B008RLW6LA EBOK

by Jack Coughlin

  “It appears you have your win today, Major Shakuri. My congratulations,” said the colonel. “The team was martyred for the greater cause.”

  The major was trying hard to keep himself together. “It is sad that such fine young men had to be sacrificed.”

  “Nonsense, Major. Your plan caught the attention of the world,” the colonel said. “Any investigation will show this to have been an outrageous attack by the renegades within the Egyptian army. People will lose trust in all of their security forces.”

  “How will our country respond?”

  The colonel smiled. “Demonstrations in Tehran and a very strong diplomatic protest.”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  KYLE AND SYBELLE DUMPED Pejman Mobili back with the U.S. Marshals in Atlanta and flew back to Washington. Major General Bradley Middleton, the two-star commander of Task Force Trident, was waiting behind the big desk, rocking slowly with a foot braced on a lower drawer. Master Gunny O. O. Dawkins was immersed in his favorite pastime, reading online newspapers and blogs and Web sites on his iPad tablet, with his big fingers scrolling on the little flat screen as smoothly as those of a texting teenager. Commander Benton Freedman was picking at the information from the prisoner.

  “He didn’t know much, did he?” Freedman, the Lizard, asked.

  “Wouldn’t expect him to, Liz. He was a shooter. Nothing more.”

  “This name of his partner might be good, and I’ll get that over to the FBI right away. He’s probably changed it by now, but who knows?”

  Sybelle Summers spoke. “And give priority to that other name he dropped, that Major Mansoor Shakuri who gave him the order.”

  “On it,” the Lizard confirmed. “He may have been lying.”

  Summers shook her head. “No. He wasn’t lying.”

  “What did you do to him?” asked O. O. Dawkins, glancing up from the business page of the online International Herald Tribune.

  “Nothing, really. Not a mark on him. He just felt like talking, I guess. Guilt, maybe.”

  Dawkins snorted, grinned, and started clicking through some broadcast network sites. A celebrity mother and her two daughters, all strikingly beautiful, were having a public quarrel over a sheer dress the mom had worn to a premiere, and every network was running pictures as if it all meant something. “I don’t even know why these women are famous,” he said, nevertheless deciding to check out the dress that was causing the furor. It wasn’t all that sheer. Couldn’t really see anything.

  Kyle Swanson moved to the window and looked out at the bright, chilly day. “Liz, that major is stashed somewhere in Iranian intelligence, but I think you can narrow the search to the counterintelligence units. He’s got some power.”

  General Middleton pushed back his chair and suddenly stood up, leaning on the big desk. “Goddamn it. I cannot believe the Iranians were so stupid as to actually attack the United States in the open.”

  Dawkins shifted back to Binging hard news sites. “But they did. Hey, guys, terrorists just blew up the whole Iranian soccer team during a goodwill trip to Egypt. The Iranians are blaming the Egyptian army.”

  “Fuck. Still something else that does not fit,” the general snapped back. “Tehran traditionally keeps a low profile beyond their borders because nobody trusts them. Eventually, we will probably have to go after them because they are developing a nuclear weapon. To pick a fight with us over something like an accounting scam makes no sense because it gives us a valid excuse to bomb their nuke facilities. That’s just the way it works.”

  Swanson turned toward him. “I talked to the prisoner about nukes. He knew nothing. Is the White House considering a strike?”

  “They consider everything. Now that we can prove the sniper was Iranian and his orders came through the Iranian command structure, political pressure will build to do something.”

  Summers, wearing battle dress fatigues, crossed her legs and picked at her boot laces. “We will be extra cautious, sir. Nobody wants to be wrong about this one.”

  General Middleton absently waved a hand. “What has gone on before is ancient history, Summers. I want you to continue working the sniper angle. See where it leads.”

