Clean Kill

by Jack Coughlin; Donald A. Davis

  Moving with the speed and force of a bullet, Juba stood in a single move, grabbed Amin’s hair in his left hand and pulled him forward. The table knife was in his right hand and he extended his arm parallel to the floor, with his thumb on the bottom of the blade, and swept it across the bigger man’s left shoulder to plunge it into the soft throat.

  Amin gagged as the short, stubby blade went in and was immediately jerked free again. His eyes flew wide in shock and he grabbed at the iron fingers holding his hair, then the knife flashed in again. This time, Juba buried it up to the handle, dug for the larynx before pulling it free, then stabbed in hard for a final time, digging in the soft internal tissue and feeling the blade grind against the spinal column. He left the makeshift weapon sticking from Amir’s neck. A final push sent the dying man toppling backward from his chair and onto the floor, choking with a cackling sound and flailing helplessly as blood gushed from the multiple ragged wounds, panic and fear written on his face.

  AN HOUR LATER, GERMAN financier Dieter Nesch stepped into his modern villa and the confident smile fell from the face when he saw that his aide, Amir, was sprawled dead on the floor of the dining room. His housekeeper and the chef were trussed up and gagged and scrunched into a corner. The pale blue eyes moved over to where Juba sat at a window overlooking the harbor. Nesch shrugged. “I see you still have your skill at this sort of thing.”

  “Good to see you again, Dieter. The boy was disrespectful,” said Juba, rising to shake the hand of the money man handling the entire operation. They had worked together on numerous occasions in Europe and Juba considered Nesch to be one of the few men who could be trusted in the dark world of terrorism.

  “And I am happy to see you, Juba. Thank you for not killing the other two. They are good people and will not say anything.” Nesch moved over to the maid and untied her, then freed the chef and had a quiet moment with them. They vigorously pledged that they understood that any loose talk about what happened to Amir would result in their own deaths, too, for the special visitor was obviously unpredictable and violent. The financier threw a rug over the corpse. “Too bad about Amir. He was a promising young fellow with a real knack for numbers. I warned him many times about that arrogance. Now I have to find a new assistant.”

  Nesch opened a rosewood cabinet, found a bottle of dark cognac and poured two glasses, giving one to Juba. “Cheers, old friend. Thank you for coming. I am delighted that you have recovered so well from your terrible wounds.”

  Juba accepted the stiff drink and raised a silent toast. “Thank you. I did not expect to see you again until this was all over. Tell me about the nuclear missiles.”

  Nesch took Juba gently by the elbow and guided him to the window. Tall and skinny palm trees and broad manicured grounds spread toward the nearby beach. Small pleasure boats dashed about on the water. “I really do not know very much and frankly advised that it was unwise to start changing plans at this late date. Your arrangements were doing very well, but this fellow Ebara got excited when he learned that nuclear missiles were in the country. I tried to convince him that it was just a pleasant coincidence: The assassination of the general and the murder of his family had been the point of that particular mission and it was successful. But Ebara sees it as the hand of Allah at work and ordered me to call you to supervise the targeting and the launch.”

  “And the Russian agreed?”

  “Ah. Another young man in a hurry, with more money than brains. This started out just as an oil grab, but now he also sees a nuclear destiny in the Middle East. Ivanov decided to let Ebara reach for a new, higher star.”

  Juba nibbled on his lower lip. “Dieter, just what is it that Ebara has?”

  “Well, I can only tell you what I have—a package in a safe deposit box at my local banking facility. Within the envelope are the launch codes for one missile, the key to work it and a booklet about the overall program which discusses the locations of the other missiles. The key and codes are for a missile that is parked within that huge military base at al-Kharj, outside of Riyadh.”

  Juba slowly put his empty glass on a table. “That’s all? Ebara’s people do not actually control the weapons? Goddamn it! Those codes for that nuke will have already been changed! Useless, like a trinket sold in the souk! Perhaps I can find something useful in the book. Maybe the key is a master key for them all. Maybe not.”

