Time to Kill: A Sniper Novel kss-6

by Jack Coughlin

  He went to the suite, unlocked it, and stepped into a cool, clean area that seemed to be on a different planet. The Blue Neptune had been badly damaged, but if his guess was right, that little mercenary concierge, Karam, had made a small fortune in organizing rebuilding and repair. Now, at least in his suite, nothing seemed out of place. Even the little soaps and shampoo bottles were in a wicker basket, and colorful fresh flowers stood in glass vases. The broad window in the bedroom opened onto the harbor, and fresh air blew in. He took a deep breath, looking up as a lone helicopter flew along the coast, heading north: a Sikorsky SH-3 in Egyptian colors.

  THE AIRPORT

  The Sea King chopper, adapted for executive transport, had cushioned seats and extra sound-absorbent padding around the cabin, easing the nerves of Brigadier General Mohammed Suliamin of the Egyptian general staff. The flight had departed Hurghada as soon as the MiG fighters returned and reported their total success. It was Suliamin’s job to negotiate a settlement. As the big bird approached in a wide circle, the pilot radioed for landing permission and advised that General Suliamin would be on the ground within five minutes to confer with the base commander. Permission was given, and the Sea King settled down near the control tower. The hatch opened, stairs were lowered, and Suliamin, looking fresh and rested in a crisp uniform, stepped onto the tarmac.

  Brigadier General Medhi Khasrodad of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard walked out to meet him while the helicopter blades were still revolving, and the two officers formally exchanged salutes, then retreated into the darkness of the operations center, where a pot of hot tea and plates of warm breads were waiting. All maps had been removed and the radios turned off, and the two men were alone.

  “How did you get yourself into such a mess, Medhi?” The two generals were on a first-name basis from having bumped into each other frequently during their respective careers, usually at conferences in foreign capitals.

  Khasrodad shrugged his big shoulders. “Politicians, Mohammed.”

  “As always,” replied the Egyptian. “Did they really think this would work, dropping you into Sharm on the hope that the Muslim Brotherhood would ride to the rescue?”

  “I don’t know what was said in the halls of power. I guess they determined it was worth a try, to capitalize on Egypt’s ongoing political unrest and seize control of the Suez and the Red Sea ports. The Brotherhood was supposed to destroy the moderates and take over your government, and the Egyptian military would become a puppet that we would operate, an unpredictable knife on your border with Israel.”

  “Preposterous. Our general staff doesn’t care who the president is. The generals will never give up power in Egypt.”

  The Iranian agreed and poured some more tea. “So let’s get to business. What offer do you bring?”

  General Suliamin did not open his briefcase. “First, admit that your military situation is hopeless. You have no heavy weapons, no airpower, no offshore naval support, no armored columns rushing to save you, no more ammo, food, or supplies. The Muslim Brotherhood realized it was not an army and is pulling back on all fronts, cushioning its extreme demands in hopes of gaining broader support for their candidates in a new round of elections. As you said, politicians.

  “Meanwhile, I have all of those things I name, and more, not counting thousands of local citizens who would like to destroy every one of you. How many men do you have left, Medhi? About a thousand?”

  Khasrodad sidestepped the question about troop numbers. “My men are highly trained, Mohammed. They are not some riffraff off the streets. We could fight a long and hard battle to the last man before you overran us.”

  “I might point out it was riffraff from the streets of this little city that defeated your elite troopers. But why opt for a full battle when the result will be the same in the end? You are locked in place by the desert and the water, so we would just stand off and bomb the crap out of this place before ever having to move in ground troops. With a snap of my fingers, I can call in those pesky and deadly American drones to eradicate some final pockets of stiff resistance and simultaneously take pictures of your ignominious defeat. You might give us a bloody nose, General, but you have no hope of victory.”

  “Are you demanding an unconditional surrender?” The Iranian sucked in a deep breath. “You want us to stack arms and parade in shame through the streets so old women can throw rotten fruit at my men? I will not allow that.”

