Clean Kill (17 page)

JEDDAH, SAUDI ARABIA

JUBA STRUGGLED BACK TO
consciousness on a comfortable bed in a private villa. His stomach remained queasy, but not as bad as the first two times he had been awake, when he had vomited. His mind was emerging from the cobwebs and lethargy caused by the strong alcohol and narcotics. Someone had placed a bottle of spring water on the bedside table and he drank deeply from it.

He did not know exactly where he was, but trusted that the damned airplane had delivered him to the right place, Jeddah, the second largest city in Saudi Arabia. The room was spacious and when he forced himself from the bed and over to the window, he was pleased to see bright sunlight glinting harshly on a vast body of water, the Red Sea. He pushed the windows open wide and inhaled the hot air.

A clean bathroom with intricate tiles and polished fixtures lured him through the open door. He turned the shower water until it was hot before stepping into the enclosure. Strong waves of steam played over his face and body and he put his head directly beneath the big showerhead. He leaned forward with his hands against the wall to let the water slosh away the remains of the horrible trip. After soaping up and using the shampoo, he adjusted the water slowly to a cold setting. He was feeling almost awake as he finished, stepped out, and grabbed two towels from the warming rack.

His own shaving gear had been placed on a white towel beside the sunken basin and he quickly lathered his face and scraped off the rough whiskers. Juba smirked at his own reflection.
You are a mess
. He brushed his teeth. Someone had hung his clothes and neatly put away the shirts and underwear, leaving the valise in the closet. Juba decided on lightweight grey slacks and a starched maroon shirt with long sleeves, dark socks, and shined black loafers. Hendrik van Es from Indonesia, who padded around his own home in sandals and a sarong, was no longer present. Juba slid easily into his old skin. He opened the door of the bedroom.

The young man who had picked Juba up at the airport was settled in a large chair, with his long legs crossed. He had a long face framed by a well-trimmed beard and his hair was naturally curly. Juba estimated he was not yet thirty years old, probably stood about six foot two, and had a body that was slim and showed some work, although the manicure indicated that the muscles were the result of gym workouts and not from labor or soldiering.

“Get me something to eat,” Juba softly said.

“My name is Amin,” the man said. He had a strong edge in his tone as he stood, wanting to establish immediate authority. “I am not your servant.”

“I don’t care who you are and that was not a request.” Juba adjusted the eye patch to a more comfortable position. “I had to stop my work and fly halfway around the world to return to this shitty country. If some food is not out here in ten minutes, I’m leaving and your revolution is fucked. I want fresh fruit, croissants, and scrambled eggs. Strong tea. Then go get Dieter.”

Amin was stunned by the extraordinary change. This did not seem like the same person! Not only had the passenger washed away that awful smell, but his commanding manner was that of someone used to having his orders obeyed. Juba walked to the large television set standing blank in the corner, turned it on, and started surfing channels in search of news. He had to catch up.

“Very well. I shall inform the kitchen staff and summon my employer.” Amin did so by picking up a telephone and using an internal system. With that done, he hung up and intentionally moved to stand behind Juba, a tactic that he employed routinely so that his size would intimidate visitors. Maybe this stranger was no fool, but the white hair, the single eye, and other deformities left an overall unimpressive image. “Your food is on the way.”

Juba ignored him and was frustrated by the television broadcasts. Almost everything was being blocked and or heavily censored. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.

Amin said, “I cannot believe that you are the magic one who has been orchestrating the overthrow of the royal family.”

Juba snapped off the TV and dropped the remote, moving silently to the dining table in the next room and taking a chair in a place that had been set for him. A dark blue plate with gold trim matched the rest of the setting and a maid placed a pot of tea beside it. He poured and sipped.

Amin followed, growing more irritated at the treatment he was receiving, as if he were an underling. He pulled out a chair for himself, angled it and sat, unbuttoning his coat, leaning back and crossing his legs again. A pistol was visible in a shoulder holster. A tight smile came to his lips. He felt that his pressure was working as he reasserted his authority.

“
Juba
!” he said with a mocking tone. “I have heard so much about the famous fighter and jihadist, the maestro of death.” Amin shook his head. “And I finally have the opportunity to meet this hero, only to discover that he is just a frail old man.”

Juba put down the tea, unrolled the folded blue cloth napkin and arranged the dull knife, a spoon and fork, still without saying anything. He emptied a spoonful of sugar into the tea and then added a bit of cream. It tasted good. Food would settle his stomach.

“No wonder you hide in a place where no one can see you,” said Amin, accusingly pointing his left index finger. “I will no longer tell children that they must behave or that the scary Juba will come in the dark and snatch them from their beds. You may have some people fooled, old man, even Dieter Nesch, but I see you plainly for what you are.”

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!”

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 was 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.”

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.”