  His anger was climbing and his mouth twitched in exasperation. “We have momentum building in this uprising. Pulling me away from the control point risks wrecking everything. I thought I was coming here to oversee the firing of a missile, only to find that the rebel priest does not even really have one, much less five.”

  Nesch spread his hands wide. “Ebara is not a sophisticated man, Juba. A bright student from the slums, the first boy in his class to memorize the Koran some twenty-five years ago. That got on him on the fast track with the imams and his ambition carried him to the leadership of the Religious Police. You know how everything around Saudi Arabia is wrapped in religion. He is a charismatic and harsh leader, which makes him the perfect front man for the coup. He enjoys being on television.”

  “With an uneducated zealot in control of the government, the Russian could loot the place,” Juba responded. “We anticipated that. By then we will have been paid in full and gone from this dreadful place. Let them do with it as they will. I don’t care.”

  Dieter smiled at that last thought. “Yes, we are professionals. Ebara is an amateur. When you provided initial successes and brought down the king, Ebara began believing that it was almost over and that the people were going to rise up and follow him. You will see for yourself. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. I have to tread lightly because these people have incredible amounts of money to spend.”

  “When do we meet him?”

  Nesch laughed quietly, his shoulders shaking with his own humor. “Since you just killed my chauffeur, I’ll have to personally drive you over to the mosque. Amir’s body will be gone by the time we return.”

  “Can we have Ebara come here instead? I don’t like walking into his nest of snakes.” Juba was thinking tactically. Handling a kid like Amir was not the same as taking on the bunch of jihad bodyguards who would be protecting the leader of the Religious Police.

  “I am afraid that would be impossible. Don’t you understand it yet, Juba? Mohammed Abu Ebara no longer considers himself just the leader of the Committee for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice. He craves recognition and has, in his opinion, graciously granted us an audience to instruct you about how to conduct your business to best expand his horizons. Somewhat of an imperialistic drama for a man who detests a monarchy, in my opinion. Ebara already envisions himself as a glorious warrior-prophet riding a white camel adorned with golden trappings in from the desert to lead a revolution that stands on the edge of triumph. The fool believes he has already won!”

  35

  RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA

  KYLE SWANSON WAS UNCOMFORTABLE wearing a suit, but the occasion demanded decorum. Last year in London, Lady Pat had hauled him to a tailor who made one that would be appropriate for almost everything, from a wedding to a business meeting. The fabric was of lightweight dark blue wool, with quieter threads woven in to offset the single shade. He wore a cream-hued shirt, a solid powder-blue tie, and shined shoes of soft Italian leather. He would rather have been in jeans, but a royal court expects better. Worst of all, he was not allowed to carry a weapon, which left him feeling somewhat naked in a nation that was in the middle of a coup.

  The well-fitted suit provided the needed cover, for Swanson wanted to be as far as possible from the image of some common tough-guy American mercenary with pointy sunglasses, a bald head, and a drooping mustache. This visit demanded dignity and diplomacy.

  An executive jet had flown him into Riyadh, where three ink-black SUVs waited on the tarmac. A few soldiers with semiautomatic weapons stood guard and a polite diplomat who spoke fluent English met him at planeside. He wa
s hustled into the middle SUV. No customs inspection, no delay, and no American Embassy types. A person could get used to this VIP stuff, Swanson thought as he settled into the spacious seat. With the gunboat up front wailing its siren and flashing its lights to expedite the trip, the three vehicles arrowed out of the airport and hit the highway. Armored troop-carriers were parked near most intersections and military patrols walked the sidewalks as the curfew time of nine o’clock neared.

  Kyle was surprised at the quietness of the downtown streets, for he had anticipated seeing clashes between the authorities and rioters. Instead, everyone seemed to be heading home, not toward some confrontation. Never jump to conclusions. It was natural that security would be extremely tight in any area leading to the royal palace. Mobs would have been broken up before having a chance to coalesce.