  Swanson’s eyes moved from face to face. “Then my next move should be to get to the U.K. and see if Jeff can help us unravel it. He gave MI6 everything he remembered about the accounting deal, but if the two of us go through it a couple of times together, maybe something else will pop up.”

  The general nodded in agreement. “OK. Get your butt over there. Remember you’re a Marine and you’re working for me, not him. Do that Excalibur shit on your own time.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “And give my regards to Sir Geoffrey and Lady Patricia.”

  LONDON

  LADY PAT LOVED THE theaters of London, having never totally extinguished the actress spark. She had abandoned a stage career when she met and married a rugged, handsome young captain in the Special Air Service, Geoffrey Cornwell. That had been years ago, and many things had changed. They had become wealthy, received awards, and seen the world, but she still dearly loved the boards. Instead of begging for a minor role in a play, perhaps being rejected because the director didn’t like the shape of her nose, she was now courted as a potential investor. Being a financial angel opened all doors. Although she was now sixty years old, she yearned for the burn of a spotlight.

  She and her private secretary, the beautiful, dark-haired, and efficient Delara Tabrizi, had been making the rounds all day. A new musical was being cast, and they lunched with the producer before moving on to a fringe venue that was struggling to put together a small production by a dynamic new writer. She was unimpressed but gave compliments to the creator and his four-member cast. Lady Pat always had kind things to say to actors, whose fragile egos could be crushed with a glance. She gathered this group in a hand-holding circle, smiled, and started reciting “An Austrian army, awfully arrayed,” the first line of the alliterative poem by Alaric Alexander Watts. The verse was about a battle fought so long ago that it had been forgotten, except for the poem about it that became a voice exercise practiced by almost all actors.

  “Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade,” continued the ingenue, and the leading man boomed out, “Cossack commanders cannonading come,” then the breaking voice of a boy, youngest of the troupe, followed with “Dealing destruction’s devastating doom.” They continued, line by line, through the entire alphabet. She led them in applause and hugs, for she was one of them.

  Then it was out to the West End for some street shopping at the Chapel Market before a rehearsal at the historic King’s Head Theatre, of which she was a patron. She and Delara preferred to leave the car behind on such days and do their London prowls by taxi, foot, and subway, for they could see so much more. The chauffeur, alerted by Delara’s cell phone, would be waiting to take them home when they got off the train. If need be, they could always spend the night in the city. They were in no rush, and now that the workday was over, they decided to take the tube back to do some more shopping.

  They joined the steady, jostling crowd entering the Islington High Street station and stepped carefully onto the first of two long, steep escalators heading down. Staying to the right side to allow others to pass on the left, Delara found herself wedged between a large man immobile on the step in front of her and Lady Pat behind her shoulders. They rode down with the crowd in silence and made the right-angle turn for the second escalator, facing another sharp decline. Delara was jammed against the same man, and when she glanced back, there was another large man right behind Lady Pat. Turning to face forward, she tapped her left hand against Pat’s leg hard to alert her to the possibility of trouble.

  Almost immediately, Lady Pat felt a sharp point against her back, and the man behind her, with a knife covered by a folded jacket, leaned in close and said with a soft but threatening voice, “You and your friend will be coming with us now, ma’am. Any trouble, and I will be havin’ to put this blade between your ribs.�
� The man in front of Delara turned and glared at her.

  Lady Pat took a deep breath and unleashed a tremendous scream from deep in lungs that had been trained to reach people in the last rows of a theater, and it almost stopped time. The eyes of the man in front of Delara Tabrizi widened in surprise, and Delara hit him on the bridge of the nose as hard as she could with a downward strike of her fist. The nose cracked, blood flew out, he saw stars, and his knees went wobbly on the moving escalator. Everyone was turning to stare.

