Clean Kill

by Jack Coughlin

  “May I pet the tiger?” Niki approached to within a few feet of the cat.

  “Yes. Move very slowly and speak in a loving voice. Show no fear.”

  Niki reached out her hand and stroked one of the strong forelegs, feeling the bristling hair. “What an amazing creature, Mr. Prime Minister.” She rose and moved back slowly, then went to stand beside Andrei and handed him some papers from a leather briefcase carried over her shoulder. “Your schedule for the day, sir.”

  “Tell me about Saudi Arabia,” Putin snapped. Andrei was momentarily off balance. Veronika took a step back, as if she might disappear into the woodwork.

  Ivanov shrugged. “It did not work out, Prime Minister. The priest we had picked to replace the king was assassinated. Then our organizer, the banker Dieter Nesch, called me a while ago to say that the rebellion was over, but that Juba was pressing ahead to steal the last available nuclear warhead. He might explode it in Israel.”

  “What is our own exposure now, Andrei?”

  “We are pulling out of it entirely. There will be no trace, no accounts or electronic data of any sort, that might indicate that we were ever involved. I have dispatched SVR teams to eliminate Nesch and Juba, who are the only links to us.”

  Putin stopped petting his cat. “You promised that this plan of yours would work.” The question was blunt.

  Andrei spread his hands on the broad surface of his desk. “It was worth the risk. The money we spent was a pittance in comparison to what we might have gained.”

  “Yes,” Putin replied. He stood, brushed the front of his slacks, and made a clicking sound. The tiger rose in a fluid motion, a threat by its mere existence. “Andrei, my young friend, you are doing a very good job. I knew that you would excel, which was why I picked you for the position over many older and more experienced candidates.”

  Andrei Ivanov also stood, relieved that Putin was leaving and taking the beast with him. “Thank you, sir.” The old gentleman was not going to do anything.

  Putin finally broke into a smile. “Yes. I always have admired aggressive plays, as you know. The only way Russia will achieve its former glory is to take a chance now and then. What Juba does with Israel is no concern of ours. But I want you to recognize that there is another truth at our level of politics,” he said.

  “What might that be, Prime Minister?”

  “Failure is unacceptable.” Putin snapped a leash to the collar on his tiger and led it out the door. He did not want the cat to be startled.

  Andrei stared at the door as it closed, feeling a wave of satisfaction. Despite the implied threat, Putin was toothless and Sweetie was nothing but a cat. Neither had claws.

  Niki Petrova withdrew a small pistol from her leather case, pointed it at the back of his head and pulled the trigger twice.

  53

  RIYADH

  M AJOR H ENRY T SANG ARRIVED a little early at the Marriott, looking fresh in a charcoal gray suit with faint stripes, a white shirt, and a tasteful tie. At the reserved table, he chose the seat that would allow him to keep his back to the wall. Silverware gleamed in the bright artificial light and soft jazz music spilled through speakers hidden in the ceiling. He shook out a cigarette and lit it. Swanson would arrive in a short while but Tsang had things to arrange beforehand.

  Tsang ordered a carafe of hot water and slices of lemon, promising to order breakfast when his friend arrived. After the waiter vanished through the swinging doors to the kitchen, Tsang slid a small microphone into a small arrangement of flowers and pointed it toward the chair in which Swanson would sit. Everything said at the table would be transmitted to a recording station in a blue surveillance van parked outside the hotel. The pager on his belt buzzed one time as the listeners confirmed that everything was working, picking up the sounds of the restaurant.

  The waiter returned. Tsang put a slice of lemon in his cup, poured in the hot water, and settled in to wait, calmly smoking his cigarette and enjoying the drink. It was nine fifteen on Sunday morning where he sat, which made it four thirty in the afternoon back in Beijing, where things were busy and final decisions were being made and orders were being cut. This time tomorrow, his country would be at war.

  Ranking people were awaiting his report of this backchannel meeting.

  He was here. Where was the American?

