Clean Kill (27 page)

RIYADH

THE RESTAURANT WAS ALMOST
empty when Kyle and Mishaal walked in. They saw the Chinese man seated alone in a rear booth and made their way over to him. At the entrance to the room, an attendant turned around a “Closed” sign. Privacy was needed.

“Mr. Tsang. Thank you for meeting me. I apologize for being late.” Kyle slid into one side of the U-shaped booth. “This is my partner, Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid.”

Henry Tsang hardly batted an eye. Every word was being recorded and he was perfectly safe. He would let things develop at a slow pace. “My pleasure. Please sit down, Colonel. Would you gentlemen like some coffee? Breakfast?”

Mishaal took a place on the other side of the booth. “Thank you for meeting with us.”

Tsang smiled and took a sip of tea. “This was supposed to be a private meeting, Mr. Swanson. No insult is intended, but it is most regrettable that I was not made aware that the prince colonel would be with you.”

“It was a last-minute development. I thought that he might be of help if you have some questions.”

Tsang folded his hands on the table. “Questions? About what? Frankly, I do not even know why I am here. Except for our brief encounter in Khobz a few days ago, I don’t even know you.”

Swanson grinned. “People down there say you got in the middle of that fight and did very well. Pretty good for an accountant.”

Tsang did not change his expression. “It was fight or be slaughtered. There was no real choice. Now, why are we meeting here today? What can I do for you gentlemen?”

Mishaal was in no mood for polite verbal fencing. “You can tell your masters back in Beijing that we know about their plans to attack the oil fields and that we are ready to stop them!”

Still, Henry Tsang betrayed no emotion. “I am totally at a loss, sir. I know nothing about any such plans, and I am just a low-level functionary at the embassy, not the ambassador. Perhaps you should contact him.”

“Bullshit, Henry. A few days ago you were an accountant, now you’re working for the embassy. You’re a spook. I’m a spook. Mishaal is part of the House of Saud. Talk to us. What the hell do you guys think you can accomplish with an invasion?”

Tsang looked at him in silence. “I repeat, I know nothing about any invasion, Mr. Swanson. Please, if you have such concerns, contact the ambassador immediately.”

Kyle shushed Mishaal when the Saudi was about to speak. Instead, he said, “Henry, let’s just speak in hypotheticals. Just for shits and giggles. Three friends at breakfast considering the geopolitical picture.”

There was a bit of hushed silence. Henry Tsang reached into the flower arrangement, pulled out the small microphone and dropped it into the cup of tea to kill the signal. If ever challenged, the recording of the conversation thus far would show he had done nor said anything improper. Now it was time to get down to business. “That might be an interesting exercise. Please continue.”

PRINCE MISHAAL RUBBED HIS
hands flat and hard over his eyes in frustration. He felt about ready to explode. “You are wasting time, Mr. Tsang. So, hypothetically, if Chinese aircraft enter Saudi airspace without permission, they will be shot down.”

“Also hypothetically, the United States will likely join the fight on the side of our Saudi allies. That final decision will come from Washington, but for this conversation, you can consider it to be a certainty.”

Henry Tsang let his mask drop a bit and looked steadily at Mishaal. “One thing that is absolutely not in question is that Saudi Arabia is gripped in a rebellion against the monarchy. That uprising is still underway as we speak. In turn, it has rendered your government to be unstable. News reports say that your own pilots assassinated your king. I can understand why the leaders of other nations would be worried about protecting the vast Saudi oil production capability during such a crisis.”

Kyle Swanson started to respond, but Tsang had more to say. “Please. Let me finish. In addition to the threat to the oil production, there are reports that Saudi Arabia also has nuclear weapons. That is another valid point that the United Nations would consider in determining whether some international intervention is required. In short, Prince Mishaal, your country appears to be in great difficulty and in need of help.”

“Not your kind of help,” Mishaal gruffly said.

Swanson fished in his vest pocket. “They already have help. Ours.” He laid an empty .50 caliber cartridge on the table and gave it a little spin with his finger. “Say, back to the hypothesis, that at the time I fired this shot recently, the leader of the rebellion, Mohammed Ebara, died unexpectly. As I said, Mishaal is my partner. In other words, our countries are in this together. You guys try to come in, you’ll get clobbered. Your people won’t even get near the drop zones.”

