Clean Kill (26 page)

MOSCOW

RUSSIAN PRESIDENT ANDREI VASILIYVICH
Ivanov was again at the wheel of his Ferrari F430 Spyder, easing off the accelerator as he entered Moscow after zooming in from his dacha outside Moscow. A young newspaper vendor called out from the sidewalk and the Ferrari’s horn beeped a reply. The driver waved.

The Saudi plan had not worked, but no one looking at the smiling, healthy, young man could detect that anything was wrong. He was doing a big of campaigning while on the way to work. A mile later, the car stopped abruptly beside an old woman who was huddled against a wall. Her skin was drawn and wrinkled, the matted hair covered by a kerchief and the frayed clothes were wrapped tight against the biting early morning cold that said winter was coming. Ivanov hopped out and approached her. “How are you today, grandmother?” he asked with sincerity.

Her watery eyes sparkled when she recognized him. “I am good, Andrei. Thank you.”

“Why are you out here alone and so early?”

Her glance toward a nearby coffee house gave her away. “I’m just taking a walk.”

“A beautiful woman should never walk alone. Do you have time for me to buy you a small breakfast?” He had her by the elbow, steering her toward the restaurant, where the owner had been watching the scene and threw open his door.

“Andrei! Please come inside.”

“I am afraid that I cannot this morning, unfortunately. But would you please give our grandmother a cup of warm soup and buttered bread?” He reached into his jacket pocket and peeled off a few bills to pay for the meal.

“Put away your money. It will be my pleasure.” He took the frail woman’s hand and led her inside, into the warmth. The fact that he did so would be noted and remembered, a small favor that would increase the restaurant’s business today.

Andrei stuffed the bills into her pocket and pecked her on the forehead. “All Russian women are beautiful, just like you, my darling. I have to go to my office now. Perhaps we will meet here again some time and you can tell me a story of the old days.” He hurried back to the car and was gone in an instant.

“Andrei Vasiliyvich works too hard,” the restaurant owner observed. He had caught the message that Ivanov might return unannounced and that the frail woman had just become a regular recipient of morning bread and coffee. “He understands us.”

“He’s a good boy,” she said.

A FEW MINUTES LATER,
the Spyder charged through a gate in the crimson brick wall of the Kremlin, and the domes of St. Basil’s glittered in the early sun. When Ivanov stopped at the curb, his usual greeting committee was already there. His chief of staff was impeccable in a business suit and his secretary was modestly dressed, which did nothing to hide her beauty. Andrei switched off the ignition and got out. Ivanov wore a black sports coat over a heavy white sweater, dark blue pants, and polished hiking boots. He was only forty-four years old, single, muscular, and healthy, and had already put in a full day of work at his home, exercised with his guard, and had received a full briefing on the domestic and international scenes while a barber trimmed his thick black hair and gave him a close shave. A manicurist buffed his nails.

“Good morning, sir,” his aide said, welcoming the president of the Russian Republic. “Prime Minister Putin would like a word with you. He is in his office.”

“Hah! I’ll bet he would.” The aides followed. “Stefan, please tell the old gentleman that I’m too busy right now.”

Putin was said to be declining in strength, so the power of the state eventually would fall to the Ivanov family. Russia was going to belong to Andrei and his heirs.

The young president pushed open the door to his office and stopped short. Putin was waiting for him, seated in a chair beside the desk, running his fingers through the soft fur of that damned tiger he had adopted as a pet. The thing was no longer a little cat and it lay sprawled on the crimson carpet, purring contentedly and twitching its tail. The steady, evil eyes of both Putin and his Siberian tiger were locked on Ivanov. It did not look like anything was wrong with either of them. Fuck. Had Putin been toying with him?

Andrei recovered quickly and smiled, closing the door and moving to his desk as if nothing extraordinary was happening. There was a murmur of a growl from the tiger. “Good morning, Prime Minister,” he said. “I am delighted to see you looking well. And I see that we have an extra guest today. Mashenkia is getting huge.”

Putin returned the smile. Not a muscle in his face twitched and he spoke with perfect clarity. “Yes. Unfortunately, I cannot keep Sweetie at home in Novo-Ogaryovo much longer. Her front claws have been removed and we keep her calm with a low-grade hypnotic. Still, her weight and teeth make her very dangerous, so she is going to be moving to a zoo soon. Isn’t she beautiful?” His hand ruffled the short hair on the face of the beast, a blend of white around the eyes and mouth, and orange with black stripes.

“How are you feeling?” Andrei sat down. “All of Russia will be pleased that you are recovering so remarkably well.”

“Excellent. Long walks with Sweetie help. I do miss my judo exercises, but I seem to get a little better with each day.”

“Stefan told me that you wanted to see me, and I was just dropping off my jacket before going directly to your office.”

The slender face of Vladimir Putin gave away nothing. It never did. An American president once said that he could see into Putin’s soul, but he was wrong. As far as Andrei could determine, the old KGB chief had no soul.