  “No, not at all. You have done some terrible things here, but we have no intention to make you and your country lose face in the international arena, brother, for we are of the same region. Our countries are bound through antiquity, and we will undoubtedly share common interests in the future. Right now, we just want you gone.”

  “So, how?”

  “The same way you came in, by air. Egyptian aircraft will take you back to Tehran. Leave behind your guns.”

  “The runway is useless.”

  “I can have engineers and heavy equipment here to repair that within a day.” General Suliamin paused. “The one final thing is that, regretfully, you must stay behind as my prisoner, the man who led the invasion. You will be treated honorably and eventually repatriated back to Iran.”

  Khasrodad nodded, and a bitter smile crossed his face. “I understand. That’s fair enough. I will recommend that my senior commanders in Tehran accept these terms, particularly that idea of following the UN request. Now I have something extra, my friend, something that will make this your lucky day. Instead of fighting to the death, I’m going to present you a gift.”

  General Suliamin crossed his legs. “What kind of present?”

  “I want you to take someone prisoner in addition to myself. The fool who planned the whole operation is a top intelligence officer by the name of Colonel Yahya Ali Naqdi, who has been organizing this for months, if not years. He operates out of Cairo but flew in yesterday to bother us. The public executions were his idea. You don’t have to treat him with any honor whatsoever as far as I am concerned. In fact, I almost shot him myself yesterday. You can now do it for me.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I have him under arrest in the barracks.” The general went to the door and told his sergeant major to go bring Naqdi, on the double. “When do we get started on this withdrawal?”

  “Withdrawal? Once back in Iran, you can call it anything you want, maybe a strategic redeployment of troops at the request of the United Nations, which you claimed asked you here in the first place as peacekeepers; but on our side, it has to be a surrender because of the insult to our territorial integrity. We will let the diplomats sort out the final terminology.” General Suliamin opened his briefcase and handed the Iranian a three-page legal document to make it official, including a schedule. “I will bring some troops over today to take over your perimeter outposts and keep the locals away. Do you have any of those transports left?”

  “Only three that are still airworthy. We can use them for the airlift.” He finished reading the document. “I have to obtain permission before signing.”

  “I know. I will go back to Hurghada now and send a couple of staff members back to work with your people and finish the details.” He stood and shook hands with the defeated general.

  The sergeant major threw open the door and barged into the room without knocking. “Sir! Colonel Naqdi is gone!”

  THE BLUE NEPTUNE

  The ringing telephone did not awaken Kyle Swanson, nor did the knock on the door of his rooms. The knock became a pounding, and still he didn’t stir, for he was buried in clean sheets and soft pillows, snoring and relaxed for the first time in days. Finally, Karam, the concierge, unlocked the door with his master key and allowed the chief of police to go inside and shake Kyle awake. It was eight o’clock in the morning, and he had been asleep for only a little more than an hour. Swanson groaned as the burly Egyptian cop called his name loudly and shook him roughly by the shoulder.

  His eyes opened, bleary and unfocused until the face of the chief swam int
o view. Kyle pulled a pillow over his head and said, muffled, “Why in the name of all that’s holy are you here, Chief? What does a man have to do to get some rest in this place?”

  “Get up, Mr. Swanson. Something urgent has happened.”

  Kyle lowered the pillow and read the bedside clock and groaned. “Urgent? I thought the fighting was over.”

  “That it is. In fact, a surrender is being arranged, but that’s not why I am at your bedside. You must get up.”

  “This had better be good.” He shucked off the sheet and sat up, wearing boxer shorts. A bottle of water was on the table, and he gulped at it.

  “An Iranian officer, a colonel, drove up to one of our roadblocks and surrendered to my men, saying that he had important information.” The chief of police found a chair and made himself comfortable. “And he asked for you by name.”

  Kyle closed his eyes for a minute. It could only be one person. “Let me guess; he calls himself the Pharaoh, right? Says he’s some kind of spy.”

  The chief blinked. “Yes. How did you know? We have him downstairs.”

