by Ward Larsen
At that moment, the king’s 747 was making its final descent along the coast. In fifteen minutes, the world’s most expensive airliner would perform a low altitude flyby in front of the world’s grandest vacation home. Shutters would fly and lenses zoom as each photographer composed their best shot, hoping it might become the signature image of the week.
In those breathless, anticipatory minutes, none of the photographers could imagine how it would play out in the end: that the pictures they would so meticulously capture would never see the light of day.
SIXTY-EIGHT
The sun was rising, edging above the hills. Slaton pushed through foliage wet with dew as briny air swept up the cliffs. He’d been moving on a steady run since leaving the point, but as he came close to the villa he was forced to slow.
Maneuvering carefully, he tried for an angle that would give a comprehensive view of the place. He paused in a small stand of trees eighty yards distant, slightly below the level of the main house. Slaton spotted two men near the front door and easily pegged them as security—manner, physique, not to mention the weapons they displayed openly in shoulder holsters. They were standing under the large portico, engaged in an animated discussion. He wondered how many like them were inside. One of the men was thin and rangy, and wore dark sunglasses in the dim morning. The other looked more like a mob enforcer than professional security, all crude thickness and muscle.
Two cars were parked nearby. Both were sedans, one tan, the other white. The trunk of the tan car was open, and on the ground next to it was a case similar to the one he’d seen on the promontory. He also saw four standard rollerbags—three were lined neatly on the driveway next to the white car’s rear quarter-panel, one by the tan. The implication was clear—departure was imminent.
The rangy man was doing most of the talking, and he pointed off in the distance. Slaton followed his gesture and saw something he hadn’t before—a big truck parked at the top of a nearby hill. Then he did a double take. There was no mistaking the vehicle’s stout frame, nor the array of antennas on top. It was the truck he’d taken a picture of last night at the airfield—or at least its twin. Last night the truck had seemed lifeless, but now one of its rooftop antennas was rotating, and light shone distinctly in the front window. Taken with the fact that it was situated on the highest terrain, he could draw but one conclusion—some kind of operation was in progress.
Slaton had silenced the burner phone in his pocket for obvious reasons, yet he’d checked it minutes earlier and seen a missed call. It wasn’t from Christine’s number, which left but one possibility—she’d gotten word to the CIA about how to reach him. He’d ignored the call, thinking he had more pressing matters. Now Slaton revisited that conclusion.
What the hell is going on here?
An impulse to check the phone again was interrupted by movement on the villa’s sprawling seaside terrace. Two men came outside and paused by a table stocked with food and a coffeepot. One Slaton recognized instantly: the thickset form of Vladimir Ovechkin stood with a coffee mug in hand, gazing out at the northern sky. The other man Slaton had never seen. But of course he knew who it was. In his late twenties, he was wearing drab olive pants, and an untucked cotton button-down over an undershirt. He was of medium height, lean and fit, and moved with an economy Slaton recognized all too well. Standing on the veranda sipping coffee, he could not have appeared more casual. A visitor to a pleasant seaside retreat. Or an operator basking in the afterglow of a successful mission.
That these two men—a shady oligarch and a confirmed assassin—were sharing coffee on a patio held any number of implications. Slaton had already considered the possibility that the two might be in cahoots, but something about that scenario seemed simplistic—even more so considering the cold-blooded setup that had put Zhukov under Slaton’s own sight. Whatever their interactions, it was beyond what Slaton could compute in that moment. These two men had tried to kill him. By extension, they were a threat to his family.
That was all he needed to know.
Slaton made one last update of the picture before him. The truck on the hill was unchanged. The two men under the portico had begun loading suitcases into the white car. He studied the terrace, and for the first time noticed the unmistakable profile of a Barrett fifty cal resting on a lounge chair in a shadow. The assassin was ten steps away from the gun. Twelve steps after he sided up to the crumpet table. Slaton watched him stab a toothpick into a cube of cheese.
He began to move.
