Retribution (25 page)

CHAPTER 47

 

S
everal white Hummers with mounted machine guns, blue lights, and screaming sirens led the secretary's Rolls-Royce through the city. The convoy raced across Riyadh at breakneck speed, with a helicopter escort traveling above in a parallel course.

The prince knew that all was not right as his car sped into the entrance to the Prince Salman Heart Center. The medical campus appeared to be under siege, with armed military troops stationed everywhere in sight. Large armored troop carriers with .50-caliber machine guns on top sat across the streets, causing the allowed traffic to run an obstacle course of weaving between the various stop points.

The secretary recognized the king's personal assistant, the young Prince Al-Bin, waiting at the entrance.

“What is his status?” The secretary didn't hesitate.

“Serious.” Prince Al-Bin looked around as he spoke.

“It's too early, too soon.” The secretary knew that this would only throw the Bay'ah Council into confusion. “The Council could end up being more destructive than positive.”

“I agree. It was meant to facilitate the transition, not be a vehicle to confuse it.” Prince Al-Bin looked too young for the job he was in. The prince was a thirty-year-old who appeared to be just out of high school. It didn't help that he was a small man who had to look up to most of his royal cousins. “He wants to see you.”

Al-Bin followed the secretary in through the glass doors, to the lobby of the heart center. The hospital was so new that it was still recruiting physicians. Painters were still putting coats of paint on the walls in the hallways. The staff was as fresh as the paint. The nurses and physicians mostly came from the West as a result of the generous pay and a ransom of benefits. The center was a part of the larger King Fahd Medical City, which was home to well over two thousand medical staff members. But it was still far from the standards and capabilities of Western hospitals. Most of the royal family was treated in London, New York, or Houston. But the patient had to be stable enough to make the journey. Sloan-Kettering, Mayo, and MD Anderson were options if there was enough time for the patient to make it to his operating room.

“Your Majesty.” The secretary bowed as he entered the room. The patient had a pasty white appearance, as if much of his blood had been drained from his body. The king's ink-black mustache and goatee seemed painted on the chalky white face.

“You have always been the first one by my side.” The king's voice was weak, almost like a whisper.

“You took care of me as a young boy. When the others were bullies, you stopped them.”

“I did, didn't I? Even then, I told Mutaib I would order his head off if he picked on you.” The king chuckled until he started gasping for air. “Even at twelve, I was ready to lead.”

“Indeed.”

“You are aware of Yousef's plans?”

The secretary didn't say anything. The king always knew more.

“The dynamics of the Council could become unpredictable.”

“Yes, sire.”

“I do not wish to be the last leader of my nation.” The king paused. “And I understand that your friend is meeting with a journalist from London?”

The secretary winced at
your friend
.

“A particularly troublesome journalist—one bent on fanning the fire.”

“And what will he tell the journalist? That Saudi Arabia is run by a corrupt king? That the Muslim world needs a new leader? That his followers need to empower a new kingdom?” The old man started to cough, a deep hacking cough, gasping for air between breaths. “We do not need a confrontation,” the king said. “You do not need a confrontation. Not now.”

The secretary understood what was being said. The fragile illusion that he had maintained was at risk. Those who believed that the secretary, as the new king, would keep the country on the same course were placated by the current king's support of him. Likewise, those who pushed for a new course, away from America, away from the path of the last several decades, were placated by the secretary's known support of Yousef.

“I understand.”

“And to think . . .” The king gasped for air. “He funds his acts with oil from here!”

The secretary remained silent.

“El-Haba . . .” The king referred to the oil field that fed money to Yousef and his family.

The secretary nodded.

“Perhaps it needs to go dry.”

CHAPTER 48

 

“S
cott.”

James Scott turned around to see Moncrief standing in the hallway. Moncrief had stayed behind after the others on the team headed out in the raging snowstorm to board the white, ice-covered Air Force cargo van that would take them to the waiting C-17 transport jet.

“You don't need to say it.” Scott knew what was on Gunny Moncrief's mind. Both men stood just inside the entranceway to the building looking out at the waiting van. Scott also knew that Moncrief would say it anyway.

“Listen.”

“One second.” Scott stepped outside into the frigid air. The building's cover provided some small protection, but the wind was pushing the snow at an angle into their faces. Scott had stepped outside, away from the two guards who stood just inside. Moncrief followed him.

“You understand about Hernandez.” The gunny's back was to the wind, but his face was close to Scott's.

“Yes, I understand. If he is alive, I will find him. Now get going, old boy,” Scott said.

Moncrief's mouth came even closer to Scott's ear. “Don't fuck with us.”

“They're spraying down the bird,” Furlong yelled from the van with the open door. “We need to roll.” The transport jet was visible just beyond the corner of the building. Several large cranes were hosing down the aircraft with a green liquid as plumes of condensation were billowing up from the engines.

“Just find him.”

“I will,” Scott yelled as Moncrief ran for the van.

