Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

The office was nothing much. A floor of bland greenish linoleum with some of the tiles torn, and plaster walls covered with many coats of cheap white paint. Two second-hand desks faced each other. Thick shades covered the windows on each wall to keep out the sun, but if he chose to look outside, Boykin had an almost 360-degree view of the surrounding area. Bulletin boards were peppered with pinpoint holes, some hanging notes and a few old clipboards hanging on nails, their jaws chomping wads of paper. Overhead fluorescent lights hummed and flickered. The place looked as common as the dirt.

“This joint was built years back when construction was booming around the new port and nobody raised an eyebrow,” Homer explained. “Lots of weird construction was going on back then and our contractors and laborers were flown in along with the necessary specialized equipment, did their jobs, then left. No locals were involved. Did it all in less than thirty days.”

Kyle Swanson recognized it for what it was as he stood in front of an air-conditioning vent and let it blast the sweat on his back. “CIA safe house,” he said. The intelligence-gathering outpost was created because the Agency wanted trained eyes and ears in one of the world’s most important oil installations.

“Come on downstairs,” Boykin said, pushing a panel button. A section of the wall folded back, revealing a staircase. “The builders had a hell of a time drilling and pouring support columns for the basement. They kept striking oil. Damn stuff just oozed out of the sand and would fill the holes overnight if they didn’t pump it out.”

The basement was larger than the house above it and was cooler by being below ground level. Fans kept filtered air moving around the communications suite along one wall where secure computers, printers, speakers, and security camera feeds were in place. Cupboards containing emergency rations and boxes of bottled water were built along another wall and a chemical toilet and a small shower were curtained off in a corner. Folding cots leaned against one cabinet. At the far end, a steel ladder ascended one corner up to a hatch that exited into a rusting shipping container anchored on a concrete pad that was separated by a small driveway from the headquarters. It was maintained to appear to be a storage shed for tools. Emergency exit.

Another section of the basement was sectioned off with a locked cage of steel wire and contained the armory. Boykin twirled the combination lock and swung open the gate. “I understand you’ve done some work for us before,” he said. “We probably have anything in here that you will need, but let’s keep it to a sidearm until we finish the recon drive.”

Kyle found another Colt.45 and took a quick and approving look around the armory. It was spotless and the weapons were perfectly maintained. Crates of ammo were neatly stacked and explosives were sealed in plastic. The city of Khobz had been under construction for more than four decades. Swanson figured the Boykin Group and its predecessors in this little CIA operation had been modernizing and accumulating gear throughout that entire time.

Another result of that long tenure was that the intelligence specialists based here over the years had created a cartographic masterpiece that was secured to a nearby table. “Impressive,” Kyle said.

“We keep it current,” Homer responded, looking at it with undisguised pride. “Jamal and I pace off the distances while we hustle small contracts around the town and we photograph potential obstacles. Even the best satellite photo can still miss vital points that an operator on the ground would need to know.”

“You got that right,” said Swanson.

Boykin pulled up a chair and sat down and Jamal poured a cup of coffee for himself. “Major Summers told me this was a one-trick mission and that you would pass along the instructions. Langley approved. So here we are. What’s up?”

“No offense, but I assume Jamal has been vetted?”

The Jordanian laughed, showing white teeth and a sense of humor. He dropped the façade of being a semi-ragged Middle Eastern hired hand. “My family comes from Jordan, but I’m first-generation American, born in Tennessee,” he said. “The Agency recruited me eleven years ago straight out of law school at Mister Jefferson’s University in Virginia because of my languages. Obviously my cover works. What are we supposed to be doing with you?”

“There’s a missile with a nuclear warhead hidden around here somewhere. My job is to destroy it,” Kyle said. His statement sucked the air out of the basement room.

“Be damned.” Homer Boykin shot a look at Jamal. “We’ve been telling Langley for months that something was strange with that Saudi anti-missile battery just outside of town. Our reports have been totally ignored.” He shook his head in disgust. “Those second-guessing fuckers thousands of miles away drive me nuts.”

Jamal agreed. “That’s a good place for a nuke missile. Hide it among a bunch of other missiles that are allegedly protecting the oil fields.” He placed his finger on a map location about three miles south of the city center. “It’s got to be right there, alongside the living quarters for about a few hundred soldiers who guard the production facilities.”

T HE BITE HAD GONEout of the scorching sun when they set out to drive around the city, Jamal at the wheel and Kyle in the passenger seat. Homer Boykin was on the long seat in the middle row of the van, leaning forward between them to talk in a normal voice.

“This place has always had a bit of nastiness to it. Used to be a rest stop for the foreign fighters going into Iraq. By the time one group was trucked off, a new batch of those hard-eyed sumbitches would be gathering,” said Boykin.

“Any of them still here?” Kyle adjusted the pistol tucked in his belt.

Boykin pointed. “You bet, and Jamal hears that some of those outlaw militia types from over in Basra have come in from Iraq for a change. Let’s go over near the mosque, Jamal.”

The minivan went around a corner and edged through the narrow street of an outdoor covered bazaar. The food stalls were doing the most business, swirls of anxious shoppers and women carrying plastic sacks that bulged with goods. “More people out this evening than normal,” Jamal commented.

“Like last-minute shopping before a hurricane,” said Kyle. “Everybody stocking up.”

Boykin’s trained eyes saw more. “Despite the increase in business, the shopkeepers are shutting down early. Not as many tents in the streets and the doors and shutters on a couple of stores are already closed.”

Jamal reached the broad road that was the main axis through the urban area. Boykin pointed. “There’s the main mosque up ahead at twelve o’clock. It’s the headquarters of the Committee on Virtue and that’s where the fighters stay.”

Oil money and political favoritism had been lavished on the mosque, which had a classical Arab architecture of graceful arches and long, straight lines. Men streamed in and out of the three entrances that were open behind the stone columns, and tall towers rose from the sides, where the muezzin could call the faithful to prayer. The towers also provided sentries with high perches from which they could see everything around the mosque. The building marked the separation point between the commercial district and the residential area. Nobody up in the towers. Only one guard at the entrance , Kyle thought. They’re overconfident .

“Go around,” said Boykin, and Jamal swung through traffic. An irregular ring road circled the big mosque and as they approached the back, they found a line of pickups and flatbed trucks, some minivans and small cars. “Convoy,” he said.