“Are we going after them? To follow up those names the caller gave? I really want to kill those two people.”
The cookie tasted somewhat bitter. He put it down and tried another, which had a sweet lemony taste and was better. “Of course, sometime in the future, but on a timetable of our own making. Right now they are expecting a strike. Let things go calm for a while and Americans always lose interest. This Task Force Trident is obviously a secret military organization, so information on its personnel will be classified, but they had to be born somewhere, educated somewhere, and have lived somewhere before they went into the military. We can spend some time and money to hire computer hackers and private detectives to work on the records. They eventually will turn up a mention somewhere; there is always a hole in a cover story.”
“So I can go hunting for a while, and you can call me when they are found? Don’t leave me out of this, father. They must be mine.” Djahid loved Africa for many reasons, because he could hunt without repercussions. The feeling of such freedom filled his soul. Conflict and war had watered the sand and jungles of the dark continent forever, and his services as a mercenary were always in high demand. All he had to do was put out the word that he was back in the game, and he would have all the work he could handle. His quarry was never lions and elephants, which he considered little more than livestock. Djahid hunted humans.
Yanis knew he was setting a killer free to roam, but understood that the boy needed it, and rationalized that the bloodletting would help him stay sharp. Who knew what the future held?
“The Americans are too pushy, as always. They want this thing done and that thing done in such a hurry, stumbling toward a finish line that is not really there.” He watched through the big window as a flock of birds burst from the crowded pines and eucalyptus, dotting the cloudless sky. “We think in terms of centuries, so take your time. I will summon you when an opportunity arises.”
FROM THE GAZETTE
Local target-shooting legend Catherine Elizabeth Ledford, daughter of the late Stephen and Margaret Ledford, will be married next month to Captain Miguel Francisco Castillo of the Mexican Marine Corps.
The Gazette followed the many exploits of the little sharpshooter from the time she won a turkey shoot when she was only eight years old, in competition with hunters from all over the county. Other publications and television shows also ran profile pieces on the “Kossuth County Annie Oakley.”
“Beth is amazing with firearms,” remembers Deputy Sheriff Bill Turner, who attended school with Ms. Ledford and received a formal invitation to the wedding. “She was hands down the best shot I ever saw, and I have seen plenty. Throw a quarter in the air at fifty yards and she can nail it on the fly and give you change. You can’t teach that. Great family, too.”
Her brother was the well-known Dr. Joey Ledford, who was killed in Pakistan several years ago while leading a medical relief mission.
Her mother and father owned Ledford Dairy Products near Algona. As Beth’s reputation spread from winning competitions, they became wary of the impact that national publicity was having on their young daughter, so they put a stop to public exhibitions. Instead, they hired coaches to prepare her to compete for a spot on the Olympic Shooting Team. “That was absolutely the right thing to do,” said Deputy Turner. “TV today would have eaten that kid alive.”
Upon her father’s death, Beth joined the United States Coast Guard, which trained her to become a sniper. She and Captain Castillo met in the course of their duties. The ceremony will be held in the groom’s hometown of Mazatlán in Mexico.
Bill Turner said the new couple’s military background will be on full review at the wedding, according to a personal note she sent along with the invitation: Her boss, U.S. Marine Major General Bradley Middleton, will give her away; her co-worker Marine Lieutenant Colonel Sybelle Summers will be her maid of honor, and a combined honor guard of Marines from the United States and Mexico will include their mutual friend Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson, a holder of the Congressional Medal of Honor.
The Gazette and all of Kossuth County wishes happiness to Captain Castillo and Beth, our hometown girl who grew up to serve her country so well.
The wire services picked up the story in abbreviated form, along with area television news programs, and inevitably it was filed on the Internet. The Lizard planted similar wedding news in other media.
36
WASHINGTON, D.C.