  “Oh, double shit,” Swanson said, getting to his feet and yawning. “OK, Chief. Give me a few minutes to dress and make a few calls, then I’ll come right down.”

  “We are holding him in an office area that had been confiscated by another Iranian officer, a Major Shakuri.”

  “I heard that guy was taken off the street a few days back by British intelligence agents. He also claimed to be some kind of big intelligence dog. Was it that long ago? Jesus, I can’t remember. So much has been going on. Anyway, Major Shakuri is currently the property of MI6 and the Saudi Arabian government. I’m going to shower again to wake up and will meet you there in fifteen.”

  * * *

  Colonel Naqdi had been in the intelligence service for many years and had learned that a good agent always has a back-door emergency plan for himself. His ambitious operation to plant Iranian troops in Egypt had failed due to that incompetent general and the spineless weasels of the Muslim Brotherhood, so it was time to save his own hide. The idea of getting out through Cairo had vanished when his airplane was destroyed, so he was into his secondary scheme of trading information for safety. It was time for the Pharaoh to step forward and start revealing actual state secrets, which meant he could never return to Iran. Too bad, but the world was a big place, he had a number of bank accounts abroad, and if he could get beneath the protective wing of the United States and the British, the colonel could look forward to a long, comfortable life.

  This was the payoff moment from planting those seeds over the past months with MI6, which certainly shared the information with the CIA. They liked what he had given them so much that a pair of agents had been dispatched to work closely with him. He had always stayed just beyond their reach, always one step ahead, always tantalizing his would-be masters with what he might reveal about what was happening in Tehran and about the workings of the minds of the fanatic mullahs and that crazy president. He could even discuss the nuclear program with enough authenticity that his questioners would accept the information as being fresh, although it was not. In fact, a lot of the material he passed along was common knowledge in Iran’s intelligence circles. With his rank and reputation, he could spin his cooperation to be dependent upon how well he was treated. He was thinking more in terms of Miami than Guantánamo, or Ireland instead of Romania.

  That was his frame of mind when the office door swung open and the chief of police came in with a slim man wearing a dark business suit, shined custom-made shoes, and a silk tie over a light blue shirt. He was about five feet nine and weighed probably about 150 pounds, with sun-bleached brown hair and piercing gray-green eyes. The colonel could not stand up because he was handcuffed to his chair, but he went on the offensive immediately. “You are Kyle Swanson of the Central Intelligence Agency,” he announced with authority in his voice.

  “Wrong,” the man replied, taking a chair.

  The policeman stood behind him. The last time the chief had seen Swanson, he was dirty, sweaty, and in Egyptian clothes; now he was in the neat clothes of a successful, cold-as-ice business executive.

  “I don’t know where your information comes from, but I don’t work for the CIA. You did get the name right.”

  “Then some other American intelligence agency. Rumors are often inaccurate on details. Which group you work for is unimportant.”

  The man slid a leather billfold from his inside jacket pocket and pushed a business card across the table separating them. “I’m a businessman who just happened to get caught in the middle of your stupid invasion of Egypt. That was some kind of fucked-up fight from the start, huh? It must have been planned by idiots.”

  The card identified Kyle as vice president of Excalibur Enterprises, based in London. The colonel read the card and twirled it on a corner while he thought. “It has been no secret that you and Dr. Tianha Bialy of the MI6 were sent to Egypt to find the Pharaoh. Well, here I am, ready to accommodate your questions on a matter of vital importance.”

  Kyle turned in his seat and looked up at the chief. “Is this guy for real?” The chief shrugged. “Bialy was looking for you, but she and I were together only for a few days, working on a project for my company because she is a recognized expert in Egyptian affairs. She had some local guys helping her out with the spy stuff, and they worked hard to keep me in the dark. That was how I preferred it.”

  The colonel remained unruffled. “You are a clever man, Mr. Swanson, but you forgot one thing.”

  “I forget a lot of things, but nothing important, like whether I’m a spy.”