Tsang picked up the bullet and smelled it. Some cordite still lingered, the signature of a recent shot. “I would have to believe that any country planning to establish protective custody of the oil fields would have taken such contingencies into consideration. In other words, you don’t scare us.”

Mishaal pushed back against the tufted cushion and composed himself. “I tell you the truth now. We have cracked this rebellion. The removal of Ebara took away the leadership and our government is reasserting control in every city and region. King Abdullah is firmly on the throne and the Religious Police have been muzzled. In other words, Mister Tsang, without a doubt, it is over except for the mopping up. We intend to prove that is so in the United Nations on Monday. Without the rebellion, the oil interests are safe. There is no reason for a Chinese…I mean, international…intervention in our internal affairs.”

Henry Tsang nodded his head and gave a smile which meant nothing. He looked at Swanson. “No reason? Even if you are correct, the Saudis still have nuclear devices of military application. There is established UN precedent for a foreign power to intervene in order to remove the threat of weapons of mass destruction. An international threat, I might add.”

Swanson smiled right back. “And that, finally, Major Tsang, is why I wanted this meeting. Yes, we know who you are and that is beside the point. With authorization of King Abdullah, the prince and I have been busy removing those weapons for the past few days. The Saudis had a total of five. We have removed and secured four of them, so that threat already has been greatly diminished.”

“That leaves one still out there. One is still one too many.” Tsang wondered how they found out about his rank and real position. No time to worry about that right now. “I cannot see how anything has really changed.”

Kyle responded, “We are on the way out to pick up the final one right now, Major. I invite you to accompany us to confirm the removal with your own eyes and report that back to your superiors. It is at the King Abdul Aziz Military City at Tabuk, near the Jordanian frontier.”

Tsang knew of the huge base, the center of the Northwest Area Command. It was home to infantry and armor brigades of the Royal Saudi Land Forces, the airborne and armor schools, and an air base. “It’s almost seven hundred miles away,” he said. Tsang rolled his white napkin into a ball and tossed it on the table. “Then why are we still sitting here? Gentlemen, shall we go?”

“My plane is waiting,” Mishaal responded, and slid out of the booth. There was a commotion at the door, where his aide was listening to a staff officer as they approached. Captain Omar al-Muallami shot out his hand and grabbed a fistful of the briefer’s sleeve and dragged him off to the side, at the same time motioning for Mishaal to follow. Al-Muallami took them into a small cloak room beside the reception desk and closed the door behind them.

While Swanson and Tsang looked blankly at each other, Jamal drifted over to join them. “He’s with me. CIA,” Kyle explained. Tsang said nothing. All eyes were on the door.

It opened and Mishaal stormed out. His fists were clenched and his face was flushed with color. “It’s gone,” he growled. “The damned nuke has disappeared!”

TABUK, SAUDI ARABIA

EVEN WITH THE PILOTS
pushing the throttles through the firewall, it took Mishaal’s executive jet several anxious hours to fly from Riyadh to Tabuk, hours that seemed to stretch into eternity when an urgent message was received en route. Intelligence services were reporting that the Israelis were scrambling their forces and getting into high gear after receiving a cryptic and brief advisory that a nuclear weapon had been captured by terrorists in Saudi Arabia. The unidentified source was considered highly credible, and the target was to be Jerusalem, the ancient and historic city that was revered by Jews, Christians, and Arabs alike.

Henry Tsang had grabbed his war bag from the trunk of the diplomatic vehicle that had taken him to the Marriott and was now out of his suit and into jeans and a blue T-shirt that emphasized his muscular upper body. He did not have much to say during the flight, but missed nothing that was going on. The passing hours would be pushing China closer to launching the invasion. If Jerusalem went up in a mushroom cloud, the international community would probably applaud the Chinese for moving so decisively to stem the possibility of other nuclear attacks elsewhere in the region. Beijing and Washington might even work together instead of fighting. It was most confusing, Tsang thought.

