?”

  “I’ll take a cigar after all.” It took a moment for it to respond to the lighter. “Have you asked yourself why I have not killed you today?”

  “Yes. The thought crossed my mind.”

  “There are three reasons, perhaps chief among them was that you did not try to use that gun in the humidor. That would have forced my hand.”

  “What else?” The banker’s throat was dry. The only noise in the room seeped in from the outside, where the rowdy demonstration was still in the street.

  “Second, I still need your help.”

  Nesch smiled broadly and his eyes closed as relief flooded through him. “Anything. Name it.”

  Juba absently rubbed the patch that covered his destroyed eye. He exhaled loudly. “You probably will not understand this. I don’t really care about that missile at all, but it has created an opportunity that I had worried might never come. You will recall when I told you about Kyle Swanson, the American sniper?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “I know in my bones that Swanson made that shot. No evidence, but every wound in my body, the wounds he gave me when he left me for dead, is itching madly, screaming his name at me. If I can get that nuclear warhead, he will come after it. Revenge, Dieter. I have to do this. When he comes snooping after the missile, I will kill him. Your contacts, money, and influence are needed to help set this up.”

  “Whatever I can do, Juba, I will.” Nesch had never made a more sincere promise. “You mentioned three reasons. What is the last one?”

  “Dieter, I don’t need to kill you. We are both already dead men. Once you make that telephone call, the Russian president will have SVR hit squads coming to eliminate both of us. My professional advice is that you get out of Saudi Arabia tonight when we finish making our new arrangements. Then run fast and run far.”

  46

  AL-TAIF

  J AMAL AND K YLE SHOWED their credentials at a bunkered entrance gate and were allowed to park inside the perimeter of the big base to await an escort. Swanson had heard of this place, but this was his first visit. He let out a low whistle. “Look at all the fuckin’ Americans,” he said. “How could the Saudis keep a nuke here without some homeboy from Los Angeles tripping over it?”

  Jamal removed his dark aviator sunglasses. Although he had been driving away from the sun, his eyes were feeling the strain of the glare after the long drive into the mountains. “They’re smarter than the average bears,” he said. “A missile from here could easily protect the port and Jeddah. Lots of places for something to be stashed on a huge facility like this. If the L.A. homeboy wasn’t looking for it, he probably wouldn’t even see it. He wouldn’t recognize what it was.”

  “Busy day,” Swanson agreed, looking at his watch. “This should go quickly if Prince Mishaal is already on deck. The C-130 is only about a hundred miles out. Afterward, we can grab some chow.”

  “Look at all the fuckin’ Americans,” Jamal said, moving his seat back to be more comfortable.

  A U.S. Army military policeman wearing an arm brassard and a shiny helmet approached, accompanied by a Saudi counterpart. They also checked the credentials. “Prince Mishaal is expecting you. Please follow our Humvee and we’ll take you over to the flight line.”

  “Got it,” said Jamal. “Lead on.” When the two MPs walked away to get into their vehicle, he said to Kyle, “Look behind us.”

  Swanson adjusted the side mirror on the Mercedes. An armored Humvee with a soldier in the turret behind a.50 caliber machine gun had swung into position on the rear bumper. “Gunship,” he said. The MP sedan moved out, with red and blue lights flashing on its roof. “Nothing like a subtle arrival.”

  Al-Taif was crowded. It was home to the four light infantry battalions of the Saudi National Guard Omar bin Kattab Brigade, and also hundreds of Americans who were part of an ongoing U.S. Military Training Mission. This was the base through which American senior advisors were funneled into the Saudi armed forces’ command structure, which meant there was a large U.S. support staff and all the trimmings. The curiosity factor about the handover was going to be high.

  Their little convoy ripped through the base without incident, and angled toward a large aircraft hangar at the end of a runway, where the large sliding doors had been opened. The nuke was already secured inside, waiting for them. Machine gun emplacements bristled at the corners of the building, snipers were up top, and patrols ranged in a far circle. The three vehicles drove inside and stopped.

  Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid waved from his own Humvee. Kyle got out of the Mercedes, walked over, and snapped a salute. Mishaal looked exhausted. “Good evening, Gunny.”

