Dead Shot (8 page)

“You are CIA?” the woman asked Kyle softly as they walked to the Humvees.

“No,” he said quietly. “But those people don’t need to know that. And don’t worry. You will be treated well here.”

“So who are you, then?”

“Me? I’m nobody.”

M
AJOR
J
IM
R
ILEY
,
A
surgeon, was ready, scrubbed, and gowned as he pushed open a swinging door with his elbow and stepped into a bright, cool operating room of the 856th Combat Support Hospital. Sterilized implements gleamed on a steel tray, and everyone around him was also gloved and masked.

Before them lay a huge soldier with a bullet hole in the back. The patient had been stripped, cleaned, put to sleep, and thoroughly prepped. There was an IV of blood and another of a hydrating solution. The vital signs were being constantly measured and displayed on monitors.

Dr. Riley had been working in the hospital too long to be shocked by the condition of any patient, since there was a never-ending river of
them. He studied the X-rays on the light board and moved over to the table. “Very well now. Everybody ready? Let’s save this guy’s life today.”

“M
Y NAME IS
D
ELARA
Tabrizi, and I teach at a girls’ school in Khorramshahr.” She sat at a small table in a well-lighted room with a cup of tea. Across the table were two intelligence officers who had been alerted about the unique circumstances and acted with respect and politeness. Adding to her comfort were Darren Rawls and Travis Hughes, still in combat gear and face paint, sitting beside the door to prevent a recurrence of the incident with the MPs at the helicopter. There was always somebody who did not get the word, and Captain Newman had ordered them to stay with her until final arrangements could be made. Delara was already considering them to be “her” Marines; she believed they would protect her against any rough interrogation and was ready to answer the questions of the officers.

She had already made up her mind. “I am now the only remaining member of my family,” she said. “Everyone has been murdered by the government and its brutes, because we were part of the educated, moderate class. I will tell you everything I can in exchange for political asylum. I know that if I return to Iran, I may be killed, but we must go back.”

“Why?” asked an interrogator.

“I know of another facility, such as the one from last night, and my brother may still be alive there.”

“Just tell us where and we will send in another team.”

She shook her head negatively. “No. It is near my home village in the north, and I can lead you there. You cannot find it on your own.”

The officer gave her a slight smile. “Believe me, Miss Tabrizi, when I say that our technology and satellites can find almost anything, anywhere.”

Delara returned the mirthless smile. “So, have you found it yet? No. You didn’t even know it existed until I just told you.”

The officer studied the young woman. Stubborn. Determined.
Knows that if she is caught by the Iranians, she will be killed, and yet she is willing to lead a raid back into the country. “Let me discuss it with my bosses and see if they want to put together a mission. Meanwhile, we will put you up in a safe location and let you rest and clean up while we work this out.”

Delara said, “I want the same team that was used before.”

“We may not be able to do that. A fully capable and fresh team probably will be chosen.”

“No substitutes,” she insisted and turned to look at Rawls and Hughes, both of whom were nodding agreement. She remembered not only the rescue in Iran but also the confrontation at the helicopter. “I trust these men to bring me back alive.”

In another room in the same building, Kyle Swanson and Rick Newman were being debriefed, going over the mission step by step. Swanson handed in the bag of flesh samples he had cut from the dead body, and it was transferred to a secure biohazard container. The digital cameras with their documentation were sent off to be copied and analyzed.

“The place was burned to a crisp,” he told the intel officers. He described the construction of the underground laboratory complex. “Everything was destroyed. Looked as if they flooded it with gasoline or something, then popped some thermite grenades to set it all off. The heat would have been tremendous, certainly enough to burn off any evidence of chemicals or biologicals being produced there.”

“You found prisoners in there?”

“What remained of them. Way back in individual cells at the end of the tunnels. The poor bastards were probably guinea pigs for experiments and were disposed of like everything else.”

Newman described the sudden arrival of soldiers at the site and the ensuing ambush, and how Master Gunny Dawkins had been wounded. Swanson gave his version of the same subjects. The intelligence officers were running out of questions when one asked, “Why do you think the scientist who was assassinated in Baghdad gave up this site?”