JORDAN MONROE died during the day shift at Walter Reed, despite heroic efforts of medical personnel and exotic machines to keep him breathing. He had withered away in the bed and was down to only a hundred pounds, not much more than skin over a skeleton, and the physical body finally just could not sustain the punishment. He never regained consciousness from the coma that followed his heart attack, and with one final lurch and a deep exhalation of breath that sounded like a prolonged burp, the senior senator from Missouri died.
“So what do we do now?” Douglas Jimenez was locked in the senator’s private office with his usual FBI special agents, Jim Lassiter and Ron Martin. “The governor will be appointing an interim senator to serve out the term, and he will bring in his own staff.”
Martin appeared comfortable, leaning back and eating a bag of M&M chocolate pellets. Lassiter still had the wicked grin that was his trademark. “Don’t need you anymore, Dougie, that’s for sure. Monroe is dead, and there goes your clout. The bad guys haven’t made contact with you since we started the game, so they probably are not going to.”
“Can you phrase that another way, Jim? It sounds like you’re going to kill me.”
“You watch too much television. Most often, we don’t kill people who have helped us, and you played your part.”
Jimenez remained very still, wary of a trick. “You mean I’m out of this mess?”
“Yep. We came to tell you the good news personally. It was a good idea, but the terrorists apparently were spooked by Monroe’s heart attack and decided to fold their tents. We want you to handle the funeral arrangements and volunteer to stay on until the new appointment is made.”
“Then,” added Martin, crunching a cheekful of candy, “you get out of this fucking town. Go away and never come back. We have neither forgotten nor forgiven that you are a traitor, but a deal is a deal.”
“You good with that, Dougie? We all clear?” He handed over a business card bearing the name of a woman in the U.S. Marshals Service. “Here’s the person taking over now. Call her and she will help you move on the quiet. They are the professionals at this sort of relocation. You will not be in protective custody.”
“What about my start-over money?”
“She will cut you a check.”
They both stood up. Martin wadded up the empty yellow wrapper and flipped it onto the big desk. “I wish you only bad luck in the future, Jimenez.” The two agents left the ornate office without shaking hands or looking back.
AFRICA
THE MESSAGE FROM FATHER had arrived three days ago, while Djahid Rebiane was working in the Sudan with a splinter group within the Sudanese Revolutionary Front, the latest political force in that sad country. The undisciplined men and boys were supplied with Russian arms and trained by foreign mercenaries like himself. Sudan, South Sudan, and the Sudanese Revolutionary Front and its politics were equally meaningless to Djahid; he was only there for the buzz.
An entire village was in flames, and the government rescue unit had been ripped apart in an ambush that Djahid had directed on that sweltering July morning. He had been behind a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on a battered Toyota pickup, the normal cheap striking arm of any African guerrilla movement, and had his shirt off and a bandanna around his head in the heat, screaming with delight as he laid down a hurricane of big bullets that devastated his targets, which was anybody and anything he didn’t recognize as an ally. Civil war was wonderful.
He returned to base camp with the smell of roasting flesh still clinging to his nostrils. Djahid found a burly young bla
ck man waiting, having come all the way from Khartoum to hand over a phone and say there was a video message on it. Djahid poured a bucket of water over his head and wiped his face clear of most of the dust, then walked into the jungle until he was alone. He turned on the phone and called up the video message.
A picture of his father appeared, and Djahid was pleased that he looked well. The voice message was brief. “Greetings, my son. Your holiday is over. Get to Mexico City as soon as possible, and more details will be waiting at the Four Seasons. A suite is booked there under the German alias. Our patience has paid off.”
Djahid walked back and threw the telephone into a campfire and stayed to watch it burn. He had been in the bush almost a month and was ready for something new. The raids and training illiterate children as fighters were getting tiresome, almost routine. He yearned for a clean bed, fresh food, and new challenges, and his father was indicating that something important was waiting in Mexico. It must be the Americans. Finally, time to settle things with them.
He left for Khartoum the next morning, clean-shaven and looking like the man in his German passport, Hans Böhm, a weathered freelance magazine photojournalist.