Mishaal was glowering silently out of the window while fielding messages on the situation. The King Abdul Aziz Military City was totally locked down, and would stay that way until he got there. The commanding general had committed suicide. Mishaal was embarrassed and infuriated. If he had not attended those long conference meetings, this missile would already have been packed safely away. He had personally spoken with King Abdullah about the dire situation and the monarch was clearly worried. If that missile—a Saudi weapon that had been kept secret until only a few days ago—struck Jerusalem, there would be no stopping the Jews. Others would pile into the fight until the House of Saud was gone and perhaps the whole country with it.

Kyle Swanson ran the mental tapes over and over in his head, staring straight ahead at the empty seat in front of him. He was thinking about it this way; it makes absolutely no fuckin’ sense.

A SMALL CONVOY LED
by the commanding general had arrived at the main gate just after dawn, a flag of Saudi Arabia fluttering on a small pole attached to one fender of his luxury sedan and his two-star flag of rank on the other. Although his authority was unquestioned, the sedan intentionally stopped to allow the sentries to verify his identification both by sight and credentials. When the guards snapped to attention, the sedan rolled through, followed by an armored Humvee and two giant M920 8 × 6 tractor trucks, each hauling a M870A1 lowboy semitrailer that was more than twenty-five feet in length.

The vehicles were driven straight to the interior compound in which the nuclear missile system was secured, and the general told the colonel in charge that there had been a change in the orders. He had received a fax from the Interior Ministry that called for the immediate pickup of the weapon, and cancellation of the original schedule set for later in the day. Faced with the major general’s personal presence and the official government document, the colonel and his troops complied.

The two long lowboys had been parked side by side, with their huge engines rumbling at idle, and the armored personnel carriers—one containing the warhead and the other with the missile—were positioned on specific load spots on each flat deck, where they were locked down with chains and load binders.

The transfer papers were signed, the convoy left in the glow of the morning light, the colonel disbanded the guard unit, and the commanding general went back to his office, stuck a pistol to his head and blew his brains out.

A smooth and flawless operation, Kyle decided.

That was the mechanical side. What had him puzzled was why a sealed envelope with his name on it was among the paperwork given to the colonel.

THEIR PLANE MADE A
smooth landing at the King Faisal Air Base within the military city and taxied to a stop near a group of senior officers standing stiffly before a line of sedans. Prince Mishaal was the first person off the plane and his grim face gave them no solace. He was in a rage, and their nervousness was made complete as his aide went down the line making a list of their names.

Kyle went down the stairs into the heat lifting from the tarmac, determined to keep Mishaal in check. It would do no good at this point to have him just fire a bunch of officers because he was angry. “Get that envelope,” he said from just behind the prince’s shoulder.

Mishaal barked an order and a full colonel stepped forward and handed him the sealed manila envelope. A rather elegant looping handwriting had written the name of the addressee.

“Now take us to the office of the commanding general,” Mishaal ordered. “Is the body still there?”

“Yes, sir. No one has touched anything. We were awaiting your arrival.”

Kyle and Mishaal got into the rear seat of the second sedan, with Henry Tsang given the passenger side in the front. As the line of cars blasted away from the flight line, Swanson ran a finger beneath the sealed flap and tore it open. An eight-by-ten piece of common writing paper, folded one time, was inside.

I am waiting at the end of the world. Juba.

“Shit!” snarled Kyle. He passed the brief note to Mishaal, who read it and gave it to Tsang.

“What does it mean?”

“It means we are facing down a total madman, a terrorist who is responsible for thousands of deaths, someone I thought was already dead.”

Henry Tsang spoke up. “Juba. The terrorist from the biochem attacks in London and San Francisco a few years back? He’s behind this?”

“Maybe not the entire plot, but he probably was the one pulling the triggers to order the specific attacks.” Kyle looked out the window as the sedan screamed toward the headquarters building. “I can’t believe he lived through that mess in Iraq. Not only did I shoot him, but we dropped a bomb on his head at the same time. Unbelievable.”

“So this message is a challenge to you? He wants some kind of duel to exact revenge?”

“It looks that way. Like I said, he is crazy and has apparently become fixated on killing me. Don’t expect logic from someone who is insane.”

The car slowed and curved into a broad parking area before a large whitewashed building that was three stories high. Guards were at the doors.

“And he wants to meet you at the end of the world,” said Mishaal as he opened the door to the office of the commanding general.