Kyle gathered his gear. “That’s for you intel guys to figure out. Maybe the girl that we brought in can shed some light on it. My wild guess is that the scientist figured that everything connected with the place was going to be eliminated, including him. So he ran. He just didn’t run fast enough.”

PARIS

L
EAFY VINES TANGLED LIKE
thick ropes around the bars of a big wrought-iron gate that had stood open day and night for almost ten years on a quiet street in the Nineteenth Arrondissement. The property owner had tired of having to open and close it. Thieves came over the walls, despite embedded shards of sharp glass and alarm systems, so what was the point? Then a new owner had arrived and there still was no need to close the gate, for hard-eyed men stood guard, and word spread among the footpads of Paris that it was better to prey on targets that would not cost them their lives. The house now belonged to al Qaeda.

The neighborhood in the northeast section of Paris was in an inevitable transition toward a gentrified future, but pockets of the past still existed in its multiethnic heritage. The mixed aromas of foreign food and spices wafted from the restaurants, and people of all nationalities moved through the streets. Juba was just another face.

Shadowed by the foliage of the gate, he entered the old courtyard and smelled the combined scent of flowers and rot. The concrete slabs of the parking area were uneven, buckled by a century of shifting earth, and a creamy white Mercedes was parked in the center. Juba brushed his hand across the hood as he walked by. Warm to the touch, so the vehicle was recently used, probably to deliver Saladin to the meeting at the three-story home.

A nervous young man with a ragged haircut over a thin hyena face
stepped from the shade of the doorway and motioned Juba to stop. The visitor was expected but would be searched nevertheless. Juba obediently raised both arms, then very slowly lowered his left hand to open his Prada sport coat wide enough to show the guard the holstered pistol that rested on his left hip. The young man’s eyes went to the gun, which would have to be removed before the visitor could go inside. Juba helpfully opened the coat a bit more, using the diversion to keep the man’s attention away from his right arm, which was slowly extending all the way up. When the elbow locked straight, a mechanism strapped to the inside of his forearm was tripped and a small Ruger pistol and silencer slapped into Juba’s palm. He shot the approaching guard twice in the head at a distance of only three feet, the blood and brain matter spraying backward onto the paving stones. Juba grabbed the bleeding corpse by the shirt and hauled it into the cool, dark space beneath the stairwell.

He checked his clothes to make sure no blood had spattered on him and then trotted up the steep, curving stone staircase, making plenty of noise so the second bodyguard knew he was coming. His feet slapped with a steady rhythm against the old stones that a scrubwoman had washed by hand that morning. As he neared the top, the gun was hidden at his side. He huffed a bit, as if panting, and called to the guard. “Long way up,” he said in French. This man was larger, standing with his hands crossed in front of him. He had a lot of bulk that was more fat than muscle. A thick unibrow stretched in a line across both eyes, and a few gold teeth glinted on the left side of a frowning mouth. A ragged scar ran down his forehead. He was not alert because the visitor had been cleared by the entryway guard. Juba came up the final few steps, raised the Ruger, and fired his last three bullets. The scowling man collapsed where he stood.

Juba put the little gun away and gave the fallen man a look of utter contempt.
They still do not train them well
. The bodyguards chosen to protect the head of the entire al Qaeda operation in France should have been the best combat veterans available instead of a couple of waterfront thugs hired because they looked mean and could handle
themselves in a barroom brawl. Both died because they were stupid. He stepped inside the house.

The door opened into an area between a neat kitchen that was the color of buttermilk and a living room where tall windows gave a view of other courtyards and buildings on this crowded edge of the city. The fading sunlight was orange and bright. He blinked. As his eyes adjusted, two silhouettes in the living room became a pair of middle-aged men seated in comfortable chairs directly across from each other, separated by a low table.

“My son! Welcome, welcome,” said one, rising and coming to greet him with hugs and traditional cheek kisses.

Juba bowed his head. “Father. It is good to see you again.” He had not seen his spiritual father, the man known as Saladin, in six weeks and was pleased to find him smiling with a warm greeting, particularly under the circumstances. Al Qaeda was demanding that he hand over the formula, and that Juba deliver it in person. Both of them realized their lives would be worthless the moment that the details of the new and virulent nerve agent were out of their possession, so that could not be allowed to happen.

