Hunter Killer am-8

by Patrick Robinson

  King Nasir wanted to restore Muslim life back to the correct code of ethics, the one passed down through the wisdom of the Koran. He wanted a culture, a system of laws, an understanding of the function of the State — Islamic guidelines for life in all of its dimensions.

  And there was not a man on the great carpet in the desert who did not believe that the King would achieve his aims. Nasir was a strong leader, unbending in his beliefs. He still refused to sleep in an ornate, lavishly decorated bedroom, preferring his plain, white, almost bare room, which was more like a cell.

  And he preferred to dine in the desert, sitting outside his tent, ensuring that everyone had enough to eat, including all of the fifteen servants who attended him. On this night, he had characteristically invited four perfect strangers, mere passersby, to join the gathering.

  And now the robed figures were preparing to sit up long into the night indulging in that most ancient of Arab rituals — sipping coffee freshly roasted on an open fire while dinner was consumed and served from a long-beaked, blue enameled pot with pale cardamom seeds.

  It was an unchanging scene, out here beneath a rising desert moon: modern men upholding their Bedouin past as if time had stood still down the centuries. Except that at twenty-two minutes before 11 P.M. the King’s cell phone rang loudly from somewhere in the folds of his robes. His expression changed from content, to startled, and then to irritated. It was as if someone had offered him a cup of instant coffee.

  But he answered the call. Because it must be critically important. No one could remember anyone having the temerity to interrupt Nasir al-Saud during the ceremony of the mansaf, not even when he was only Saudi Arabia’s Crown Prince.

  The gathering was hushed as he spoke.

  “Why, hello, Jacques. Are you safe?”

  And then there was silence while Colonel Gamoudi explained there was about to be a second attempt on his life, how the French Secret Service man had arrived in his bedroom with the warning.

  They all heard the King ask, “And that saved you? Those wonderful lines from Two Cheers for Democracy?” And they saw him smile, fleetingly, before adding, “Yes. I do know them. I know them quite well.” But the King’s face was grave when he said, “Jacques, when you leave here it will be as if I have lost a brother. I am deeply disappointed in the conduct of my allies in France, but I agree you must go, because no security is one hundred percent.

  “I will have you collected from the house and taken to the airport where a private Boeing will take you anywhere you wish to go. I want you to keep it for as long as it takes, until you are safe.” He then asked quietly, “Does this mean that General Rashood will leave as well?”

  And it was clear from the sad expression on Nasir’s face that the Hamas leader was also going to fly out of Saudi Arabia. “You both go as my brothers, and my comrades in arms,” he said. “Your names will not be forgotten here, and you have my support and my help until the end of my days. Jacques, go in peace, and may Allah go with you.”

  Thirty minutes later, an amazing clatter split the night air of the Diplomatic Quarter as a Royal Saudi Navy helicopter, an Aerospatiale SA 365 Dauphin 2, came in low over the houses and put down with a tremendous racket on the wide lawn outside Colonel Gamoudi’s bedroom.

  Gamoudi almost had a heart attack at the sight of the French-built Dauphin, assuming briefly that it was Gaston Savary’s hit squad coming to finish him off. But when he looked closer, he could see the insignia of the Saudi Navy and the crown painted near the stern that signified it was for the use of the King.

  The loadmaster who came to the front door was immediately admitted, as if the guards had been forewarned of his arrival. Both Gamoudi and Ravi Rashood traveled light, each with just one duffel bag, a machine pistol, four magazines of fifty rounds, and their combat knives. Suits, shirts, and uniforms were left behind for another time.

  The Dauphin took off instantly, the moment they were aboard, and eight minutes later it put down at the head of the runway at King Khalid Airport, right next to a fully fueled Boeing 737, its engines running.

  They thanked the helicopter flight crew and bolted up the stairway into the big private jet. The doors were slammed and, with immense dignity, the second officer came through to inquire, “Where to, sir?” as if the Boeing were a taxi.