There was a brief knock, the door opened, and the secretary, Veronika Petrova, swirled into the room, her face studying the documents she carried. She glanced up and saw Putin, then caught the look from Andrei that warned her to say nothing important. “Oh! Good morning, Mr. Prime Minister,” she said. “And here is Sweetie! What a beauty!”

“Hello, Niki.” Putin said. “I won’t be long; then you and Andrei can get along with the business of running the country.” His mouth remained a straight line. It did not require genius to determine that Andrei was enjoying the sexual favors of the tall, shapely blonde. Putin had seen the photographs. The liaison meant nothing to any of them.

“May I pet the tiger?” Niki approached to within a few feet of the cat.

“Yes. Move very slowly and speak in a loving voice. Show no fear.”

Niki reached out her hand and stroked one of the strong forelegs, feeling the bristling hair. “What an amazing creature, Mr. Prime Minister.” She rose and moved back slowly, then went to stand beside Andrei and handed him some papers from a leather briefcase carried over her shoulder. “Your schedule for the day, sir.”

“Tell me about Saudi Arabia,” Putin snapped. Andrei was momentarily off balance. Veronika took a step back, as if she might disappear into the woodwork.

Ivanov shrugged. “It did not work out, Prime Minister. The priest we had picked to replace the king was assassinated. Then our organizer, the banker Dieter Nesch, called me a while ago to say that the rebellion was over, but that Juba was pressing ahead to steal the last available nuclear warhead. He might explode it in Israel.”

“What is our own exposure now, Andrei?”

“We are pulling out of it entirely. There will be no trace, no accounts or electronic data of any sort, that might indicate that we were ever involved. I have dispatched SVR teams to eliminate Nesch and Juba, who are the only links to us.”

Putin stopped petting his cat. “You promised that this plan of yours would work.” The question was blunt.

Andrei spread his hands on the broad surface of his desk. “It was worth the risk. The money we spent was a pittance in comparison to what we might have gained.”

“Yes,” Putin replied. He stood, brushed the front of his slacks, and made a clicking sound. The tiger rose in a fluid motion, a threat by its mere existence. “Andrei, my young friend, you are doing a very good job. I knew that you would excel, which was why I picked you for the position over many older and more experienced candidates.”

Andrei Ivanov also stood, relieved that Putin was leaving and taking the beast with him. “Thank you, sir.” The old gentleman was not going to do anything.

Putin finally broke into a smile. “Yes. I always have admired aggressive plays, as you know. The only way Russia will achieve its former glory is to take a chance now and then. What Juba does with Israel is no concern of ours. But I want you to recognize that there is another truth at our level of politics,” he said.

“What might that be, Prime Minister?”

“Failure is unacceptable.” Putin snapped a leash to the collar on his tiger and led it out the door. He did not want the cat to be startled.

Andrei stared at the door as it closed, feeling a wave of satisfaction. Despite the implied threat, Putin was toothless and Sweetie was nothing but a cat. Neither had claws.

Niki Petrova withdrew a small pistol from her leather case, pointed it at the back of his head and pulled the trigger twice.

RIYADH

MAJOR HENRY TSANG ARRIVED
a little early at the Marriott, looking fresh in a charcoal gray suit with faint stripes, a white shirt, and a tasteful tie. At the reserved table, he chose the seat that would allow him to keep his back to the wall. Silverware gleamed in the bright artificial light and soft jazz music spilled through speakers hidden in the ceiling. He shook out a cigarette and lit it. Swanson would arrive in a short while but Tsang had things to arrange beforehand.

Tsang ordered a carafe of hot water and slices of lemon, promising to order breakfast when his friend arrived. After the waiter vanished through the swinging doors to the kitchen, Tsang slid a small microphone into a small arrangement of flowers and pointed it toward the chair in which Swanson would sit. Everything said at the table would be transmitted to a recording station in a blue surveillance van parked outside the hotel. The pager on his belt buzzed one time as the listeners confirmed that everything was working, picking up the sounds of the restaurant.

The waiter returned. Tsang put a slice of lemon in his cup, poured in the hot water, and settled in to wait, calmly smoking his cigarette and enjoying the drink. It was nine fifteen on Sunday morning where he sat, which made it four thirty in the afternoon back in Beijing, where things were busy and final decisions were being made and orders were being cut. This time tomorrow, his country would be at war.

Ranking people were awaiting his report of this backchannel meeting.

He was here. Where was the American?

******

KYLE SWANSON WAS STRETCHED
out comfortably on a plush sofa and Jamal Muheisen was in a large leather chair, absorbed in a paperback whodunit mystery. Jamal turned the pages slowly, killing time. Swanson stared at the white ceiling. “Hell of a prison, huh?”

“Yeah,” Jamal replied. “Fuckin’ A-rab dungeon. You want me to call for some fresh coffee?”

