Clean Kill

by Jack Coughlin

  The principals did not attend because even with the safeguards that were in place, it was the kind of tense evening when long knives might flash. The half-dozen men who went up the dusty stairs represented the royal family, religion, the military, major nonpetroleum business interests, the tribes, and oil.

  There was an immense difference between this room and the rest of the building. It was brightly lit, neat and clean. In one corner was a fully stocked bar that included exclusive brands of alcoholic beverages. A large round table occupied the middle of the room, with six chairs spaced evenly around it, the places marked by sealed bottles of water. A feast of food was spread in the middle: plates of fresh pita bread, bowls of spices, falafel, rice, hot peppers, and mutton and other meats that had been vertically roasted on spits.

  The group was gathering for the most urgent of reasons, to decide who would be their next king, but Arab tradition required a certain informality that showed friendship, respect, and honor. Only when the men had helped themselves to the food and drink and exchanged small talk about their families could they get down to business. No one was technically in charge.

  The talk did not get around to the business of the night for almost an hour, until Prince Aziz, a minor member of the royal family, tore off a final bit of pita, rolled it around a chunk of rice and lamb, dipped it into a spicy mixture and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, licked his fingers, and gave a loud burp. His demonstrated appreciation of the fine meal marked the end of the first phase of the meeting and a termination of the uneasy politeness. The belch was a starting signal to launch the serious discussion.

  “The line of direct succession has been severed,” said one voice and everyone looked at Aziz, who was representing the sprawling royal family. “The king had appointed his eldest son to be the heir, but the simultaneous death of the crown prince has left the position open. We must choose a new leader and announce him as soon as possible.”

  “Agreed. The question is, ‘How?’” said a colonel who was the military envoy to the meeting tonight. He was not in uniform. “The successor must come from among the king’s sons or grandsons. I cannot see either of His Majesty’s full brothers ascending.”

  The construction magnate from an influential family, chosen as the spokesman for the nonpetroleum businesses, agreed. “Both of the brothers are too far along in years to assume day-to-day responsibility during this crisis. His Majesty had three sons in direct lineage. With the crown prince also dead, only two of the true sons remain as candidates. The sons by other wives do not qualify.”

  “The eldest is a corrupt playboy and is unacceptable to the tribes,” snorted the sheikh who was a Bedouin chief from the south. “The youngest has not proven himself as a man, for he is a father of daughters-no sons at all. He is also unacceptable to us.”

  The conversation lapsed into silence for a few moments. Not only royal succession, but competing commercial pressures were in play at the table. Fortunes were on the line.

  The executive from the rich oil industry coughed to get attention. “Let us not forget that there is a rebellion going on outside these doors, my friends.” He cast a stony glance across at the imam who was the religious faction’s man at the table. “Our king was murdered by zealots who are out of control.”

  The imam retorted, “The rebellion was caused by a corrupt government that strayed from the will of Allah and the words of the Prophet, praise be unto him. The Grand Mufti is not involved in any way in this matter.”

  The eyes of the oil man swept around the table. “You are wrong. The overall population is not in rebellion. They are still sitting it out, huddling in their homes, just like our exalted Grand Mufti. His silence has allowed that vile dog Ebara and his muttaween to seize leadership of the rebels. Ebara is a disgrace to our faith.”

  Prince Aziz steepled his fingers before speaking. “Our religion and our politics are threads in the same fabric. The House of Saud ruled with the support of the Wahhabis, and the monarchy in turn allowed them to spread and enforce the tenets of our beliefs.” He turned to face the imam. “It appears that the religious leaders are no longer satisfied with that longstanding arrangement.”

  There was a rumble of private discussions around the table for a minute before the oil representative again spoke. “All of us are worried about the future,” he said. “Saudi Arabia is not Iran. The citizens will not accept a totalitarian theocracy, nor rule by the muttaween. We must show our people that our new king has unanimous support, so he can assume the throne immediately.”

  The imam was sweating beneath his robes. “There are proper groups already in place to make this decision. Why should just the six of us tell the rest of the nation what to do?”

  The colonel slapped the table. “Yes! We have the Consultative Council and the ulema and the Majlis and the Shura and the muktars and twenty million other bargaining Saudis. They would never even agree that a circle is round, much less come together on a decision of this magnitude.”

  Prince Aziz sighed: “I have thousands of cousins in the royal family and all of them would like to ascend. Even me. But we can haggle later. Right now our people need a king and our military needs a leader in order to quell this rebellion. If you are all satisfied with the House of Saud, please, just pick somebody!”

  The powerful executive from the oil industry concurred. “This tawdry rebellion threatens to swallow us all. We need to stabilize this situation fast or risk having some outside force come in to seize our production facilities. If that happens, our very lifeblood will be under the thumb of international supervision for many years to come. Our most precious resource will be beyond our control.”

  The imam had his own instructions from the leaders waiting in the mosques. “There is much more to consider than the oil and money,” he stated with a cold glare. “If it is the Will of Allah, praise be unto him, that a new kind of government is rising to save our nation, then we are all bound to obey.”

  The tribal sheikh stared at him. “You would let a foolish thug like Ebara take over? I will tell you here and now that the Bedu will never stand for it.”