Saladin appeared undisturbed. He had a handsome face with a well-trimmed beard and sharp black eyes that flashed intelligence, and he was dressed in a dark business suit and a subdued pearl gray tie. Actually taller than Juba, he weighed less and was thin. “You look well, and you have done well,” he said as he squeezed Juba affectionately on the shoulder. “I am so proud. Come, please, and meet our host.”

The second man stood. In contrast to Saladin, he wore a cheap suit that could not be buttoned over his stomach, and his belly overlapped the creased belt. The collar tips of his brown shirt flared like dirty wings, and a clump of chest hair had wiggled out above the second button.

“Let me introduce our new friend, Youcef Aseer, a very important leader among our al Qaeda comrades,” said Saladin with some deference. The fat man’s tiny eyes did not leave Juba’s face.

“I am honored,” said Juba and gave a slight bow. He was not about to embrace this unclean fat man who carried the smell of shallots and sweat.

“No, it is I who enjoy meeting you, the famous Juba. Your work in London has left the infidels in panic. God is great! Well done, young man.” The voice was oddly small for such a large man.

They took seats, and Saladin got straight to business. “I know you were surprised by this summons, Juba, but something very important has happened to change our plans. Since the London episode, Youcef Aseer has been designated by al Qaeda to see that we all should henceforth work together. It is a great opportunity for us. Al Qaeda offers a generous sum of money and also manpower—dedicated foot soldiers, street demonstrators, and willing martyrs—that we can use in certain situations. In turn, we supply the formula and our field leadership. They want a strike in France, to subdue this wicked nation like a whipped puppy.”

Youcef Aseer chuckled. “We are closer here than in any other Western nation. One good push is all we need! Imagine an Islamic government in France!”

Saladin clapped his hands. “Exactly, my friend.” He turned to Juba. “Our friend Youcef here is now within our small circle of trust. You are to do as he says, Juba. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Father.” Juba understood very clearly: Al Qaeda was taking over.

“Good. See, Youcef! I told you there would be no difficulty. It will be good to work with al Qaeda again,” said Saladin. “Let Juba see your list.”

The al Qaeda chieftain handed over a small envelope. The small move was peremptory, the sort of wave of a hand that a master gives an underling. This was his home, and his bodyguards were skillful. Unless these two renegades cooperated, he would have them killed.

Juba rose from his chair, and since he could not go between the two because of the table, he circled behind the al Qaeda leader. “Excuse me. The light is better by the window.” He looked out at the fading sunlight playing with shadows on the rooftops and ran his thumb beneath the gummed flap of the envelope, pulled out the paper, and read three names, three addresses, all in the southern part of the coun
try. Of course. The port of Marseille had been the initial arrival point for the first waves of immigrants from North Africa.

Aseer grinned. “The first is a judge who has sentenced our brothers to long terms in prison, the second an undercover detective with a particular skill for infiltrating our group, and the third simply a worthless traitor. Juba, I want you to kill them all to show that our enemies cannot escape the Prophet’s justice.”

“And the attack in France?”

“You leave that to us. We will have our own chemists and physicists construct the weapon under your supervision.”

“It is not yet ready. The London experiment showed the dispersal rate remains too high.”

“Another batch just like that will be more than enough for our purposes,” said Aseer. “We will finish the refining process as time allows.”

Juba nodded and turned to Saladin. “When do you wish me to start, Father?”

“Immediately, my son. The sooner you complete this, the sooner we can move on.”

They both knew that they would not be moving at all if they remained in the grip of al Qaeda.

“Very well.” Juba slid the note into his jacket’s right pocket. The light was dim and purple in the room as he walked back toward his chair. When his hand emerged from the pocket, there was something in it, invisible in the dying, gloomy light. Passing directly behind Aseer, he moved in a blur and looped the strand of piano wire around the neck of the al Qaeda man and yanked hard on the wooden handle in each hand. The wire sliced into the throat like a razor, and the fat man grabbed at the tightening garrote until his eyes bulged and his tongue hung out.