The next leg of the trip took him from Khartoum to the rancid capital of Lagos, where there was not a blip of alert as he passed through the laughable security checks of the steamy Murtala Muhammed International Airport. His biggest concern had been facial recognition software, but not even the air-conditioning worked well, much less any sophisticated computer software that might combat terrorists. Terrorists had little to fear from Nigerian authorities. With his fake passport and a few well-placed bribes that were openly expected, he elbowed through the swarm of passengers in the departures terminal, knocked over a clumsy pickpocket, and settled down in the private lounge to await the Arik Air flight to Johannesburg. He had no luggage, since it probably would have been looted anyway, and he would buy what he needed as he went along, including some camera gear.
Because he had been cleared in Lagos, he was considered in-transit in Joburg and did not have to go through customs, as long as he did not leave the security bubble during the layover. South African authorities were far more efficient and dangerous to him than those in Lagos, so he waited for a few hours, reading, until he could board a Lufthansa Dreamliner flight. It took him directly to Caracas, Venezuela, another democratic republic that terrorists did not fear. From there, it was simple to get to Mexico City and the next message.
ABOARD THE VAGABOND
“NO! WE WILL NOT postpone our wedding again. We already pushed it back to August instead of July. I put off my resignation. Enough is enough.” Coastie’s arms were crossed, the big eyes defiant. Seated at her side, Mickey Castillo, the silent type, agreed. “No,” he said.
Lady Pat and Sir Jeff had brought their luxury yacht to Mexico for the nuptials, and they were all on an afternoon cruise. Pat put a hand on the shoulder of her husband in his wheelchair. “Told you so.” She took a sip of her drink.
Carlos and Alita Castillo, the parents of the groom, had never seen anything like this. They were enjoying the hospitality aboard an elegant vessel that rode so easily on the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico, but were totally confused and somewhat afraid of what was going on around them. Their son’s wedding was going to include women and men with guns.
They knew Mickey was in military special operations with the Infantería de Marina, but he had only last night revealed that their future daughter-in-law was an elite American military operative whose resignation would become effective the day after the wedding. The little blonde had given them a dazzling smile in confirmation. Carlos and Alita could not believe it; such a sweet and pretty girl? “I’m not going to do that anymore … after this,” she said. “I promise. I love your son, and making him happy is going to be my full-time job.”
Aboard the white yacht, they had met the rest of what she called her “other family,” a unit called Task Force Trident. There was a friendly two-star U.S. Marine general with cropped dark hair and a thick mustache, and another huge man with the unusual name of Double-Oh Dawkins, who had a rank they did not understand. The impressive woman officer in the American Marines was Sybelle Summers, a lieutenant colonel, and an officer in the U.S. Navy who wore thick glasses was Commander Benton Freedman. The quietest man was Kyle Swanson, who had shadows in his sharp eyes. Then there was the British couple that owned the yacht, Sir Geoffrey Cornwell and his wife, Lady Patricia. Seeing them all together, and feeling their combined strength, the Castillos understood that for her to have been working with these people, she must have been just as Mickey described.
For reasons they did not understand, they called Freedman “Liz” and Beth “Coastie.” She was not cowed when some of the men suggested putting off the wedding that was inexorably rushing toward them all. Her refusal had been firm. The marriage was going forward on schedule.
The gruff general spoke. “Coastie, we have not received any information that our quarry is on the way. I just wanted you and the captain to consider giving it a little more time, just another four weeks.”
Mickey, holding Coastie’s hand, objected. “We are ready now. It is better to force their hand rather than let them have second thoughts. We control the time and place for the fight if they choose to try a hit.”
Lady Pat moved over and leaned back against the railing alongside Alita Castillo, who had been bewildered by the idea that the wedding was also a careful trap to try to snare a couple of murdering terrorists. The entire rear deck was shaded by an awning. “I agree with Beth. The planning has been a staggering load for the event organizers, who have it all timed to the minute. Everything is ready, including a beautiful bride with a beautiful gown and a handsome groom who will be in uniform with medals and gold braid. We can’t just call it off.”