  “Then let us choose,” someone said. “Who among the grandsons? I put forth the name of Prince Abdullah, who is easily the most qualified among those in the true bloodline.”

  The imam became stiff in outrage. “The ambassador to the United States? That disgraceful man was about to sign a peace treaty with the Jews!”

  “He was following the decision of our government,” the colonel reminded him. “Our country has never fought Israel and let’s hope we never do. Many in our generation are tired of hearing sermons about how the Jews are to blame for everything that goes wrong. The military has no objection to Abdullah. Does anyone else have a nomination?”

  “Prince Abdullah has the diplomatic and military experience to take over. We can live with him.” The man from the oil sector settled back into his chair. The tribal sheikh agreed.

  “That is our decision, then,” said Prince Aziz. “It is unanimous, is it not?”

  “I shall inform the Grand Mufti of your suggestion,” the imam said. “His decision will be rendered after appropriate thought.”

  That was too much for the sheikh, a man known for his fiery temper. He rose from his chair, his eyes darkening and the muscles of his jaw quivering with barely suppressed fury. He was a man of the desert, a Wahhabi Bedouin, a tribe that never hesitated to purify the wishes of the Prophet with the blood of enemies. Violence was part of his heritage and he brooked no respect for preachers. He pulled back his robe and a jeweled dagger glittered in his belt. “That is not good enough. You are stalling. You will take this to the Grand Mufti as the choice that he must endorse immediately! Or, perhaps you may not go back at all. Perhaps I should cut off your ears and give you a better reason for not hearing what we have all decided? We can always send another messenger.”

  The colonel rose. “I believe the sheikh and the imam have a few private matters to discuss. I would be ho
nored if the rest of you would join me downstairs for some coffee.” They all walked out, closing the door behind them.

  Five minutes later, the imam came stumbling down the stairs and went through the group without a word, his face pale and his fingertips shaking. The sheikh followed, a sneering smile on his dark face. “It is now unanimous. Tomorrow we announce a new king.”

  27

  INDONESIA

  J UBA WATCHED THE TELEVISION news on the 42-inch flat plasma screen, mentally keeping track of the score. The bodies were piling up and he was winning easily. The House of Saud had been decapitated, the country was temporarily leaderless and that sanctimonious weird preacher, Mohammed Ebara, was busily stirring the religious pot. Everything going as planned.

  Using the remote control, he replaced the chattering news people with the Web site of a private Swiss financial institution that served only very wealthy customers. The money was piling up in his private account, and more than enough was available to pay the people he had hired to continue the pressure. Slowly, slowly, he would stoke the fire with unexpected strikes throughout Saudi Arabia. The fighters were already in place, just waiting for him to release them. It was a tight schedule that eventually would build to a crescendo of violence.

  The complicated scheme did not provide him with the same instant thrill as in the old days, when he pulled the trigger on his sniper rifle and could watch a bullet strike home and a target die in his scope, but he had moved beyond such things as routine assassinations. The stakes today were so much higher, and the overall effects of his work were so much more important!

  The achievements so far called for a bit of private celebration and he opened the seals of red wax on a new square bottle of Jewel of Russia vodka, a new brand distilled from wheat and rye. He poured and raised the glass in an imaginary toast to the old philosopher-scientist Isaac Newton, who had figured it all out many years ago with his first law of motion: Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it.

  The royal family of Saudi Arabia had been paddling comfortably on their underground sea of oil. Juba pictured himself as the external force needed to change that.

  He had done a lot of homework before putting the final plan together. In the tumultuous inner circles of the Saudi royal family, there had always been plots and counterplots about which prince of the House of Saud should be the actual ruler. In 1975, the sitting monarch was shot to death by his nephew. For Juba, a simple assassination would not have been good enough. He wanted something spectacular, a showy attack that would paralyze the confidence of the people and open the door for a government takeover by Muslim extremists. By the time he was through, the whole country would be moving backward in time. The vodka was tracing a pleasant burn down to his stomach when a maidservant softly announced, “Your guest has arrived, sir.”

  An Indonesian man stepped through the wide entranceway to the mountain mansion. He was of middle age, with black hair retreating on the high forehead and a belly that pushed hard against the buttons of his shirt. With narrow shoulders, Muhammed Bambang Sukarnoputri was shaped like a pear.

  “Governor. It is good to see you again.” Juba shook hands with the smaller man and led him to a comfortable area with overstuffed chairs. They made small talk until the maid returned with a tray of fruit and juice for the pious provincial governor, who did not drink alcohol. Juba had only a glass of chilled water.

  Officially, the Indonesian government kept religion out of its politics, although the country was 88 percent Muslim and Juba had found it simple to cultivate powerful allies. On the far side of the mountain on which he lived was a government weather research facility that secretly fed him all of the electrical power and telecommunications and scientific support that he could possibly use. With his own computer network feeding from those secure grids, Juba was guiding the upheaval in Saudi Arabia, half a world away, and the TV reports were flashing across the big screen.

  “This television coverage reminds me of the make-believe carnage in American movies about the end of the world,” said Sukarnoputri. “Your work has been astounding.”