* * *
The CIA was efficient. It was also lucky.
By virtue of Morocco’s position as a gateway to sub-Saharan Africa, the NSA had years earlier established a standing hack into that country’s air traffic control network. It was a weakness that was rarely leveraged, but occasionally useful in monitoring arms smuggling, state-sponsored meddling, and the odd warlord taking flight. The Saudi royal 747 was easily extracted from the banks of traffic, and could be seen at that moment descending through thirty thousand feet, marginally south of El Jadida along the coast. There was still no contact with the aircraft, despite repeated attempts, and as far as anyone knew the Saudis were not yet aware that a threat to the royal family was brewing. Director Coltrane sensed a specific manifestation of that peril, but he needed proof.
It was here that luck came into play.
The technician manning the ops center’s “internal comm” station was by chance a retired Navy air traffic controller. “Are we filtering this air traffic data to exclude primary returns?” he asked.
“What are those?” Coltrane responded.
“Raw reflections of radar pulses. Right now what we’re looking at involves participating aircraft—airplanes that use transponders to verify airspeed, altitude, and call signs. Primary data is no more than a blip on a screen. If a jet was trying to stay off the scope, that’s all you would see. What we’re looking at seems to be a managed feed, with the primary returns screened out.”
Since discovering that a MiG had taken off from the RosAvia complex, all focus had been on finding it. There hadn’t been time to debate the implications, but the prevailing assumption in the room was clear—that the MiG might be targeting the king’s 747.
Coltrane gave the go-ahead to look for primary radar data. Fortunately, it didn’t take long. The source data was reconfigured, and the main screen flickered. A new air traffic map presented only raw reflective returns. Of these there were but a handful. A very low and slow target paralleling the beaches off Casablanca was, according to the Navy man, most likely some kind of single-engine propeller plane towing a banner. Two blips to the east were also low and slow, most likely training aircraft flown by student pilots. Then a fourth primary target blinked into view—quite literally. It was situated southeast, and on an azimuth that could well have sourced it from Tazagurt’s airfield. The reflection displayed only intermittently, a tiny white dot ghosting in and out of view. The former controller said, “That one’s sporadic because he’s flying low.”
Erratic coverage aside, two more facts soon became evident. First, the aircraft was traveling at a very high rate of speed. The second revelation was even more disconcerting. When the sporadic new track was overlaid with that of the Saudi 747, the two aircraft were clearly—for lack of a better term—on a collision course.
For the next five minutes the ops center shifted its focus, and three salient points were nailed down. First, unsure if the MiG might be armed, analysts renewed their study of the photos from the Tazagurt hangar. They saw no evidence whatsoever of air-to-air missiles—no rails on the MiG’s hardpoints, no loading equipment in the hangar. Second, with a satellite brought to bear on the coastline, it was discovered with some surprise that the antenna-laden truck that had yesterday been at the RosAvia complex was now parked on a hill near Ovechkin’s villa. The final revelation came from a different tack, and was perhaps the least surprising of the three—they’d learned that Slaton had a burner phone in his possession, and its location had been
triangulated. He was presently near the villa. And moving closer.
“Still no luck with the Saudis?” Coltrane asked impatiently.
“We’re trying constantly,” said the comm leader. “They’re not responding.”
“What about Slaton?”
“No contact there either.”
“Keep trying!”
SIXTY-NINE
Moderation in war is akin to surrender. That being the case, Slaton’s only decision was in what order to kill the men he was watching.
Based on what he’d seen, the disposition of cars and suitcases, Slaton thought it likely that there were no others inside. “Likely” being the operative word. He was facing four men. The most capable, he was sure, was in back, a highly trained operator who at that moment seemed distracted. The two in front could not be underestimated, and showed evidence of training. It occurred to him that there might be others on the distant hill, but he discounted that for the time being since it was roughly a mile away. Into his calculus Slaton added angles and terrain and known weapons. Vladimir Ovechkin, standing next to the blue-aqua pool with a coffee cup in hand, was the least of his worries.
