Clean Kill Page 26

  Nesch looked at Juba and scrawled the name “Swanson” on the legal tablet. Keeping his voice steady, he replied, “I sympathize with your position, general, but a deal is a deal. Would you please hold on just a moment? Someone else wishes to speak with you.”

  Nesch covered the mouthpiece of the phone momentarily and whispered to Juba, “You were right! Swanson is involved in the missile pickup tomorrow.” He handed over the telephone.

  “My name is Juba! You know who I am.” The declaration was cold, and stated with a snarl. “You have this one last opportunity to do as you are told.” Then Juba calmly recited details about the general’s wife and three young sons-their schools, birthdays, hobbies, friends, and other relatives-and dispassionately described how each would be killed, mentioning words like toenails, tonsils, and testicles. He advised the general that a pair of contract mercenaries were standing by near the family home and would turn off their cell phones at a specified time, beyond which Juba would be unable to stop them. He read out the proper address and also promised to personally execute the general.

  “Make up your mind right now. You have something I want,” he said with smooth menace. “I have personally murdered thousands of people, general. Thousands! Killing your family will not alarm me in the least.”

  The general agreed to carry out his agreement. He was sweating when he put the telephone down.

  Similar persuasion was needed for a ranking bureaucrat in the Saudi Ministry of the Interior, who was stubborn and reluctant. When Juba was through dealing with him, that man also changed his mind and agreed to return immediately to his government office and accomplish his new task.

  The work came together in a tight two-hour span. Juba, Dieter, the cook, and the maid boarded a small chartered plane that sped north from Jeddah to the town of Tabuk, which only had a population of a hundred thousand people but was the largest town in the entire desolate area. Its strategic value was that Tabuk lay less than two hundred and fifty miles from Jerusalem. Dieter shook hands with Juba as the terrorist left the plane, then made himself comfortable aboard the private jet, and accepted a drink of Scotch and ice from the maid. They would refuel in Amman, Jordan, then continue on the long journey to Switzerland and safety. He looked up another private number to call once they were on the ground and safe in Zurich. An old friend who worked for Mossad, the Israeli intelligence service, would be very interested in this new information Nesch had to sell.

  51

  S WANSON FINISHED HIS SODA, crushed the can, and flipped it into a trash barrel lined with a black plastic garbage bag. “Jamal, are you tired of hanging around here?”

  “Yep.” Civilian agents of the Central Intelligence Agency do not particularly like to be on American military bases. It makes them feel exposed, and Jamal had been trained to keep his cover safe by staying away from crowds of Americans, particularly soldiers.

  “You have a company credit card?”

  “Yep. Visa, AmEx, all of ’em. Platinum cards are almost as good as gold.” They contained neither his real name nor any clue as to his true employer.

  “Any objection to taking us for a ride?”

  Jamal raised a questioning eyebrow. “Nope.”

  “Okay. Wait here a minute. Call downtown to the International and book us a couple of rooms for the night.” Swanson went back into the conference room, where Mishaal was still jawing away with the command and control bunch. It the prince wasn’t careful, he might get swept up in expanded military duties. Maybe that’s what he wanted; to climb the ladder a few more rungs. Kyle didn’t really care.

  He pulled a small notebook from his combat vest and scribbled a note:

  JAMAL AND I ARE TIRED & YOU MAY BE HERE A WHILE TONIGHT. CAN WE GO CRASH AT THE I’CON DOWNTOWN? MEET YOU THERE FOR BREAKFAST 0630, THEN DO THE RIYADH THING?

  Mishaal kept an eye on the teleconference screens, where briefers were explaining some charts. He read the note and jotted:

  FINE. BUT THIS TIME STAY PUT!

  Then he underlined the sentence. Twice.

  Within a few minutes, Jamal was driving the Mercedes past the lush King Fahd Park and the bright lights of the Intercontinental loomed like a halo nearby. “And just why are we doing this?”

  Kyle squirmed in his seat to get more comfortable. “Well, my young CIA officer, never let the other guy set the timetable for your own operations. We will check into our rooms, so if Mishaal asks to see the register, it will confirm that we are logged in. We take a quick shower and put on fresh clothes, then slip out a side entrance. I’m betting that the prince will be too courteous to interrupt our sleep and, therefore, will not actually call our rooms. That gives us plenty of time to drive to the capital.”

  “Riyadh’s only a two-hour drive from here,” Jamal said. “We can be there by four in the morning.”

  “Henry Tsang expects us at 0930, but we’re going to be early.”

  “Yep.” Jamal pulled into the broad driveway of the hotel.

  A N HOUR LATER, THEY joined the stream of traffic highballing along the hardball toward Riyadh. A steady column of headlights approached in the other lane, people traveling in the cool of the night hours, and a scarlet chain of tail-lights reached as far ahead as they could see. Everybody drove like devils were chasing them, racing toward their destination before the sun came up again. The air conditioner whirred in the enclosed Mercedes, not so much to keep out the air as to keep out clouds of diesel fumes from all of the trucks. Jamal had a stack of CDs and Kyle kept the music going. Garth Brooks was on a country-and-western mix, singing about having friends in low places. They buzzed along, taking it easy on the curving mountain roads and through the tunnels, and then hitting about 100 miles per hour where the land flattened and traffic spaced out. Dead snakes that had emerged from beneath the sand when the sun went down in search of food littered the road like sections of loose rope.