“Unh-unh,” grunted Swanson. “I’m coffeed out.” He got up and went to the window to watch the cars and trucks go by. He could not hear the buzz of the traffic below because the huge office was soundproofed. A few military vehicles rolled past in small convoys, but the capital city was returning to normal. The morning sun was shining brightly.

The room was the spacious personal office of another Saudi prince who was senior vice president for special assignments for Saudi Aramco, the petroleum giant that controlled the vast oil fields of the nation. The place was immaculate, with several bright hand-knotted carpets, tall bookshelves, chairs, tables, and a few sofas. A large desk dominated the area before a set of windows, and every paper on it was squared neatly with all of the others. Framed pictures of members of the royal family and foreign dignitaries hung on the dark walls. A full bathroom, including a shower, was just through a doorway.

“Fuck this,” Swanson said as he returned to the sofa and plopped down. The two soldiers at the door watched, but remained silent. The security team was changed every thirty minutes, and another pair of guards was just outside.

Swanson knew any hope of surprising his Chinese contact was blown at the time of their arrest. Now the entire meeting was at risk. All methods of communicating with the outside world had been removed from them and, although the borrowed office had every creature comfort, even a game console, there were no telephones, no TV sets, and no device that would let him call for help. They were trapped in an air-conditioned cave of riches.

Big chunks of time were falling away like an iceberg calving in the summertime. A nuclear warhead was still out there to be collected, but it was fading in importance with the anticipation that the Chinese were about to attack.
Stay calm. Wait it out. Be ready.

******

THE MAIN DOOR OPENED
at nine seventeen, according to Kyle’s watch. The guards snapped to attention but never took their eyes from the prisoners. Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid walked in, grim and unsmiling, and went straight to the desk. He flung his black beret down in exasperation, then sat in the chair and stared at Kyle. “You lied to me.”

Swanson returned the glare. “Don’t expect an apology.”

“You were under my orders,” the prince retorted in a frosty tone. “I gave the two of you permission to go to the hotel and you tried to play me for a fool. When I had my aide check up on you, he found that you were gone.”

“I was never under your orders, colonel. We are working together. There’s a big difference. Instead of finishing our mission of getting all of the nukes, you became wrapped up in that conference with the talking heads on television screens and I was left sitting there with my thumb up my ass while a war may be brewing. Why the hell should I wait around when there was work to be done?”

“How dare you speak to me like that!”
Mishaal was on his feet and his voice thundered. The guards became more alert. “Your job was to help me collect the nuclear weapons and we have done so, except for the one in Tabuk. We will go and retrieve it right now, and then you both will be expelled from the country. I’ve already discussed this with His Majesty and he approves. We appreciate your help, Gunny, but your job is almost done. You are too much of a loose cannon.”

Kyle shook his head in dismay. “Of course I’m a loose cannon, Colonel. I do what needs to be done, even when things escalate out of control, even in an entirely different situation. I am a scout-sniper and the rule for any commander is to not tell a sniper how to do a job.”

Mishaal sat back down. “You have no idea what has been going on. Our military is in the midst of cleaning up the mess from the coup attempt and have zero time to get reorganized. Those conferences that you so disdain involve the highest level of national security and how we will respond to this possible Chinese aggression. We are talking all-out war here, Gunny Swanson.”

“Don’t count your nuclear chickens before they are hatched, Colonel.”

Mishaal looked at his watch. “Then let’s go get it, Gunnery Sergeant. I have a plane waiting. And then I can kick your impertinent ass out of the country and get to work on the other major threats facing us. I don’t need your ego eating up my time.”

“Fine by me,” Kyle snapped. “But aren’t you even going to ask me why we left early to get to Riyadh if the only thing I wanted to do was pick up the last nuke? As you say, that now seems like a routine job, and anyway it is several hundred miles away in Tabuk.”

The colonel grabbed his beret. “I really do not care, Gunny. And I had roadblocks set up there, too. Now move out.”

“I know who one of the Chinese point men on the ground is, Prince Mishaal.” Kyle took the edge off of his voice. “I had set up a meeting for this morning and was trying to get into Riyadh and trap him beforehand and throw him off balance. I hoped to persuade him to tell his people to back off of the military action by confirming that both the Saudis and the Americans would oppose them.”

The prince stopped in mid-stride. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

Kyle stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and looked the prince in the eyes. Ignored the question. “The contact is a special forces type named Henry Tsang, a guy that I met down in Khobz. He probably has a straight pipeline into the Chinese central command, and I thought he would trust another special operator because we are cut from the same cloth. I considered it best not to have your fingerprints, or the official imprint of either of our governments on this meet. I was going to tell you everything, when it was done.”

Mishaal dropped the beret again and sat back down. He spun the chair away from the Marine and the CIA agent and looked out of the windows, his thoughts moving fast, grabbing for passing details. He turned around again. “Can you still make a meet?”

“He’s waiting for me at the Marriott Hotel right now.”

“Very well. But I want in on this, too, Swanson. This is my country and we’re running out of time.”