Slaton closed the gap expertly, keeping to cover and shadows at every chance, and moving in absolute silence. His immediate objective was a massive boulder on the villa’s northern shoulder. From there, he estimated, he would have a good view of all three primary threats at an acceptable range—assuming no one moved. He was ten steps from the boulder, and thirty from the villa, when his tactical plan collapsed.
As a trained sniper, Slaton was practiced at observing targets. Consequently, he had a knack for recognizing when they’d alerted to his presence. It was like seeing a deer going still when it caught a predator’s scent, or a guard dog getting its hackles up. He saw it then in the rangy security man. A subtle rigidity that fired into his limbs. An abrupt straightening of the spine.
Caught in the open, Slaton went to a crouch. He watched the guard pull his phone from his pocket and check it hurriedly. Then, damningly, he half turned and looked directly to the spot where Slaton had taken a knee.
Slaton held his breathing instinctively, knowing he’d missed something. A motion sensor in a tree. A pressure pad beneath the forest floor. He had rushed in, overconfident, and resultingly lost his greatest ally—the element of surprise. That would have allowed him the two kills before any resistance could organize. There was no getting it back now, which meant speed and accuracy were his new best friends.
He rose to height and settled the UMP on the rangy guard. Caught in the open, the man reached for his holstered gun. He got a hand to it, and managed to bark out a warning before Slaton’s first round struck home. The second bullet caught him falling. Slaton shifted to the thickset guard, who was trying to dash behind the car with his weapon in hand. Slaton’s first shot caught him obliquely, and he spun against a fender. The next caught him right between the collarbones, and he dropped once and for all.
Slaton didn’t stand still long enough to even glance at the patio. He lunged toward the boulder, and in the next instant small-caliber fire began shredding the brush around him. The boulder was stout cover, but instead of stopping—the most natural move—he ran straight past it. After a brief hesitation, the operator on the terrace opened up again. In the longest two seconds of his life—the time it took Slaton to get out of sight behind the side of the house—three rounds came singing in. One found its mark, but thankfully on the back of his vest, jerking him off balance as he threw himself behind the wall.
With a moment to breathe, Slaton double-checked the two guards—both looked quite dead. He had shifted the odds in his favor, but the most dangerous adversary remained, along with the wild card that was Ovechkin. He reached behind with his good right arm and felt the tear in his vest where the round had hit. When he brought his hand back in front he was happy to see no blood—adrenaline had a way of masking injuries.
The man on the terrace had fired either nine or ten rounds—an uncertainty Slaton saw as a bit of rust creeping in from his year on the high seas. Either way, the man would be palming in a fresh mag. Slaton still had eighteen in the UMP, and a spare mag in his pocket. As things stood, he had superior firepower. The Barrett was impractical for a close-in fight—like trying to use a howitzer in a closet. He weighed whether the soldier might have anything else, and decided it was unlikely. He’d brought the Barrett with a specific purpose, and the semiautomatic handgun was his insurance. He would never expect to need anything more. What about Ovechkin? Would he be armed? Slaton thought it unlikely, but couldn’t discount the idea.
He realized that the man on the patio held one distinct advantage—he knew the layout inside the house. Slaton ventured a glance ahead, to the southeast corner of the villa. He saw no motion, heard no movement inside. On the far side of the front facade he saw a pine tree close to the house. Its branches laddered upward perfectly. The shooter might know the inside, he thought, but I know the roof as well as he does. When in doubt, claim the high ground.
Keeping below the front windows, he ran in a crouch toward the tree. He tested the lowest branch, and it held his weight easily. More importantly, it did so without a sound. Looking upward, he was sure he could reach the rooftop.
Slaton began to climb.
He planned each step carefully, avoiding one dead limb. When he reached eye level to the roofline, he paused to study things. The roof was complex and angular, ruddy barrel tiles joined at multiple peaks. He heard a noise from the house, like a chair being pushed across a tile floor. At least one of them was inside.
