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  Prince General al-Fahd felt his muscles agree to what his mind was fighting, and he relaxed. “Very well, vice-sergeant. You’re the boss.”

  “Rest then, soldier. It is lights out for you.” He had dimmed the two big fixtures and only a soft 75-watt bulb of a lamp beside the bed remained on, not enough to tempt him to read more reports. The valet turned off the final switch and the room went pitch dark.

  Soldier? The tension was broken by the small impertinence. The general turned on his left side and stretched and began to doze immediately although sounds still came to him. There was the low buzz of the central air-conditioning, and Mas’ud was busying himself gathering the dirty laundry, the boots, the pistol and the belt, and the tea tray. The full uniform would be cleaned, brass bright and leather polished, by the time the prince general awoke. He listened to the familiar sliding of oiled metal and clicks of his 9 mm Heckler & Koch pistol. Just Mas’ud unloading the magazine and clearing the chamber to be sure the weapon was safe before taking it away for cleaning.

  His soldier’s mind registered something odd. The procedure, which he had heard thousands of times, didn’t sound right. Something was out of sequence. He snapped awake in the darkness and managed to partially turn onto his back but was out of time, and could neither see, fight, nor shout.

  Mas’ud had wrapped the dirty uniform around the pistol, aimed the muzzle close to the face, and was already pulling the trigger. The head of Prince General al-Fahd was punched open by the big bullets. Blood, brains, and bone fragments from the commander of the Royal Guard Regiment spewed onto the cot and slapped onto the wall in a fan-shaped pattern. The folded clothes had silenced the gunshots.

  The valet snapped the table lamp on again and carefully checked his own uniform and body for blood spots. There were none. He threw the clothes onto the dead man and reloaded. The turncoat assassin hurried over to the safe and unlocked it. He had watched the general do it so many times that he had long ago memorized the combination and even practiced opening the little vault when he was alone in the room. Grabbing the key, the red card, and a small booklet, Mas’ud stuck them in his pocket, turned out the light and left, locking the door behind him. Leaving the building, he passed along the order to the chief of staff that the general did not wish to be disturbed until 0600 the next morning.

  The vice sergeant slid behind the wheel of the shining black staff Mercedes and drove away unmolested, heading for a nearby mosque to deliver the key and the red card to his imam, and then onto the fashionable home of the prince general to murder the general’s family. Only one more task would remain after that: He would turn the weapon on himself and become a martyr, trading his life for the good of the jihad and a promised payment of money to his impoverished family. He had received a love note by e-mail.

  15

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  “W HAT DO WE HAVE on this soldier who pulled the trigger on his own general?” President Mark Tracy was interrogating his team of close advisers in the Oval Office.

  Steve Hanson, his chief of staff, sighed and leaned back against one of the small couches on the edge of the huge circular rug that bore the eagle symbol of the United States. A bright sun streamed in through the bullet-proof glass windows but the air-conditioning kept the inside comfortable. Hanson worked in rolled-up shirtsleeves and had assembled the various dossiers compiled by the CIA, the U.S. embassy in Riyadh, and the Defense Department. “Sir, the guy was a product of the Islamic religious schools, a madrassa, where the Koran is their primary text. Saudi intel says one of his teachers long ago was a hate-based radical who preached the need for a religious government in Saudi Arabia. By the time the preacher died in prison about nine years ago, he had churned out some pretty violent followers. There’s no way that he actually could have steered this soldier for this exact operation, not so many years in advance, but he certainly planted the seed.”

  Bartlett Geneen, the director of the CIA, was on the other couch. Wisps of white hair curled around his balding head and deep worry lines etched his face, tracks of having been around the spook business for a long time. “It has all the looks of a one-man terrorist cell. The soldier bided his time, followed his instincts, and waited for the right moment. Those are almost impossible to detect or stop.”