  K YLE S WANSON WAS STRETCHED out comfortably on a plush sofa and Jamal Muheisen was in a large leather chair, absorbed in a paperback whodunit mystery. Jamal turned the pages slowly, killing time. Swanson stared at the white ceiling. “Hell of a prison, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Jamal replied. “Fuckin’ A-rab dungeon. You want me to call for some fresh coffee?”

  “Unh-unh,” grunted Swanson. “I’m coffeed out.” He got up and went to the window to watch the cars and trucks go by. He could not hear the buzz of the traffic below because the huge office was soundproofed. A few military vehicles rolled past in small convoys, but the capital city was returning to normal. The morning sun was shining brightly.

  The room was the spacious personal office of another Saudi prince who was senior vice president for special assignments for Saudi Aramco, the petroleum giant that controlled the vast oil fields of the nation. The place was immaculate, with several bright hand-knotted carpets, tall bookshelves, chairs, tables, and a few sofas. A large desk dominated the area before a set of windows, and every paper on it was squared neatly with all of the others. Framed pictures of members of the royal family and foreign dignitaries hung on the dark walls. A full bathroom, including a shower, was just through a doorway.

  “Fuck this,” Swanson said as he returned to the sofa and plopped down. The two soldiers at the door watched, but remained silent. The security team was changed every thirty minutes, and another pair of guards was just outside.

  Swanson knew any hope of surprising his Chinese contact was blown at the time of their arrest. Now the entire meeting was at risk. All methods of communicating with the outside world had been removed from them and, although the borrowed office had every creature comfort, even a game console, there were no telephones, no TV sets, and no device that would let him call for help. They were trapped in an air-conditioned cave of riches.

  Big chunks of time were falling away like an iceberg calving in the summertime. A nuclear warhead was still out there to be collected, but it was fading in importance with the anticipation that the Chinese were about to attack. Stay calm. Wait it out. Be ready.

  T HE MAIN DOOR OPENED at nine seventeen, according to Kyle’s watch. The guards snapped to attention but never took their eyes from the prisoners. Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid walked in, grim and unsmiling, and went straight to the desk. He flung his black beret down in exasperation, then sat in the chair and stared at Kyle. “You lied to me.”

  Swanson returned the glare. “Don’t expect an apology.”

  “You were under my orders,” the prince retorted in a frosty tone. “I gave the two of you permission to go to the hotel and you tried to play me for a fool. When I had my aide check up on you, he found that you were gone.”

  “I was never under your orders, colonel. We are working together. There’s a big difference. Instead of finishing our mission of getting all of the nukes, you became wrapped up in that conference with the talking heads on television screens and I was left sitting there with my thumb up my ass while a war may be brewing. Why the hell should I wait around when there was work to be done?”

  “How dare you speak to me like that!” Mishaal was on his feet and his voice thundered. The guards became more alert. “Your job was to help me collect the nuclear weapons and we have done so, except for the one in Tabuk. We will go and retrieve it right now, and then you both will be expelled from the country. I’ve already discussed this with His Majesty and he approves. We appreciate your help, Gunny, but your job is almost done. You are too much of a loose cannon.”

  Kyle shook his head in dismay. “Of course I’m a loose cannon, Colonel. I do what needs to be done, even when things
escalate out of control, even in an entirely different situation. I am a scout-sniper and the rule for any commander is to not tell a sniper how to do a job.”

  Mishaal sat back down. “You have no idea what has been going on. Our military is in the midst of cleaning up the mess from the coup attempt and have zero time to get reorganized. Those conferences that you so disdain involve the highest level of national security and how we will respond to this possible Chinese aggression. We are talking all-out war here, Gunny Swanson.”

  “Don’t count your nuclear chickens before they are hatched, Colonel.”

  Mishaal looked at his watch. “Then let’s go get it, Gunnery Sergeant. I have a plane waiting. And then I can kick your impertinent ass out of the country and get to work on the other major threats facing us. I don’t need your ego eating up my time.”