  General Rashood’s mind raced. He considered Damascus was not a good option — not on a direct flight from Riyadh. Jordan was not far enough; neither was Baghdad. Tel Aviv was too dangerous. And so was Cairo.

  “Beirut,” he said. “Beirut International Airport.”

  “No problem,” replied the co-pilot.

  Three minutes later they were hurtling down the runway, climbing above the sea of light that is modern-day Riyadh. The only difference being, since they arrived, there had been a change in management.

  SAME NIGHT, 9:00 P.M. (LOCAL)

  DGSE HQ

  PARIS

  Gaston Savary hardly left his office these days. And mostly he just sat and fretted, unshaven, praying for the phone to ring, praying it was someone with the news that Col. Jacques Gamoudi had been eliminated.

  So far he had been out of luck. And tonight was no different. Maj. Raul Foy was on the line from Riyadh, imparting the precise information Savary did not wish to hear.

  “Sir, I gained entry to the house at ten-thirty tonight. I entered his bedroom only to discover he had already left and was not expected to return. The guards there of course know and trust me. One of the guards told me Gamoudi had left Saudi Arabia; I understand the King himself organized his escape.”

  The name of the Major’s target was naturally never mentioned, but Gaston Savary did not need reminding of it. “Merde,” he said. “Do we have any clue where he’s gone?”

  “Nossir. All we know is one of the King’s private jets took off from King Khalid Airport shortly before midnight, and that our man may have been aboard.”

  Major Foy, treading the treacherous line between traitor and efficient undercover agent, added helpfully, “It’s damned hard to trace the King’s aircraft, sir. They never file a flight plan from his own airport, and of course no one has any idea where it’s headed.”

  “Merde,” said Savary. “What now?”

  “Sir, that Boeing can fly more than twenty-four hundred miles. But General Rashood may also be onboard. He was staying at the Colonel’s house. I suggest we place agents in the Middle East airports where we think they might be going. I’d say Jordan, certainly Damascus, where it’s possible the General lives. Cairo, which is a hell of a good place to hide. Maybe Djibouti, because that’s where General Rashood came in before the attack. Certainly Tripoli, because Rashood could get help there, and possibly Beirut, which is often beyond the rule of law.”

  “How about Baghdad, Kuwait, or Tehran?” suggested Gaston Savary.

  “Not Baghdad, because the General might have enemies there. But perhaps Tehran. He is, after all, from Iran. And Kuwait…I don’t think so…it’s too close. It’s like going nowhere.”

  Gaston Savary scribbled the names on a pad in front of him. He told Major Foy to stay in touch, and he prepared to put at least two DGSE agents into the airports where the Boeing might land. That would be his first call. The second one would be to Pierre St. Martin. Savary was not looking forward to that one.

  FRIDAY, APRIL 16, 0030

  25,000 FEET ABOVE AL NAFUD DESERT

  General Rashood had regained his composure. Relaxed here in the first-class compartment, he pulled out his state-of-the-art cell phone and for the first time in almost four months dialed his wife’s number in Damascus.

  Shakira answered immediately, despite the late hour, and was overjoyed to hear from him. She told him she had been at her wit’s end to know whether he was alive or dead, but she understood he could not risk calling her.

  And was it safe now? Could someone be listening in?

  “Since I’m calling from a passenger jet about five miles above the desert, it’s unlikely,” he said.
r />   “Are you coming home?” she asked. “Please say yes.”

  But Rashood’s answer was stern. “Shakira, I want you to get a pen and write some things down. Meet me tomorrow afternoon in the town of Byblos; that’s less than thirty miles up the coast road from Beirut. To get there, you’ll drive sixty miles along the main Damascus highway, straight over the Lebanon Mountains. It’s a good road, but you should allow four hours from home to Byblos.

  “When you arrive, you’ll find the main attraction is some Roman ruins right at the edge of the town. You get into them through an old crusader castle. I’ll meet you in there, in the castle, at three P.M.

  “Before you start, please go to the bank and get money. A minimum of fifty thousand U.S. dollars, a hundred thousand if you can. We’ve got five million on deposit in the Commercial Bank of Syria. I’m guessing you’ll be out of the bank and on the road by ten-thirty in the morning.