  The man with the knife momentarily froze, which was enough time for Lady Pat to turn and jam a wedge of stiff fingers into his testicles. The sudden pain made him drop the knife, and she grabbed the front of his shirt and jerked him forward and to the side, letting gravity and momentum roll him over her left hip. She had not lived with an SAS officer for so many years without learning some self-defense tricks. The attacker went tumbling past her, then past Delara, who kicked him in the face as he went by. Both of the men were down and entangled in a clump as others in the crowd piled on them in a noisy rugby-style scrum.

  By the time the escalator emptied onto the long station platform, a pair of constables of the British Transport Police were waiting with handcuffs to take charge of the bewildered assailants. Delara gave them her business card and said that charges would be pressed against the hooligans who tried to steal her purse.

  Lady Pat had stepped into the background and refused to be fussed over. She was fine, she said, but had a constable escort them back to the surface and into a taxi. When they were finally alone, she told Delara to immediately call for the Bentley to come into the city and pick them up at Brown’s Hotel in Mayfair as soon as possible. The chauffeur should bring along a few of Jeff’s security lads, for there had been a spot of trouble.

  7

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  SWANSON WAS LOOKING FORWARD to a good night’s sleep. He had been on the go almost constantly since the telephone call from Sybelle had jerked him away from his California vacation. Catnaps in cars and planes could not replenish the energy his body craved, and the fatigue of sleep deprivation was setting in. He locked the door of the Georgetown apartment, and the safe familiarity of the place eased him down so that he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow an hour later.

  The transatlantic telephone call came from England at one o’clock in the morning and changed him instantly from sound asleep to wide awake. It was Sir Jeff, sounding weary and worried as he described the attack on Lady Pat and Delara in the tube station. They were fine, he said, although he could not say the same about the two thugs who botched the attack. Jeff said he already had everyone under tight security, so there would be no repeat of such a thing, but Pat had wanted Kyle to be personally told before he heard about it from some other source. The older man’s voice choked up when he said the company jet had already been dispatched to fetch him to London. It would meet him at Reagan International.

  Kyle felt a moment of déjà vu, because he was already booked on a flight tomorrow. He would take the Excalibur plane instead, just as he had canceled a commercial flight to get to Washington in a hurry. There was no question this time; he needed to see them. He could sleep on the plane. He could sleep when he was dead.

  Swanson hung up, went to the bathroom, then stood by the bedroom window to look out at darkened Washington and entertain murderous thoughts. Why would anyone go after Pat and Delara, and in such a public place? Obviously, it was no random mugging attempt, although Jeff had said the police had not yet gotten any answers from the goons that did it. He lifted up on his toes and stretched, then dropped down to do some push-ups and sit-ups before climbing back into bed, knowing he would be unable to really sleep. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, relaxed, and slowly lowered into the hazy zone somewhere just north of oblivion, quiet but with his senses alert to everything, the still place he always went to before going into a big fight.

  Again he was the only passenger on the aircraft, but this one had a pretty hostess who welcomed him aboard and did everything but tuck him in as the Lear settled into its long flight home. She dimmed the lights, set the volume low on a CD of soft jazz, and gave him a pillow and a blanket after converting the seat to a bed. Kyle was flying five hours forward in time on this jump.

  He did not know how long he had been asleep when he heard a paddle stroke in water, then a forlorn voice tinged with humor. “So it begins.”

  “Maybe,” Swanson said. “Maybe not.”

  “Oh, yes. You will soon cause me to be very busy. There are many things you do not yet know.”

  It was a familiar haunting, a playing out of defined roles. Kyle was being visited once again by a character he knew as the Boatman, a tall and ghastly creature who piloted a little boat to ferry souls from earth to eternity, souls that Kyle Swanson had killed. Over the years, the nocturnal visits had become less and less surprising as Kyle had learned to let his subconscious roam and be open to all hints and suggestions.

  “Why are you here? I am not near any battle. Therefore, no fresh bodies for your little boat.”

  A ghoulish giggle rose to challenge. “There will be many of those, and we will have our usual deal: You will kill them, and I will haul them away. Or maybe I will take you this time. Or someone close to you.”