  The president sat still and considered that, taking a sip from a cup of coffee, then returning the sturdy Navy mug to a little table beside him. The Saudis had helped bring this crisis down on themselves in so many ways. How far had the rot penetrated the supporting structure? A Muslim kid going to a village school twenty years ago had learned the wrong lessons and now his problems had become the world’s problem. “So he acted alone? Killed the general and the general’s family? People who apparently treated him kindly and considered him a friend, and then he commits suicide? It makes no sense.”

  “No, Mr. President, it doesn’t. Such things happen, so we can’t rule it out. But I agree with you. This one smells. It happened right on the heels of the Scotland attack, and that is too much of a coincidence for me to accept. We can’t prove it yet, but I think he was acting on someone’s specific order to hit that specific target.”

  “Then there’s the other odd piece of that puzzle that hasn’t been put in place yet,” said Hanson. “The safe was found open in the general’s room and the aide’s fingerprints were on the dial, but it doesn’t look like anything is missing. There was cash in there and some secret military plans that might have been given to the radicals. They were untouched.”

  “So what was he after? A lone wolf murderer doesn’t murder an important officer then stick around to open a safe just to exercise his fingers.”

  “That we don’t know yet, sir,” answered Geneen. “The Saudis say they are working on it.”

  President Tracy shook his head. “Keep me posted, but let’s move on to the central question: The rebellion is growing, but will it succeed?” His eyes darted back to the CIA director.

  “Too early to tell, Mr. President. So far, the military seems to be holding it all together, but crowds are making things tricky in the cities and the religious police are really ramping up the shouting, hollering about how the royals betrayed Islam and have to be eliminated.”

  “Eliminated?”

  “Killed or driven out of the country.” Director Geneen snapped shut the buff folder that was propped on his knees. “The murder of Prince General al-Fahd will shake the confidence of the ruling family. If the commander of the Saudi Royal Guard Regiment can be assassinated by his valet, then who among them is truly safe? We’re picking up backchannel traffic that some of the minor princes are inquiring about possible emergency flights to other countries.”

  Hanson studied his notes. “It’s the domino effect. If some leave, they all could start pulling out with the idea of living on their fortunes in investments abroad. The princes head for Monaco, Paris, and New York while the House of Saud falls to the clerics and the mobs.”

  “We can’t let that happen,” said the president.

  “We can’t stop it,” responded the CIA official.

  “So the question is going to boil down to military intervention to support our friends. Do we have forces available to help?”

  General Hank Turner, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, picked up the conversation. “Yes, sir. We have one carrier battle group in the area and another can be on station in a week. For ground forces, we can retask divisions out of Iraq and shift armor in there fast. Plenty of air power available throughout in the region.”

  “Jesus,” said Steve Hanson. “We jump from one war to another over there. No offense, general, but I don’t know if that’s going to be the answer this time.”

  “I never said it was, Steve. The president asked to know his options,” said Turner, unruffled by the oblique challenge. Part of the game.

  “What’s on your mind, Steve?” The president and Hanson had come into political office from the business world, where they had headed one of the biggest electronics corporati
ons in the nation. Hanson was never shy about sharing his opinions.

  “We need another full-fledged war like a dog needs a scooter. The bottom line is the Saudi oil, which is the only reason the king and his court are important at all.”

  “The United States gets more oil from Canada than it does from the Saudis, and almost as much from Mexico,” the CIA director pointed out. “We could actually get along without them for a while, particularly if Iraq develops its full potential.”

  Hanson agreed, with a serious look at the president. “It will disrupt the flow, and I don’t think Americans are going to like to deal with oil that could cost hundreds of dollars per barrel. Nevertheless, the kingdom is the world’s gas station. It has one-fifth of the entire global reserves and we’re not the only ones watching what is going on over there. Those reserves need to be protected and traded legitimately on the world market.”

  “I don’t like where your scenario is heading, Steve,” said the president. “We will not throw our friends in Riyadh under the bus, let their government fall and then just move in ourselves to take over the Saudi oil operations, even as an honest broker.”