  A man’s view of a battlefield never extends beyond what he can see. The vision of a private does not stretch far beyond the brim of his helmet, while a headquarters general with only a map usually has no personal idea of the ground over which his troops are fighting. Both are effectively blind to things beyond their immediate area of responsibility. And riding in a tightly secured convoy would give Kyle no indication about what was really happening throughout the broad country of Saudi Arabia. Still, he mentally noted that he was not seeing chaos and fires, nor hearing gunshots, nor having to crash through street barricades in Riyadh.

  The SUVs rushed out of the city center and soon swept through a huge stone gate that marked the entrance to the palace grounds, the heavily guarded private preserve of the royal family. When Swanson stepped from his vehicle, he felt transported into some Arabian fairy tale. It was not really a palace at all, not a single sprawling building, but a small city unto itself, a labyrinth of streets and structures so vast that the palace staff drove battery-powered golf carts to reach from one end to the other. He was escorted down a long and wide corridor bordered by tall columns, through another high and beautifully ornate gate, then across a courtyard of inlaid marble that was veined with green and black streaks. A spouting fountain broke the quiet of the place and they stepped into a vestibule, beyond which was a large, high-ceilinged room with thick carpets on the floor. A row of men in uniforms, regal robes, and business suits stood along one side. At the end of the room, standing next to a long sofa of gold brocade, was King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia.

  “Kyle Swanson! Welcome!” he called, raising his hand in greeting.

  Kyle felt the eyes of everyone in the room on his back as he walked closer to Abdullah. “Good evening, Your Majesty. It’s good to see you again.”

  Abdullah put a hand on each of Swanson’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “And under much different circumstances, eh?”

  “Yes, sir. Quite.”

  The monarch motioned toward the other men in the room. “These are my closest councilors, family members, and friends, all of whom you will meet later. And, gentlemen, you have heard me speak of Gunnery Sergeant Swanson’s bravery during the terrorist attack at the hospital in England. I emphasize again that I trust this man. If he wanted me dead, he would have already killed me. You will all do your best to make his mission here a success. He has my total support and confidence. I trust that my wishes on this are clear.”

  There was a murmur of agreement among the diplomats, government officials, and military officers. King Abdullah nodded. “Now, Gunny Swanson, please come with me for a few minutes of private time before you set to work.”

  Kyle followed the king into an adjoining private chamber, across a floor patterned in blue and white tiles. “Close the door and have a chair,” he said. Swanson did so, remaining silent until the king might indicate a response would be welcomed.

  “First, I have some excellent news for you from England. The physicians say that our friend Sir Jeff is recovering well. A long road of recovery lies ahead of him, but he is on the mend. I know how close you are.”

  “That’s good to hear, sir,” Kyle replied. “I was very worried about him.”

  Abdullah picked up a rectangular box made of shining wood. “I want to formally express my thanks to you and Major Summers for saving my life at the hospital. I won’t forget that.” He handed Swanson the container. Resting inside on a cushion of maroon velvet was a double-edged Arabian dagger, a jambiya, with a blade that curved up from a bone handle decorated in bright stones held tight in a web of silver.

  “Your Majesty, I cannot accept this. I was just doing my job. We’re not allowed to receive private gifts.” Swanson was stumbling for words. Are those rocks real?

  “Ah, but you must!” The king smiled at Kyle’s discomfort. “I obtained the explicit permission of President Tracy. You and the major are to donate it to the National U.S. Marine Corps Museum in Quantico as a symbol of our friendship. You are quite a pair, and this is the least that I can do.”

  “Well, sir, thank you.” He slid the blade from the scabbard. Razor-sharp and as old as sand. “I appreciate it, sir. Major Summers may pry out one of those stones to make a ring.”

  The king laughed and took a seat behind a broad desk. “Now let me tell you the main reason that I was speaking with President Tracy: the presence of nuclear weapons in my country. In retrospect, I understand the reason for getting them, back in the days when Saddam Hussein in Iraq and the Taliban in Afghanistan were growing menaces. Now, however, they are a destabilizing influence. I want to get rid of them as soon as possible, for I have no intention of starting nuclear war. Trusted people will facilitate our end of the handover, but if a dangerous situation develops, I give you my permission to handle it. I will back you up. Just help us get rid of those things.”