  “I’m not going to kill anybody.” In Swanson’s dream, he could detect the flicker of a holocaust burning on a distant horizon and smell the ashes of cremated beings. It caused him to grind his teeth. “This time, you are wrong.”

  The Boatman grinned, and there was a glimpse of his toothy skull. “Not wrong. I am just early. Even by your standards, this time many people have to die.”

  “Not by my hand.”

  “Oh, yes. You are wrong. Very wrong.” The long paddle dug hard into the water at the stern, and the boat slid away on unseen water.

  “Go to hell,” Swanson said.

  “Yes,” replied the Boatman. “I always do.”

  Swanson felt his body loosen, the muscles fully relaxed, and his mind went into an even lower gear. He had lied to the Boatman, of course; not that it mattered, because those meetings were always just a reverie to remind him who he was and to let his subconscious mind assess the facts. He was certainly planning to kill whoever had attacked Pat, and that reckoning would come even if he had to overturn God’s green earth to do it.

  He puzzled for a moment about how the Boatman could have come for a visit while Kyle was flying at twenty thousand feet. Soon he was snoring, and the flight attendant snipped off the light and adjusted the blanket.

  CAIRO

  CURTAINS OF BLACK SMOKE spiraled and swirled above the Egyptian capital as civil order broke down following the destruction of the visiting Iranian team. The people were blaming the elected government and the generals for the airport massacre, and the major cities had endured a night of looting and murder, beatings, rape, and robbery. Mobs were in the streets, those supporting the fragile government clashing with equally fervent antigovernment factions, although they were all mostly members of the Muslim Brotherhood. The powerful army generals dithered, not knowing what had really happened and wanting to test the political winds before cracking down on one side or the other. From his office window on this bright new morning, Colonel Naqdi watched the smoke and crowds with deep pleasure and almost smelled fear and opportunity.

  “We are not quite there yet,” said Colonel Naqdi.

  His chief of staff, Major Shakuri, thought carefully before speaking. “The government seems at the edge of collapse, sir. I’ve never seen such open mayhem. The Egyptians may soon be at war with themselves.”

  “They are just confused, Major, because they sense that events far beyond their control are at work. The elected men cling to power through a coalition of different parties, and the Brotherhood is not satisfied with its current political status—they want it all. The generals who have the real power seem lost. Everybody is yelling at everybody else.”

  “Confusion that we manufactured,” said
the major.

  “It was not difficult to do, was it?” the colonel asked. “Two Brotherhood martyrs with military experience were in the armored car, one to shoot and one to drive. The bomb was just a few artillery rounds wired together. It was an army vehicle, the driver knew the proper codes, so no one questioned its last-minute addition to what was supposed to be a totally routine escort duty. This was a wise investment in every way, and you see the result of careful planning.”

  It was still another implied threat against Major Shakuri. He had vomited again in private that morning before reporting to his colonel that the London attack on Lady Patricia Cornwell had been unsuccessful.

  “Another failure?” the colonel had sneered.

  “Sorry, sir. The lawyer I used as an intermediary to hire the attack team has been silenced. Should I try to pursue the woman again?”

  The colonel had given him a cold stare, as a man would regard a beetle, a creature of no consequence. “No. The old man will have her covered with bodyguards by now. Neither will be reachable for a long time.” Naqdi moved on to other things, but the major knew there was another black mark against his name.

  Now the colonel returned to his desk and used the remote control to turn up the volume on the large television screen hanging on the wall of his office. Al Jazeera news was reporting on demonstrations in the streets throughout Iran, too, protests demanding revenge for the deaths of the beloved soccer stars. Speeches were being made in parliamentary bodies around the world, including at the United Nations. To anyone who followed the news on television, the entire Middle East seemed to be on fire again, although it was all being orchestrated for the purpose of whipping up anger and enthusiasm in both countries for what lay ahead.