  “You got too close to the spotlight of publicity, sir, when you were helping out the young hero street fighter in the rebellion. I saw your picture with him during the fighting.”

  Swanson smirked. He had been wearing the mask. “Bullshit. You’re just fishing now.”

  Naqdi unfolded one of the pictures he had downloaded. It showed Abdel El-Din listening to a masked man with a gun over his shoulder. “The rifle, Mr. Swanson. Everybody else out there had out-of-date and common weapons like the AK-47. This man is carrying a 5.56mm Colt-made M-16A3 assault rifle, the latest generation preferred by American Special Forces. I suppose it could have just been there by accident, but I don’t believe so. The masked fellow fits your physique. This is you, Kyle Swanson.”

  Swanson laughed aloud. “You are letting your imagination run away with you, Colonel. Somebody with a telephone camera snaps an out-of-focus picture and you come up with a story to match what you want it to be? You’re wrong again, but let’s wrap this up. What do you want?”

  “Very well. Have it your way.”

  “Chief, could you excuse us for a few minutes? This won’t take long.”

  “Should I know what is being said?” The chief was already moving toward the door. This man Swanson was a mystery: a warrior, then a businessman, now becoming something else right before his eyes.

  “Probably best that you don’t.”

  When the Egyptian had left them alone, Swanson sat down again. “Talk. Get to the point.”

  “You know my work as the Pharaoh, so you can assume that I possess an incredible amount of information that I am willing to pass to your government, with a few conditions, such as my safety.”

  “Information like what? Sell me.”

  Naqdi turned sly and condescending. “You have neither the rank nor the skills to interrogate me, Mr. Swanson. All I want from you is a safe-conduct escort to Washington or London. Inform your superiors that I will give them the inner workings of the Iranian Army of the Guardians to start. From there, we can move on, all the way up to, and including, the nuclear program. Is that enough of a sales job?”

  Kyle leaned back in the chair and laced his hands behind his head. God, his neck was in knots. “Well, let me break this to you gently. While you were waiting, I was on the phone with MI6 in London and my boss in Washington. The decision is simple: No deal.”

  Naqdi swallowed
hard, and his face blanched white. “What are you saying? I insist, no, I demand, to speak with someone higher than you.”

  “Too little, too late. Everyone agrees that you are unreliable, untrustworthy, a liar, and that you are just trying to lay down some disinformation fog to save your ass. We doubt that you know anything at all that we don’t already have on file in triplicate in some agency’s file cabinet. As for the paper-shuffling side of things, like with the Palm Group in Cairo, your chum Major Shakuri beat you to it and made his own deal first. He’s giving up everything, and he had been logging your private dealings and secret communications for months. Other sources have cracked your financial network. You’ve got nothing left that we want.”

  “You took Shakuri?”

  “Yep. Chalk that one up for Dr. Bialy. So we’re done here, you and me. By the way, I really don’t work for the CIA. You know that the United States operates a big-league intelligence and counterterrorism network, Colonel, but it also has a few guys like me — I can go anywhere in the world and do anything I want, no questions asked. So count yourself lucky this morning that I haven’t broken your fat neck right here at this desk, or pitched you off the top of this nice hotel, you arrogant son of a bitch.” Swanson unfolded from the chair and opened the door for the chief to return.

  “Take me to the British, then. Let me talk to them!” Naqdi’s voice grew shrill, and he tried to stand, jerking on the handcuffs until the steel cut into his wrist.

  “This guy is all yours, Chief. I think he has a lot to answer for to the Egyptian police and military, or you can just mail him back home. The mullahs in Iran would love to talk to him, knowing that he has turned traitor and is peddling all of their secrets.”

  The cop unlocked the handcuffs and pulled Naqdi to his feet, saying, “Or perhaps there should be one more firing squad in Sharm el-Sheikh. He should feel how it is to be tied to a post with a bag over his head, like I was.”

  “Your choice, sir. It’s not my affair,” Kyle said. “I’m going back to bed.”