  “Thank you, sir. It’s the right decision.”

  The king shifted his position. “I suppose that you were briefed that one of the missiles may have fallen into the possession of the terrorists?”

  “Yes, sir. I am confident that your military will recover it. We should process the remaining four as quickly as possible.”

  “Exactly. We have a large force now searching for the missing device. Only the warhead was taken, not the delivery system, so it is not just something that any common soldier can operate. Too many built-in technical and redundant safeguards for that.”

  “To consider my role properly, sir, may I ask your opinion of the overall situation in the kingdom at present? Obviously, I have already been sworn to secrecy.”

  Abdullah pulled gently at his goatee and defiance flared in his dark eyes. “I think we have great challenges ahead, but there are positive signs, too. The most telling point is that the overall population does not seem to be deeply involved. Our citizens are devout and conservative, but will not throw away everything we have earned and learned in the past century. Without the people, the plotters cannot succeed.”

  Kyle had one more question. “And have your intelligence people figured out who is behind all of this? Who do the rebels want to take your place?”

  “There seem to be several major players. To answer your main question, no one is going to take my place because they want to replace the monarchy entirely. A religious regime would be established instead, and the prime candidate to become its leader is Mohammed Abu Ebara, the head of the Religious Police. Ebara is a dirty piece of work and somewhat mentally unstable. For instance, it was his decision a few years ago to let that school in Makkah burn down with fifteen girls trapped inside. His police would not allow the students to escape from the building because they would be unescorted by male relatives. Similarly, the firemen, as unrelated males, were prevented from going inside. It was medieval stupidity.”

  “Does this Ebara have the support of the entire religious community?”

  “That remains to be seen. As usual, the Grand Mufti has not been heard from, which hinders Ebara covering his uprising with that needed permission. We believe that Ebara’s campaign is being financed from outside of Saudi Arabia. We have picked up reports of foreign financial supporters. Russia and China are likely suspects.�
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  Kyle leaned forward, elbows on his knees, lost in thought for a moment. “I can understand how this Ebara guy might be the one whipping up the support for a rebellion by going on television and shouting his sermons. But I assume most of the Saudi military is still loyal to the House of Saud, despite the horrendous attack by a couple of rebel pilots. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” replied Abdullah. “It appears that this spirit of rebellion is a momentary thing within most of the units. Overall, the soldiers are still obeying their orders.”

  “So that leaves a good question, sir. If the officer corps is still loyal to the throne, who is running the tactical side of the coup?”

  The king paused. “We don’t know.”

  “Whoever it is, is a professional. He knows what he is doing,” said Kyle. “Let’s get all our intel people here and in Washington working to identify him. Chop off the head, the rest of the snake dies.”

  The king rose. The private audience was over. “I will give such instructions,” he said. “Meanwhile, collect those nuclear weapons as fast as you can.”

  36

  JEDDAH, SAUDI ARABIA

  MOHAMMED ABU EBARA TOOK a long look at the bright cover of the entertainment magazine. It featured a beautiful young woman in a bikini walking hand-in-hand on a sparkling beach with a muscular male who also was in a tight and skimpy bathing costume. Ebara found the public display of nudity and affection to be both disgusting and offensive. A headline over the color photograph read:

  STEFI AND BARNS:

  CARIBBEAN HONEYMOON?

  Stephanie Haddad of Lebanon was among the most popular singers in the Middle East, a product of the MTV generation, known as “Stefi” by her millions of fans. Only twenty years old, she was mysteriously sexy with black hair that had been lightened with color until it was a tawny waterfall that reached past her shoulders. She had a reputation for being wild, was rich, dressed provocatively, drove a red Porsche convertible, and openly dated British football star Barnaby Weathers. They were a stunning couple whose unblemished faces and perfect bodies were often displayed in magazines, and her hard rock songs and sultry dances were among the most downloaded items among the young people of Saudi Arabia.