Slaton silently crawled onto the roof. The clay tiles were warm under his hands, the rising sun taking hold of the day. Keeping to his belly, he shifted the UMP behind him once more, not wanting it to clatter against the tiles. He bypassed a secondary peak for the main crest which, if he remembered correctly, would overlook the back terrace. As long as he remained silent, it would be a commanding position.
He neared the peak soundlessly, inching toward the row of semicircular cap tiles that joined the two sloping sections. Slaton edged up and peered over the ridge cautiously. What he saw was a surprise.
Not two feet away, a set of bright blue eyes stared back.
SEVENTY
There was no time to think. Only to react.
With the UMP behind his back, and seeing a handgun in the Russian’s right hand, Slaton launched himself over the crown of the roof. His own weapon out of reach behind him, Slaton’s only play was to lock up his adversary’s arm. They grappled across the hard tile, struggling for control of the weapon. A wild shot rang out, the gun’s barrel canted skyward in their combined grip. Slaton felt the man’s finger on the trigger. He locked the finger down and twisted the gun viciously, heard the crack of bone and a grunt of pain.
Slaton had the advantage of size, and was confident he would win a close-in fight. The Russian sensed it too, because as Slaton tightened his arm bar, the man made the best possible move—he rolled and pushed with his legs, sending them both tumbling down the pitched roof. They fell intertwined, and the handgun caromed free. It clattered across the tile, and Slaton saw it slide toward the edge and disappear to the patio below.
He tried to arrest their entangled drop. The Russian did his best to promote it. Slaton knew what he was thinking. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
Slaton dug his heels into tile grooves, but each time he gained purchase, the Russian countered with a push of his own. With gravity on his adversary’s side, they both tumbled one last turn before careening over the roof’s edge. In midair the two men let go of one another, survival instinct kicking in. In the next split second Slaton saw the second-floor balcony rail coming. It struck him square in the chest, but his vest spread the impact.
His body bounded out into space again, and he reached out with his right hand for the rail, trying to arrest his fall. As he did, the UMP’s sling caught on something, twisting his body awkwardly. He grabbed the rail for an instant
, braking his descent, but the force was overwhelming and his hand twisted free. It was a ten-foot drop to the stone terrace, and Slaton landed as best he could, legs bent and rolling onto a hip. New pains seared in, but he ignored every one and bounded to his feet.
The Russian had landed a few steps away, yet he too knew how to survive a fall. He was up before Slaton, his eyes sweeping the fine Italian tile, searching for his weapon.
Slaton did the same—somewhere in the fall he’d lost the UMP.
They spotted the handgun at the same time, a dull black L on the bottom of the kidney-shaped pool. It was much nearer the Russian. Slaton searched for the UMP. He didn’t see it, but noticed his burner phone on the tile ten paces away. Then a sway of motion overhead caught his eye—the UMP was hanging by its sling from a wall-mounted light fixture. The gun was ten feet above him, and he guessed he could jump high enough to slap at it. He might knock it down on the first try. More likely, the second or the third.
He didn’t have that much time.
The Russian dove into the pool head-first, his hands clawing for the bottom. He retrieved his gun six feet under, and started back up. Slaton was trapped in the open on the broad patio. There was no cover he could reach soon enough to dodge an expert marksman. And that’s what this man would be. He saw one chance: on the nearby lounge chair the Barrett lay as if sunning itself.
Slaton leapt for the big gun and grabbed it by the barrel.
In retrospect, he would later realize that this was where the Russian faltered. Perhaps he wasn’t experienced in the water. Not comfortable with shooting through refraction, or concerned about the ballistic degradation imparted by a few inches of over-chlorinated water. If he had only paused where he was and raised the gun toward the surface, fired at a stationary target a few feet above him, he would have won the battle. Won their whole private war. Instead, he tried to come up for air before taking his shot.