  “Sir, the hardest decision the Saudi government might have to face in this crisis would be deciding whether to allow thousands of American troops to enter the country if their own military proves insufficient or riddled with disloyalty. Just because we are willing to commit forces in there does not mean they will allow us to intervene.”

  The president crossed his arms and chewed at his thumbnail in silence for a few moments. Thoughts rushed through his mind. So much to do. A new secretary of state must be appointed right away and there will be a state funeral at Arlington tomorrow for my old friend Ken Waring. Saudi Arabia is coming to a fast boil. Perhaps a UN force to stabilize the oil fields? All that and a half-dozen other crisis points on completely different issues that have nothing to do with foreign relations. He rubbed his eyes.

  “Is the Saudi ambassador back yet?” President Tracy stood. The meeting was over.

  “He’s on the way. Our last word was that he was planning to leave the clinic in England today. Prince Abdullah will be a good guy for us to have around right now.”

  “Please let him know that I want to see him as soon as he gets in,” said the president. “There must be some way out of this problem.”

  Hanson looked at the others and gave a silent nod and they began to leave the room. “We’re on it, sir,” he said. “Look at it this way. Things could not be much worse.”

  “Steve, the one thing that I’ve learned in this job is that things can always get worse.”

  16

  ENGLAND

  W ITH THE FIREFIGHT DONE, the British police again took control of the clinic. No medical personnel rushed to assist the downed gunmen. The assassins were no longer objects to be feared, just garbage to be carried away. Kyle handed his H &K MP5 to the first cop he saw, a burly youngster who came through the destroyed stairwell door and stopped abruptly at the sight of the dead man in the hallway.

  Swanson walked fast toward the makeshift barrier that blocked the doorway to Sir Jeff’s suite and helped tear it down. He brushed past Prince Abdullah with hardly a glance to get to Lady Pat, who threw her good arm around his neck and hugged him tightly. He bent over and kissed her on the cheek.

  “That took you long enough,” she said with a mocking smile.

  Delara Tabrizi also gave him another hug, and stood to the side, knowing that her own true welcome would be better delivered in private. She wanted more than a polite hospital room embrace.

  Kyle turned to the bed and fought to keep his face neutral. Jeff’s normally round and florid face was almost narrow and the hearty body seemed deflated. Tubes and the bandages and leg casts left no doubt of his grave injuries. The only thing unchanged were the bright gray eyes under the heavy brows, gray eyes that were focused on Kyle. He put his hand lightly on Jeff’s arm. “Hey, buddy. How about you get dressed so we can go have a few pints, chase women, and smoke cigars?” Almost nothing there. He took Jeff’s hand and held it.

  Jeff nodded recognition, fighting the sedation. “Not today, lad. Pat won’t allow it,” he whispered. The voice was hoarse from having a breathing tube down his throat for two days. “Glad you’re here.”

  The man’s eyes shifted momentarily. “Sybelle?”

  “Yes. I’m here, too.” She kissed him on the forehead.

  “I thought I heard gunfire. Just a dream?”

  “Nothing to worry about,” Sybelle said in a soothing tone. “Kyle and I sorted it out.”

  Kyle changed from the serious. “So what the hell happened to you?” Kyle slid a hip onto the bed, his tone remaining gentle.

  “You were right. The castle was vulnerable.”

  “No shit? Hard way to prove the point. How do you feel, old man?”

  “I’ve been worse. Cannot feel my legs and the rest of my body is not much better. Got some kind of hole in my head. Been beaten up harder than this in a rugby scrum.” The frail smile returned.

  “Sure you have. I understand they are gonna open your skull tomorrow morning and poke around inside. God knows what they might find. Bats, maybe.”

  There was a slow nod. “No choice. The neurosurgeon says I may sail right through the operation without a problem. He also says I may die on the table or become a vegetable. After that, they will play with my spine.”

  “You can’t believe doctors. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t sew a glove up inside you.”