Scott looked at his watch. The forces were all in play now. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.

“I need to see you for a moment.”

“I haven't heard from you in over a year.” The voice had a slight accent. It sounded as if the person were more comfortable speaking in another language.

“I need a favor.”

“My friend, when don't you need a favor?”

Scott smiled. He didn't like asking Reuven Zaslani for any favors. In fact, Scott didn't even know Reuven's real name. It mattered little. They both had known each other for years. Scott had no children but had known each of Reuven's three sons since birth.

“How are your boys?”

“Fine. Two are pilots. They fly helicopters. And the youngest is a sergeant with the Sayeret Tzanhanim.”

“Ah . . . like his father.” Scott knew that Reuven had served with the elite Sayeret Tzanhanim commando unit of the Israel Defense Forces. Many believed that they were the best-trained commandos Israel had.

“I hope not. I hope he is smarter. What do you need?”

“I can be in London in an hour.”

“Then I will see you at the Rotti in two.”

Rotti was a small restaurant on Shepherd's Street several blocks behind the Park Lane, and Zaslani was known for keeping a room at the nearby Park Lane Hotel. The restaurant was an Italian café with only three tables and was barely larger than a closet, but at this time of day, in the winter, it would be empty. The owner was a friend of Israel, which was why Zaslani trusted it.

 

 

Scott's black Range Rover pulled up and parked in an open space just across from the Rotti. It had been a rush. The Air Force Pave Hawk had to fly below the storm in nearly zero visibility, but it had gotten him closer into the city of London. The helicopter landed at RAF Northolt just to the northwest of London, and from there he spun his Range Rover at full speed along the A40 in order to get into the center of the city.

Shepherd Street was more of an alleyway that opened up into a small square. Only one street intersected into the square at a straight line. Shepherd Street was straight for several blocks. The other two streets twisted around several buildings as they entered the square. Scott parked his new Range Rover in a spot just across from the pizzeria. He liked to hear the solid
thud
when he closed the door to the jet-black SUV. It was a special-order vehicle, one he was very proud of.

Despite working for the Americans, Scott still maintained a flat in London's Earl's Court. After his mother's death, Scott sold the cottage in east Milton Keynes. And as in many London suburbs, her eighty-two acres became more valuable as urban sprawl spread out into the country. When the modern self-contained town of Milton Keynes was built several decades ago, her property suddenly was worth more than anything the little woman could have imagined.

There was another benefit to Scott's chosen field. The tax service gave him a bye. It was in the security interests of the United Kingdom to not know everything about Scott's finances, and MI6 had the power to ensure such. The list, as Scott's compatriots at MI6 liked to call it, was a fairly short, highly classified list of names that was carried to Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs service every year. The fact that Scott didn't have to worry about the annual April 5 deadline meant that he had his millions.

Scott had met Zaslani before at the small cubbyhole of a restaurant. It was unmistakable and in the same physical state as when Scott had seen it several years earlier. The exterior walls were whitewashed and the door was framed with two planters that still had some withered flowers from the fall. The front doors were long plates of glass, and on each side of the doors large windows opened up the view of the several tables inside. Everyone on the small cobbled side street could see who was meeting at Rotti on any particular day. More important, those in the restaurant could see everyone on the street.

Scott would not have preferred Rotti. It was not his style. It was too open and too visible. But time was running out and he had to see Zaslani before catching his own military flight to Afghanistan. A Gulfstream crew was fueling the aircraft right now. The flight plan had been filed and it would be waiting for its last passenger, its only passenger, at RAF Northolt.

“My friend.”

Zaslani was standing next to the front door. He wore a heavy black cashmere overcoat that was open. A Savile Row–vested charcoal-striped suit showed underneath with a crisp, starched white pinpoint shirt and a burgundy-and-black striped tie.

“I haven't much time.”

“Then let's go in.” Zaslani opened the door and put his hand on Scott's shoulder to lead him in.

A table up against the back wall in a small nook had a bottle of wine and glasses on a white, heavy linen tablecloth. Zaslani had called ahead. They would be left alone. The waitress would stay downstairs in the kitchen.

Zaslani pulled off the heavy overcoat and threw it onto the other chair.

The table was small, causing Scott to be close to his companion. As always, Scott noticed the pockmark scars on Zaslani's cheeks. He guessed that as a young child Zaslani had been scarred by a slow-healing bout of chicken pox.

“What can I do for you, my friend?”

“You saw the
Times
?”

The London paper had already run with the story that Scotland Yard was looking to a Mossad link with the bombings, a direct result of Scott's attempt to provide Zabara more credibility with Yousef.

Zaslani nodded soberly.

“Who will be the lamb?” asked Scott.

They needed the story to take on more. It had to have substance.

Zaslani smiled. “A young radical Jew from Russia. He has been a pain in the ass for some time.”