  “Fine by me,” Kyle snapped. “But aren’t you even going to ask me why we left early to get to Riyadh if the only thing I wanted to do was pick up the last nuke? As you say, that now seems like a routine job, and anyway it is several hundred miles away in Tabuk.”

  The colonel grabbed his beret. “I really do not care, Gunny. And I had roadblocks set up there, too. Now move out.”

  “I know who one of the Chinese point men on the ground is, Prince Mishaal.” Kyle took the edge off of his voice. “I had set up a meeting for this morning and was trying to get into Riyadh and trap him beforehand and throw him off balance. I hoped to persuade him to tell his people to back off of the military action by confirming that both the Saudis and the Americans would oppose them.”

  The prince stopped in mid-stride. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

  Kyle stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and looked the prince in the eyes. Ignored the question. “The contact is a special forces type named Henry Tsang, a guy that I met down in Khobz. He probably has a straight pipeline into the Chinese central command, and I thought he would trust another special operator because we are cut from the same cloth. I considered it best not to have your fingerprints, or the official imprint of either of our governments on this meet. I was going to tell you everything, when it was done.”

  Mishaal dropped the beret again and sat back down. He spun the chair away from the Marine and the CIA agent and looked out of the windows, his thoughts moving fast, grabbing for passing details. He turned around again. “Can you still make a meet?”

  “He’s waiting for me at the Marriott Hotel right now.”

  “Very well. But I want in on this, too, Swanson. This is my country and we’re running out of time.”

  54

  RIYADH

  T HE RESTAURANT WAS ALMOST empty when Kyle and Mishaal walked in. They saw the Chinese man seated alone in a rear booth and made their way over to him. At the entrance to the room, an attendant turned around a “Closed” sign. Privacy was needed.

  “Mr. Tsang. Thank you for meeting me. I apologize for being late.” Kyle slid into one side of the U-shaped booth. “This is my partner, Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid.”

  Henry Tsang hardly batted an eye. Every word was being recorded and he was perfectly safe. He would let things develop at a slow pace. “My pleasure. Please sit down, Colonel. Would you gentlemen like some coffee? Breakfast?”

  Mishaal took a place on the other side of the booth. “Thank you for meeting with us.”

  Tsang smiled and took a sip of tea. “This was supposed to be a private meeting, Mr. Swanson. No insult is intended, but it is most regrettable that I was not made aware that the prince colonel would be with you.”

  “It was a last-minute development. I thought that he might be of help if you have some questions.”

  Tsang folded his hands on the table. “Questions? About what? Frankly, I do not even know why I am here. Except for our brief encounter in Khobz a few days ago, I don’t even know you.”

  Swanson grinned. “People down there say you got in the middle of that fight and did very well. Pretty good for an accountant.”

  Tsang did not change his expression. “It was fight or be slaughtered. There was no real choice. Now, why are we meeting here today? What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  Mishaal was in no mood for polite verbal fencing. “You can tell your masters back in Beijing that we know about their plans to attack the oil fields and that we are ready to stop them!”

  Still, Henry Tsang betrayed no emotion. “I am totally at a loss, sir. I know nothing about any such plans, and I am just a low-level functionary at the embassy, not the ambassador. Perhaps you should contact him.”

  “Bullshit, Henry. A few days ago you were an accountant, now you’re working for the embassy. You’re a spook. I’m a spook. Mishaal is part of the House of Saud. Talk to us. What the hell do you guys think you can accomplish with an invasion?”

  Tsang looked at him in silence. “I repeat, I know nothing about any invasion, Mr. Swanson. Please, if you have such concerns, contact the ambassador immediately.”

  Kyle shushed Mishaal when the Saudi was about to speak. Instead, he said, “Henry, let’s just speak in hypotheticals. Just for shits and giggles. Three friends at breakfast considering the geopolitical picture.”