  Juba gave a small nod. “International reporters are surging into Saudi Arabia in invasion-level numbers, and with the death of the king and the crown prince, the street demonstrations will grow more violent. The military will have to respond with force, and that will only create more demonstrators.” Juba handed the provincial governor several computer printouts held together at the left-hand corner by a spring clip.

  “Some army units already are hesitating to perform their duties if it means killing civilians. When the cameras show children and old people being bloodied and killed, it will appear that a popular uprising is trying to overthrow a ruthless and immoral royal family.”

  “Very good. However, I bring a private and important message from our mutual friend,” the governor said. “Is there somewhere we can speak that is beyond the hearing of any servants?”

  “Certainly,” Juba said. This was curious. There was a hint of strain in the voice, a touch of alarm. Sukarnoputri was not the jittery sort. Not only was he the governor of the local province, he was also the brother of the powerful Mobile Brigade of the Indonesian National Police Force. Since both had political and military protection and government-protected communications security, he frequently acted as a cutout between Juba and Dieter Nesch.

  They walked outside into the cool and gentle wind and along a stone path that led through a garden ablaze with flowers. A rugged rock wall, about waist high, bordered the edge of the outcropping, beyond which was a sharp slope all the way down to the sea. From this vantage point, they could see for miles.

  “I am afraid that something has arisen that will require some changes in your plans, my friend,” said the governor.

  Juba fixed the man with an unsettling one-eyed stare. With so much at stake, with the game successfully underway, a late operational change was wanted? Nesch knew better than that. “Go on.”

  “This will sound quite unbelievable, but our mutual acquaintance has sent word that Mohammed Abu Ebara has somehow come into possession of five nuclear missiles, including their launch codes. I was instructed to tell you that Ebara demands your presence on the ground in Saudi Arabia, as quickly as possible, to handle them.”

  Juba leaned on the stone wall and listened to the sea while he thought. Leave here? He “demands” that I spend many hours in an airplane and run all the way to the Middle East at his command? He took a deep breath. “That was not part of our original arrangement,” he said. “It does not matter whether he has found some nuclear weapons or slingshots in the sand, we cannot stop the current operation in its tracks.”

  “I know that and so does Dieter. But Ebara is adamant. He apparently is having visions from paradise, voices that are guiding him.”

  “Damn. What does the Russian want?”

  “Apparently, our friend in Moscow is letting Ebara have his way.”

  “So I am supposed to just close down shop, abandon months of careful planning and the spending of millions of dollars to get things ready, just to go hold the hand of Ebara?” Juba walked slowly around the area, tasting the breeze. “Without me here to control things, the overthrow of the government may not work. Everything depends on the timing of the coming attacks. This is a huge risk.”

  Governor Sukarnoputri spread his palms in a helpless gesture. What can we do?

  Juba’s thoughts were reeling, trying to find some way to make it all work. The coup had been his primary goal. What could be gained with nuclear weapons? They could not be used within Saudi Arabia during this uprising.

  Perhaps afterward? A potential new reward began to surface in his mind. Consider them as a separate matter and not part of the current strife. With nuclear weapons in his possession, he could be recorded in history as one of the most dangerous men who had ever lived! He could destroy Israel! Europe might be within reach. England? His thoughts began to rac
e. Would it be possible to smuggle one to the U.S.? A smile twisted on his deformed lips. A few hours of discomfort in an airplane in exchange for an eternity of notorious fame.

  “It will cost more.”

  The governor said that he had already taken care of the renegotiation, and Dieter Nesch was promising another million euros for Juba just to make the trip, assess the possibilities, and soothe the growing mania of Ebara. The governor and his brother would both rake off a commission.

  “Go back and contact Dieter again. Tell him to make it five million euros. If they agree, I can be on my way tomorrow.” Juba considered his fledgling plan. He could force Ebara to turn the weapons over to him so that he could blackmail other governments. That would work to the benefit of Ebara, the Russian, and everyone on the money train.

  The governor smiled. A bigger commission. “My brother will arrange your transport. A helicopter can ferry you from here to the airport in Jakarta. From there, a private jet will fly you to Jeddah in Saudi Arabia.”

  They bowed to each other and the governor left. Juba remained in the garden and a slight shudder ran through his body. The trip would be extremely difficult. But for five nuclear weapons, he would do it. Juba thought that he might change the face of the world with those things. Yes, that would make it worthwhile.

  28

  AL-KHOBZ

  G OLDEN-RED FLASHES OF EXPLOSIONS flickered in the night sky, painting the buildings in sharp silhouette. The rattle of small-arms fire echoed through the streets while shadows hurried past him, civilians running for their lives. The rebel attack was centered at the main gate to the foreign compound and Swanson veered away to the south. For a change, he was not looking for a fight.

  He jogged steadily for about five minutes, listening to the sporadic crack of gunshots. Personal weapons were forbidden in al-Khobz, but almost every house had at least one. Even so, resistance would be isolated and ineffective unless some organization was brought to bear, and that was where the experience and better weaponry of Homer and Jamal would help. Swanson could not provide that tonight. For him, the shooting was a distraction to help him slip away.