The Mossad was capable of throwing another Jew under the bus if it was required for the greater good. Someone had to be blamed for the bombings that killed Zabara's wife and the baby. Documents tying the alleged bomber to the Mossad would be found in his flat. The Mossad would be damaged in the local press, but in Israel it would be described as a necessary act to stop the missile attack on an El Al jet departing Heathrow. Zaslani would charge Scott an expensive fee of future favors for this one.

“Tell me something, James. You are aware of a cell in Canada?”

Scott tried not to react but quickly changed his mind. He knew that Zaslani could see a lie a mile away. “Yes.”

“There is a young woman with a limp.”

“We know very little beyond that,” Zaslani went on, no doubt telling him all of this for a reason. The Canadian cell must have caused the Mossad serious worry.

“I may find out more soon.” Scott stared into Zaslani's eyes. “If I do, I will share it with you.”

“Yes, my friend, it may be best for all.”

“I have another request.”

Zaslani made a gentle
tut-tut
sound. “Your credit is being used up . . .”

Scott pulled out a photo of a young Marine sergeant in his alpha uniform. The khaki tie and shirt were in a perfectly straight line underneath the dark green uniform. The Marine's brown eyes looked directly into the camera.

“This is some years old.” Scott implied that he was looking for the man.

Zaslani didn't even look at the photo. “I am told that he is dead.”

Scott didn't show any emotion. “When?”

“Within the last forty-eight hours, I'd say.”

Zaslani's information seemed to be confirmed by the timing.

“Who?”

“I am not sure. Would you like me to find out?”

Scott hesitated. He didn't want to be indebted to the Mossad agent again. Not for a dead man. Even if he did promise Parker. Scotland Yard would find the body eventually.

“No.”

“I am sorry, my friend.”

“I must go.”

“I will walk you out.”

Zaslani threw a fifty-pound note on the table as he pulled on the overcoat. He always overtipped and overpaid. But he had one of the largest networks of sources in London. He knew how to play the game.

Scott stepped out onto Shepherd Street, stopping to stare at his gleaming, chrome-detailed Range Rover.

Shame to leave it . . . especially for Afghanistan
.

“Nice Range Rover.” Zaslani patted him on the shoulder again.

“Thank you, Reuven.”

“If I hear further on your missing Marine, I will let you know.” He hesitated. “No obligation.”

Scott nodded and crossed the one-lane street, unlocking the Rover as he stepped up to the door. As he swung open the door, his cell phone began to vibrate.

Scott sat down in the gray leather seat and turned the seat warmer on as he spoke into the cell phone.

“Yes.” He closed the car door, which locked automatically. Zaslani was still standing in front of the restaurant, smiling and waving.

“Hello,” Scott spoke again into the phone. The connection was poor.

The bullet slapped the driver's window with such force that it caused the Range Rover to rock to the side. The sniper's silencer had suppressed any noise from the rifle. Scott looked up in time to see Zaslani up against the wall, in the nook of the doors, reaching into his coat. In a flash, he was aiming a small pistol up toward Shepherd Street. His pistol was pointing upward as if the shooter had fired from the top of a building.

An older couple was frozen across the alleyway, staring at the scene with the look of absolute fear on their faces.

Scott was frozen in place as well. Once he caught his breath, he felt his face and right arm searching for blood. The bullet had struck the center of the window, on the driver's side, inches from his head.

James Scott should have been dead.

“James!”

Zaslani was shouting at him from outside his door now. In a daze, Scott opened the car door a crack.

“James, are you all right?” Zaslani looked at Scott, then alternatively quickly back up the street, pistol still in hand.

No matter how many times, no matter when or where, Scott was still stunned by a shooting. He slowly laid the phone down on the center console and opened the door fully. He kept his face and body behind the glass of the door as he pulled his own pistol out.

“I'm fine, it seems.”

His eyes swept the rooftops. He knew, however, that the shooter would be long gone by now. Only in the movies did a professional remain behind to fire more bullets. The trained killer would wait for another day, another opportunity.

Zaslani couldn't help but to smile. “That's some vehicle.”

Scott managed a wan smile in return. “Bulletproof glass. It's a custom Rover.”

“Whatever it cost, that accessory was worth the price.”

Scott nodded. The glass had stopped the rifle round, which remained embedded in the center of the window.

“Two twenty-three, I reckon,” said Scott.

“You are doubly fortunate, my friend. A larger caliber and that glass may not have held.”

“Indeed.”

“And it tumbles on impact.”

Scott knew the ballistics of the .223. It was nearly identical to the 5.56 NATO round in the M-16. He had seen what a tumbling 5.56 did to a man's neck. A chainsaw did less damage.

“Did you see him?”

“Just a glimpse.” Zaslani nodded over his shoulder toward Shepherd Street. He still had his Jericho 9 millimeter pistol in his hand. The Israeli-made black steel handgun, nicknamed the Desert Eagle, seemed small in Zaslani's grip, but it was deadly.

“Who was he?”

Zaslani shrugged, his face grim. “I wish I knew.”