Juba’s hatred of al Qaeda pulsed through his strong biceps and forearms and hands and into the killing wire as he slowly lifted his victim all the way over the back of the chair while the struggling man clawed to hold on to the life draining away from him. He could have finished it quickly but did not want death to come easily to this piece of al Qaeda filth. He tightened the wire more, strangling the man as he
twisted the body out of the chair and let it fall onto a burgundy rug that was almost the same color as the blood oozing from the deep neck wound. Aseer urinated in his pants as he died.

Saladin remained calm. What a macabre pleasure it was to watch his son at work. The moves were so clean and economical and perfect, like a ballet dancer’s, and there was a cold passion to his mastery of so many skills. A maestro of death. “Imagine, Juba, this fool actually believed we were frightened.” He spat on the body.

“They will come after us again.”

“No, I think they will simply become a customer. This death signals that the formula still belongs to Unit 999 and no one else. It took us twenty years to develop, and we have repeatedly had to defend our ownership. Now that we are so close to success, no one can be allowed to stop us.”

Juba washed his hands in the kitchen sink. “I will take care of this one, and our men will remove the two guards.”

“Very good, my son.” Saladin refilled his cup of strong coffee. “The London task was flawless, but of course I expected nothing less from you. I assume the announcement is ready for distribution?”

“Yes. I downloaded the pictures I took in London onto discs and posted them, along with your message, by FedEx, to North Korea, China, Brunei, and Tehran. The packages will arrive at any time and someone will have to sign for them, which guarantees delivery.”

“Then it is done. The word will spread from those seeds. Now we wait.”

“You can wait, my father. I have no time to waste. I will relax when it is all done.”

“Would you rather be back in Iraq, taking target practice?” Saladin teased his assassin.

“No. Paris is better. It is too bad that I cannot stay longer. I long for a few days in which I can just be a pure Muslim and sit at your feet again and study the Koran. Physically I am fine, but spiritually I am an empty vessel. My role is difficult.”

“Which is why you are the only one who can do it,” replied Saladin.
“I promise plenty of time in the future for you to walk openly as one of the faithful and even go on a hajj to Mecca and Medina. For now, you must remain who you are. The Prophet bestowed special gifts upon you, Juba. I know your inner struggle and intercede with prayers for you every day. Until the right time comes, you must carry on. You know that.”

“Yes. I am but an instrument of the Prophet. Show me the path and I will follow. But tonight I leave for Iran again to observe one final test. The director of our remaining laboratory there thinks the formula will be complete after a final adjustment improves the staying power of the gel. The gas in London still spread too fast.”

Saladin laughed to break the serious tone. “Good. We are finally so very close to the end. After you dispose of this trash, we can go out and have time for a nice dinner before you leave.”

Juba opened the door and summoned two more men to help with the corpses as the slow sun set and the lights of Paris illuminated the night. Saladin stood at the window, feeling the rhythm of the city alter from a daytime center of commerce to a nightscape dedicated to personal pleasures. He liked this house and decided to stay here for a while.

He heard the men removing the body behind him but did not turn to watch. The al Qaeda fool actually believed an Islamic government could be seated in Paris. It was true that France had more Muslims than any other Western European nation, but that was still less than 10 percent of the overall sixty-four million Frenchmen. Aseer must have thought he commanded some German army. Al Qaeda thought in such small terms.

If Saladin had any real problem that evening, it was the knowledge that he must devote considerably more energy to his protégé. Anyone who did not think twice about setting off a device that condemned unknown hundreds of people to painful deaths obviously required careful handling.

He wondered if Juba ever looked deeply into a mirror or thought about the deadly paradox that he had become. The sniper felt betrayed by his home country, England, and most recently by al Qaeda, which
had recruited him so many years ago. He had lost
faith
! Saladin had long listened to Juba’s spoken outward devotion to Islam and his dream of cutting himself off from the outside world and living like a penniless peasant in the service of the Prophet. The true dedication, however, was not there, and the dream was so unrealistic that it could never be fulfilled.