  There was a bit of hushed silence. Henry Tsang reached into the flower arrangement, pulled out the small microphone and dropped it into the cup of tea to kill the signal. If ever challenged, the recording of the conversation thus far would show he had done nor said anything improper. Now it was time to get down to business. “That might be an interesting exercise. Please continue.”

  P RINCE M ISHAAL RUBBED HIS hands flat and hard over his eyes in frustration. He felt about ready to explode. “You are wasting time, Mr. Tsang. So, hypothetically, if Chinese aircraft enter Saudi airspace without permission, they will be shot down.”

  “Also hypothetically, the United States will likely join the fight on the side of our Saudi allies. That final decision will come from Washington, but for this conversation, you can consider it to be a certainty.”

  Henry Tsang let his mask drop a bit and looked steadily at Mishaal. “One thing that is absolutely not in question is that Saudi Arabia is gripped in a rebellion against the monarchy. That uprising is still underway as we speak. In turn, it has rendered your government to be unstable. News reports say that your own pilots assassinated your king. I can understand why the leaders of other nations would be worried about protecting the vast Saudi oil production capability during such a crisis.”

  Kyle Swanson started to respond, but Tsang had more to say. “Please. Let me finish. In addition to the threat to the oil production, there are reports that Saudi Arabia also has nuclear weapons. That is another valid point that the United Nations would consider in determining whether some international intervention is required. In short, Prince Mishaal, your country appears to be in great difficulty and in need of help.”

  “Not your kind of help,” Mishaal gruffly said.

  Swanson fished in his vest pocket. “They already have help. Ours.” He laid an empty.50 caliber cartridge on the table and gave it a little spin with his finger. “Say, back to the hypothesis, that at the time I fired this shot recently, the leader of the rebellion, Mohammed Ebara, died unexpectly. As I said, Mishaal is my partner. In other words, our countries are in this together. You guys try to come in, you’ll get clobbered. Your people won’t even get near the drop zones.”

  Tsang picked up the bullet and smelled it. Some cordite still lingered, the signature of a recent shot. “I would have to believe that any country planning to establish protective custody of the oil fields would have taken such contingencies into consideration. In other words, you don’t scare us.”

  Mishaal pushed back against the tufted cushion and composed himself. “I tell you the truth now. We have cracked this rebellion. The removal of Ebara took away the leadership and our government is reasserting control in every city and region. King Abdullah is firmly on the throne and the Religious Police have been muzzled. In other words, Mister Tsang, without a doubt, it is
over except for the mopping up. We intend to prove that is so in the United Nations on Monday. Without the rebellion, the oil interests are safe. There is no reason for a Chinese…I mean, international…intervention in our internal affairs.”

  Henry Tsang nodded his head and gave a smile which meant nothing. He looked at Swanson. “No reason? Even if you are correct, the Saudis still have nuclear devices of military application. There is established UN precedent for a foreign power to intervene in order to remove the threat of weapons of mass destruction. An international threat, I might add.”

  Swanson smiled right back. “And that, finally, Major Tsang, is why I wanted this meeting. Yes, we know who you are and that is beside the point. With authorization of King Abdullah, the prince and I have been busy removing those weapons for the past few days. The Saudis had a total of five. We have removed and secured four of them, so that threat already has been greatly diminished.”

  “That leaves one still out there. One is still one too many.” Tsang wondered how they found out about his rank and real position. No time to worry about that right now. “I cannot see how anything has really changed.”

  Kyle responded, “We are on the way out to pick up the final one right now, Major. I invite you to accompany us to confirm the removal with your own eyes and report that back to your superiors. It is at the King Abdul Aziz Military City at Tabuk, near the Jordanian frontier.”

  Tsang knew of the huge base, the center of the Northwest Area Command. It was home to infantry and armor brigades of the Royal Saudi Land Forces, the airborne and armor schools, and an air base. “It’s almost seven hundred miles away,” he said. Tsang rolled his white napkin into a ball and tossed it on the table. “Then why are we still sitting here? Gentlemen, shall we go?”