  “My station chief is not happy that I’m working with you,” Jamal said.

  “Bosses aren’t supposed to be happy. For a boss to be happy would mean he is satisfied, and that would mean he did not have enough to worry about. I think he has a few bigger fish to fry right now than bitching about the two of us working together.”

  “As long as we get results.”

  “Nobody can accuse us of not getting results, pal. They get over being mad.” To Kyle, there was a big difference between following orders blindly and actually accomplishing a mission. It was a matter of control. By definition, plans were made before something happened, as if some planner could peer into a crystal ball and accurately foretell the future. A desk person trying to micromanage a fluid situation in the field would always fail because unexpected events intervened. Situational adjustments had to be made on the fly. Snipers and scouts were trained to think on their own and adapt to a reality that ranged far beyond the scope of the think tanks that originally came up with a mission. Repeated successes in operations had bred in Swanson an attitude of supreme belief in the decisions that he made himself, a deep reservoir of confidence from which he could make withdrawals as needed. He was making just such a withdrawal tonight.

  Jamal kept both hands loosely on the wheel as the Mercedes shot passed a tractor-trailer, rocking slightly in the backdraft. “They say you have worked for the Agency before in some tricky situations.”

  “Then they talk too much.”

  The CIA man nodded and kept his eyes on the road. “How are we going to get to Henry Tsang?”

  “Good question. Most of the people who work at embassies do not live in the buildings. Their governments lease apartments nearby and use those residences for everything from storing extra booze for diplomatic parties to providing temporary quarters for transient personnel. They might summon them all into the embassy for protection if the city were burning, but it isn’t, so we won’t have to break into the Chinese Embassy. The apartment building where Tsang lives probably will just have some dude at a desk in the foyer, maybe an armed guard outside.”

  �
��So how are we going to find his place? Just look up ‘Henry Tsang, the Chinese Spy’ in the telephone book?”

  “Something like that. The Trident team back in Washington has an electronics intel guy we call the Lizard, who can find a needle in a haystack. He’s already working on the problem. There aren’t too many Henry Tsangs in Riyadh, and he will have left tracks somewhere if he is affiliated with the diplomatic community. Odds are pretty good that the Lizard will find him.” Kyle closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest.

  Jamal watched the gray line of pavement unfolding in his lights, stark against the blackness of the sky. “Want me to give it a run through the CIA computer?”

  “The Lizard will already have done that. His system sweeps everything our government has, including NSA intercepts, before he really gets down to work. Tsang has had plenty of time to contact his superiors, so he is likely to be catching some sleep before getting started tomorrow. I like to visit people before dawn.”

  The luminous blue digits of the clock on the dashboard caught his eye. Sunday morning. He would wait until they entered the city to contact the Lizard, who would still be at his desk although it was Saturday night in the States. The country music went away, replaced by some head-banging rock that snapped them both awake.

  Traffic was increasing, so Jamal had to slow his speed as the dome of Riyadh’s city lights became visible, then grew clearer as they came closer. Blinking yellow signals and orange cones marking road work were showing up on their side of the highway and cut off the left lane. Cars and trucks were squeezing over to get through the construction zone. In a couple of miles, another lane was brought to an end and finally there was only one lane left open. It was plugged solid with traffic. Jamal eased off the accelerator.

  Kyle turned off the CD player. He had watched the bright warning signs, the cones and the slowing traffic, but there were no bulldozers or paving machines. Not good.

  Jamal steered the Mercedes a bit to the left so he could see around the big truck right ahead of them that was blocking the view. A broad swatch of floodlights pooled the area ahead. “Military roadblock. Probably checking for rebel fighters and equipment.”

  Kyle automatically withdrew his laminated identification card and gave it to Jamal, who found his own ID and placed them both on the leather-covered dashboard. The line did not really stop, but inched steadily forward, more as if the drivers were gawking at an accident than the stop and go of vehicle searches.

  “This line is moving too fast,” he said, straightening up in his seat. “They’re not checking the truck loads.”

  The truck ahead accelerated when the guards waved it on. It rolled between armored personnel carriers that were stationed on each side of the road. Bright lights illuminated fifty yards on each side of the checkpoint, and spotlight beams danced across their faces. A Saudi sergeant motioned for Jamal to stop. When an officer approached, Jamal pushed the button to lower the window. Another soldier appeared at the front bumper on Kyle’s side and stopped, a rifle held loosely in his hands. Others approached from each side.

  “Identification, please,” the officer asked in perfect English.

  Jamal handed over the plastic-covered cards.

  The officer studied the IDs for a moment, returned them, and said, “Thank you.”

  Instead of moving away from the window, the captain gave a signal and other soldiers broke from a formation at the roadblock and poured into position around the car. The officer said, “Now please pull over behind that Humvee. By order of His Majesty, King Abdullah, you are both under arrest.”

  52

  MOSCOW

  R USSIAN P RESIDENT A NDREI V ASILIYVICH 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.