  “Hello, sir. Did you get things settled down in Ash Mutayr?”

  The prince made a sardonic laugh. “Yeah. New commander is in place and everything is calm. Place needs some rebuilding.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So now I come up here and find that Jeddah is in turmoil.” Mishaal stared at Kyle. “Trouble seems to follow you.”

  “I wouldn’t know about any trouble, sir. Everything seemed fine when we left there a few hours ago.”

  “Gunny, do you remember the name of Mohammed Abu Ebara? The head of the Religious Police?”

  Kyle looked lost for a few moments. “Right. I believe His Majesty, King Abdullah, may have mentioned the name to me.”

  The prince took Swanson by the elbow and guided him to a space where they could speak in private. “Somebody killed him today. Apparently a sniper.” He arched an eyebrow.

  Swanson held up both hands. “Don’t look at me,” he protested. “I was on the road coming up here. But is that a bad thing?”

  They were interrupted by the approaching roar of a C-130 coming off the taxiway and approaching the hangar.

  “No, Gunny, it was not a bad thing. The demonstrations about Ebara being a martyr are already calming down. His removal takes a lot of steam out of the coup.”

  “Inshallah, then,” Kyle said. “God’s will.”

  “Inshallah. His Majesty was curious about the circumstances. About your welfare.”

  “Is he changing my instructions?”

  “No. Just being cautious and careful.” The roar of the propellers dropped in volume as the plane spun about so that the ramp was in line with the hangar doors.

  “Please let His Majesty know that I appreciate his concern. And that there is nothing that can connect me to the death of Ebara. You remember that gun case I brought in aboard the first C-130? Well, I am going to put that same weapon on the plane right over there. It soon will be out of the country.”

  “Let’s get to this new job, then.”

  Staff Sergeant Joe Tipp was playing the major in command on this trip, and approached with the clipboard and the papers for the transfer. Mishaal held up his hand and said, “Please wait one more moment, Major.” Tipp stopped, puzzled, looking at Kyle.

  Swanson asked the prince, “What?”

  “His Majesty is also curious about something else, Gunny Swanson. He spoke with President Tracy today and was given the good news that the nuclear
missile that was taken in Khobz has been found and is safe. King Abdullah reminded me that you were in Khobz when another Muslim cleric involved in the rebellion was killed by a sniper’s bullet. His Majesty is wondering about your possible involvement in that entire scenario, particularly if you had anything to do with the missing weapon.”

  Swanson fiddled with a pen in his shirt pocket, then glanced up at the prince. Decision time. He had to maintain the trust of both the king and the prince. If he lied about the nuke, they would find out about it sooner or later anyway, and that bond of trust would be destroyed. It was too much of a risk.

  “Please tell His Majesty that I can neither confirm nor deny anything about my missions. If he wants to press the matter, I am sure that another call to President Tracy would set him at ease. It would be good to remember that Khobz was under siege and your army base there had already been attacked with an ambush. Who is to say what might have happened if that fight went the wrong way?”

  Prince Mishaal turned and brushed his uniform. Dust flew off in small puffs. “I guess anything is possible, Gunny. The main thing is that the weapon was bagged safely. Now let’s do this one.”

  While Joe Tipp and Mishaal went through the paper drill, Kyle grabbed the gun case from the trunk of the Mercedes and hustled up the ramp.

  Sybelle was once again waiting at the bulkhead. “You okay? We heard about this Ebara clown going down.”

  “I’m good.” He put down the gun case.

  “Good. Because we’ve got a big problem,” she said, holding out a clipped-together computer printout.

  “How big?” Swanson asked, taking the papers and beginning to read.

  “Oh, about the size of the Chinese army.”

  47

  BEIJING, CHINA

  T HE DIMINUTIVE G ENERAL Z HU Chi sat at the end of a long table, smoke curling from the tip of his cigarette, while his staff took him through their Power Point presentation. An array of three large clocks hung on the side wall, set to the matching times in Beijing, Saudi Arabia, and Washington. It was eleven o’clock on Saturday night where he sat and the diversionary moves were to get underway at first light on Sunday. He would give the American satellites plenty to absorb and by this time tomorrow, the bandit leaders of the breakaway province of Taiwan would be frantic.