  “And, Shakira, bring an AK-47, hide it in the compartment I had built into the Range Rover. There are a few checkpoints on that Damascus highway, but they won’t be thorough. Use your Syrian passport, and bring your Israeli one.

  “Shakira, just tell me you have your notes correctly written down, and then ring off. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Are we in trouble, Rashood?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, I love you anyway. Wait for me.”

  EARLIER, THURSDAY, APRIL 15, 1700 (LOCAL)

  NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY

  The eight-hour time difference meant it was still late on Thursday afternoon in Washington when Colonel Gamoudi’s Boeing roared up into the midnight skies above Riyadh.

  Within minutes, there had been a check call from the CIA’s duty officer at King Khalid Airport, informing the Riyadh embassy that one of the King’s private aircraft had taken off with just two unknown passengers. As always with the Saudi royal family’s personal transports, its destination was unknown.

  The embassy in Riyadh was very quickly off the mark, and on the phone to the CIA’s busy Middle East Desk in Langley, Virginia. They already knew a Navy helicopter transmitting military radar had landed in a well-guarded private residence near the Diplomatic Quarter just before midnight, and had taken off immediately.

  Inside the NSA, Lt. Commander Ramshawe already had a report from the CIA’s man at the airport who had photographed the chopper with night lenses as it arrived at King Khalid, and he had seen the Boeing take off. The assumption in Riyadh, Langley, and Fort Meade was that Le Chasseur had been airlifted out of Saudi Arabia and that he was somewhere above the desert in the Boeing.

  The Americans, after all, knew the French had already tried to assassinate him once, and it was now obvious the King was taking steps to protect him, in return for the enormous favor he had done the kingdom.

  The question was, where was he going? The CIA did, more or less, what the French DGSE had done: they posted men at the likely Middle East airports, watching and waiting for King Nasir’s Boeing to touch down.

  There was, however, one major problem. Beirut was last on the Americans’ list, and their man did not arrive there until 4 A.M., by which time General Rashood and Colonel Gamoudi had been whisked away to the new Saudi embassy in Beirut, by orders of the King.

  It took the CIA agent an hour to ascertain that the Boeing had indeed landed, which left him with little to do except sit and watch until it took off again.

  The French agents were, however, on time. And while they never got anywhere near the two passengers, they were able to follow the diplomatic car to the embassy, so at least they knew where the fugitives were. Whether or not they would be lucky enough to get a sniper shot in was very questionable.

  Nonetheless, the French were plainly winning this race. And when a different, smaller vehicle pulled out of the embassy the following morning, with a chauffeur driving and darkened rear windows, the four French agents now involved in the chase elected to tail it — all the way up the coast road to the ancient city of Byblos.

  FRIDAY, APRIL 16, 12:30 P.M. (LOCAL)

  OUTSKIRTS OF BEIRUT

  Shakira Rashood had been an active member of the terrorist organization Hamas since she was twelve years old. She was rarely out of reach of an AK-47 rifle and she had served on combat operations ever since she was seventeen.

  She and Rashood had fled a battle in the Jerusalem Road, Hebron, in the hours after they first met four years before. He saved her life, then she saved his. Their subsequent marriage was conducted inside the deepest councils of Hamas, of which General Rashood swiftly became the Commander in Chief.

  They had thus met and married in the harshest of environments, a place without sentimentality, only a brutal desire for victory. But theirs was a love match, and the beautiful Palestinian Shakira, stuck now in a diabolical traffic holdup five miles out of Beirut, was beside herself with worry.

  She sensed danger. Why did Rashood want so much money? Why had he been so reluctant to talk after all these weeks apart? Why had he told her to be sure to bring her rifle, when he knew she never made a journey without it?

  Every inch of her sensed that something terrible was happening. Again she leaned on the horn of the Range Rover, like everyone else. There were few places in the Middle East where traffic could snarl as comprehensively as around Beirut.

