Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

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 corporations 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.”

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.