Kyle Swanson cleared his throat. “Zero security problem,” he said. “We’re ready.”
“Let them come. We are not going to live our lives in fear of some crazy terrorists,” Beth snapped.
Sybelle said, “Beth and Mickey deserve the wedding they want. Nothing has happened since the last action in Seville. The CIA tracked them to Algeria, and snippets of intelligence put them in Yasim’s home village of Constantine. He is unreachable there. The dangerous one, Djahid, dropped off the map entirely. Best guess is he is the one who will take the shots.” Summers resumed thinking about how hot she was going to look in that maid-of-honor frock.
Double-Oh felt like he was the father of Beth Ledford, and by God, he wanted to give her what she wanted and keep her safe. He remained a rock of silent resolve; nobody was going to hurt these kids if he had anything to do with it. The Lizard also was quiet in a chair, thinking about the electronic net he had thrown over the event.
Sir Jeff wheeled over to Beth and took her free hand. “So we stay on schedule, and you two concern yourselves only with that wonderful half of this event. The other stuff is covered by professionals. Normal life must go on, despite the actions of a few mad criminal bastards. Their sort will always be with us. The whole Trident team is here, plus our friends in the Mexican Marines and the police. We could not ask for more.”
Jeff twirled the chair around. “Look, my friends. We’re gathered to celebrate a wedding. Now. More champagne!”
MEXICO CITY, MEXICO
DJAHID REBIANE, alias journalist Hans Böhm, had a small Federal Express package waiting for him at the front desk when he checked into the Four Seasons Hotel in the Paseo de la Reforma district. The clerk made small talk while the guest completed the forms and handed over his passport and told her he was exhausted and in dire need of a cheeseburger, fries, and sleep. A warm shower, room service, and a bed, and then tomorrow, he said, he would be ready to start work. The assignment was for National Geographic.
The room was elegant with an understated light green decor, and Djahid had not been lying to the clerk; he really did want a bath, burger, and bed. The package could wait until he was fresh enough to give it his full atte
ntion. He called room service and not only ordered the meal for now but preordered breakfast for tomorrow morning, along with a full kit of shaving and dental care gear. He put his clothes in a bag to be cleaned and laundered and returned by 6:00 A.M. Then he turned the air conditioner to maximum strength and the shower to medium warm. Djahid was sprawled on the king-sized bed in the white hotel robe and almost snoring before the cheeseburger arrived.
He awoke the next morning to a polite knock at his door for the breakfast and clothing delivery, and it took him a moment to remember where he was. Mexico City. Hans Böhm. A new day, a new mission, something that didn’t require chasing runaway children through the African bush. The coffee, cereal, fruit, and a sweet Danish stepped him back into the here and now, and when he was done, he flopped back on the bed, adjusted some pillows, and opened the FedEx package.
Another throwaway cell phone was inside, along with an envelope. Djahid chuckled at the reliable delivery method; in this high-tech world, sometimes the low-tech methods of the past were better. He powered it up.
His father appeared again, still looking well, but very somber. “My son. May the blessings of Allah be upon you forever. You had asked when we would strike at our real enemies, the two American spies, and I urged caution. While you were hunting in Africa, the simplest of things breached their secrecy. In the accompanying material, you will find details of a wedding that will take place in the resort city of Mazatlán.”
Djahid paused the video to look briefly through the documents. Reports in the American media had been found, and they opened new frontiers for the private investigators. Where there was once blank canvas, now there was a gallery of details.
Back on the telephone message, father said, “That man who called pretending to be offering details for sale after the senator’s heart attack—the senator died, by the way—gave us two names, and both will be at this wedding. From the phrasing, I think that perhaps other members of their secret team also will attend, as bonus opportunities. These are the people responsible for wrecking our grand scheme to advance the cause of Allah and Islam in Spain. I want you to kill them. Make the Christian crusaders feel the penalty for challenging the Prophet, blessed be his name. With your attack, you will reach into their secret world and yank out their black hearts.”
On Scope: A Sniper Novel Page 28