  As ever, the holdup was caused by a young man driving at a lunatic speed, zigzagging in and out of traffic, and then managing to hit a construction truck head on. The young man was of course the only driver who no longer cared one way or another whether his car started or stopped.

  But about three hundred other drivers did, especially Shakira, who was held up for forty minutes, which seemed like six hours. There may have been a better way around the city, but if there was she missed it. Shakira headed north toward the coast, straight down the Rue Damas, and swung right onto the Avenue Charles Hevlou, a wide throughway that became jammed solid after a half mile.

  The clock ticked on. It was almost two o’clock. And again they were dealing with an accident. Much of Beirut was still a building site, while contractors attempted to rebuild the shattered city in the long aftermath of the civil war. The crash on Avenue Hevlou was caused by a young man who, apparently inflamed by two huge trucks double parking, had made a break for it around the outside and hit a crane bang in the middle of the road.

  By the time the accident was cleared, Shakira Rashood had twenty-eight miles to cover in forty-five minutes. Eventually she was compelled to start driving like a native, speeding up the coast road, with the blue Mediterranean to her left and the endless coastal plain in front of her.

  The Range Rover raced along in the traffic, often making eighty miles per hour. And the last miles were endless. She sped into tiny Byblos from the east at 3:05 P.M. and followed the tourist signs to the ruins.

  It was raining when she reached the parking area and got out of the car. Right next to the entrance was a stationary Peugeot, its hefty, tough-looking occupant just heading into the main door of the castle.

  Shakira’s sixth sense, the one that had kept her alive in tougher spots than this, took over. One hundred yards from the man, she began to run, her feet pounding through the puddles, her breath coming in short angry bursts. Her AK-47 was tucked under her right arm, beneath her raincoat, and could not be seen. She was sobbing as she ran inside the castle. Beside herself with fear, she bolted into the dark passageway. Rashood, she knew, was in desperate danger.

  3:07 P.M.

  CRUSADER CASTLE, SECOND FLOOR

  Rashood and Gamoudi were cornered, flattened against the stone wall on either side of the door. Their three armed French Secret Service pursuers were gathered outside, and had already decided the best way to get this over was for two of them to come in firing. There was no escape, and whatever happened, there was a two-man backup outside.

  There were no windows in the room, but there was a former window, just the bricked-up stone frame five feet above the ground to the left of the doorway looking out.
Jammed inside the frame, his feet rammed into the lower corners, was Jacques Gamoudi, in position, on higher ground than his attackers.

  The two French hit men came in together. And Gamoudi shouted, “This way!” The man on the right coming in turned, and Gamoudi shot him clean between the eyes. The second man, on Rashood’s side of the doorway, also swung around to his right in search of the person who had shouted.

  That was not smart. Rashood blew away the back of his head with a sustained burst from his machine pistol. Both the men slumped down onto the stone floor.

  On the steps leading up to the corridor Shakira heard the shots and was gripped by a cold terror she had never before experienced. She kept repeating Rashood’s name over and over, as if it would somehow keep him safe.

  The trouble was, Rashood’s cover was blown. Whoever else was outside in the passage now knew that both he and Gamoudi were in there, one on either side of the doorway. Secret Service combat officers have a way of dealing with such matters — possibly a couple of grenades.

  The third man who waited outside did not have them. The fourth man coming along the corridor had three. Very calmly he passed one over to his colleague and began to loosen the firing pin.

  At which point the near-hysterical Shakira came racing around the corner, tears streaming down her face, but now with her AK-47 raised to hip height.

  Both men spun around at the same time. The man she had followed dropped one of the grenades, mercifully with the pin still tight, and swung his rifle straight toward her. Too late. Shakira Rashood opened fire, pouring hot lead into both men, neck and head, just like General Rashood had taught her.

  “If you’ve killed him…I swear to God…if you’ve killed him!” The words tumbled from her without reason. She stumbled over the two bodies and carelessly rushed into the stone room where her husband was still flattened against the wall and Jacques Gamoudi was still jammed into the granite window frame.