  Jeff chuckled and laid his head back further onto the soft pillow. Winced. “Yes. Quite. I’ll make it fine, to be sure.”

  Lady Pat put her finger to her lips, signaling Kyle to back down. She recognized that the joy of the reunion was sapping up Jeff’s strength. “We need to discuss something with you, Kyle,” she said.

  He raised an eyebrow as Jeff and Pat exchanged looks, and she proceeded. “We have been talking about the future.”

  Jeff put pressure on his hand. “You must take care of Pat if I don’t make it.”

  “Of course I will take care of her. Always.” Their relationship had begun years ago when Kyle had been loaned by the Marines to Cornwell as a technical advisor. The initial casual relationship had grown into a strong friendship and then beyond that, until it had almost reached a family situation.

  Lady Pat said. “We believe the time has come to bring you directly into Excalibur Enterprises.”

  “What? You know I can’t do that!” Swanson protested, feeling as if a bucket of water had just been poured over him. “Damn, you saved this bombshell for a hospital bed? I’m cornered like a rat here. You know I don’t want to leave the Marines, and I can’t have a conflict of interests by working for you at the same time.”

  “Clever, aren’t we,” Jeff grunted.

  Pat looked at Kyle with cool eyes. “Oh, do not panic. Jeff is going to be fine, but this incident has demanded that we firm up some planning. When you finally leave the Marines, which you must do some day whether you like it or not, we want to add you to the board of directors. It is not hard work: You would attend meetings in London twice a year.”

  “Look, guys. We have gone through your job offers before and my answer has never changed. I love you both, but I’m a gunnery sergeant in the Corps, not a businessman. I don’t have a college degree and, anyway, I’m American, not British.”

  Pat batted away the protests with a flip of her fingers. “Kyle, the university degree is meaningless compared to your life experience and your loyalty. Our lawyers tell us the nationality makes no difference, because we are an international company.”

  Swanson wanted to shout that he was a killer, not an accountant, but they both already knew that. He had spent a long military career weighing battlefield options in emergency situations, believing there was always hope, always a way out, always something that he could do to tilt a situation in his favor. This time, there was nothing at all he could do except rely upon the skills of the surgeons to bring Jeff th
rough safely. Rejecting the offer outright might demoralize this man who meant so much to him.

  Jeff managed another hand squeeze. “For now, you stay in the Marines and remain our best friend. When the time comes, that position will be waiting for you. Generals and admirals go to work for defense contractors all the time, Kyle, and most of them work out their deals unofficially before they retire from the military. So why can’t a gunnery sergeant do the same?”

  Pat fussed over her husband for a minute until she was certain that he was not exerting himself too much. All of the monitors read normal numbers and lines. She continued the discussion. “Excalibur posted a 34.1 percent growth last year with more than $300 million in sales, and we have a work force of about 500 people. To keep growing, we need to bring in capital for expansion. We will offer ten million shares at ten dollars a share. The underwriters think it will rise to at least forty a share after the initial price offering and will double that in five years.”

  Lady Pat winked. “You didn’t think this old girl knew about all of this business stuff, did you? Your compensation on being appointed would be a hundred thousand shares of Excalibur stock, enough to make certain that the two of us maintain the controlling interest on the board. You’re going to be a rich man, Kyle.”

  Swanson was stunned. Damn, those were a lot of zeroes. He wanted to run from the room and get away from this hobbling sense of obligation. He chose to temporize. If he agreed, it would take a big worry off Jeff’s mind as he prepared for the delicate head surgery. If the worst happened, Kyle did not have to join Excalibur until he retired from the Marines, and by then he might figure out something or Pat might let him out of the deal.

  Something could be worked out and Pat would come out of it all fabulously wealthy. It could all be fixed. He just could not go negative now and let an argument tear at Jeff’s strength.

  He gave a reassuring smile. “Okay. If that’s what you want, I will give it my best. I mean, how bad can it be to be filthy rich?” He hated himself for lying.