Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

“With an uneducated zealot in control of the government, the Russian could loot the place,” Juba responded. “We anticipated that. By then we will have been paid in full and gone from this dreadful place. Let them do with it as they will. I don’t care.”

Dieter smiled at that last thought. “Yes, we are professionals. Ebara is an amateur. When you provided initial successes and brought down the king, Ebara began believing that it was almost over and that the people were going to rise up and follow him. You will see for yourself. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. I have to tread lightly because these people have incredible amounts of money to spend.”

“When do we meet him?”

Nesch laughed quietly, his shoulders shaking with his own humor. “Since you just killed my chauffeur, I’ll have to personally drive you over to the mosque. Amir’s body will be gone by the time we return.”

“Can we have Ebara come here instead? I don’t like walking into his nest of snakes.” Juba was thinking tactically. Handling a kid like Amir was not the same as taking on the bunch of jihad bodyguards who would be protecting the leader of the Religious Police.

“I am afraid that would be impossible. Don’t you understand it yet, Juba? Mohammed Abu Ebara no longer considers himself just the leader of the Committee for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice. He craves recognition and has, in his opinion, graciously granted us an audience to instruct you about how to conduct your business to best expand his horizons. Somewhat of an imperialistic drama for a man who detests a monarchy, in my opinion. Ebara already envisions himself as a glorious warrior-prophet riding a white camel adorned with golden trappings in from the desert to lead a revolution that stands on the edge of triumph. The fool believes he has already won!”

RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA

K YLE S WANSON WAS UNCOMFORTABLEwearing a suit, but the occasion demanded decorum. Last year in London, Lady Pat had hauled him to a tailor who made one that would be appropriate for almost everything, from a wedding to a business meeting. The fabric was of lightweight dark blue wool, with quieter threads woven in to offset the single shade. He wore a cream-hued shirt, a solid powder-blue tie, and shined shoes of soft Italian leather. He would rather have been in jeans, but a royal court expects better. Worst of all, he was not allowed to carry a weapon, which left him feeling somewhat naked in a nation that was in the middle of a coup.

The well-fitted suit provided the needed cover, for Swanson wanted to be as far as possible from the image of some common tough-guy American mercenary with pointy sunglasses, a bald head, and a drooping mustache. This visit demanded dignity and diplomacy.

An executive jet had flown him into Riyadh, where three ink-black SUVs waited on the tarmac. A few soldiers with semiautomatic weapons stood guard and a polite diplomat who spoke fluent English met him at planeside. He was hustled into the middle SUV. No customs inspection, no delay, and no American Embassy types. A person could get used to this VIP stuff, Swanson thought as he settled into the spacious seat. With the gunboat up front wailing its siren and flashing its lights to expedite the trip, the three vehicles arrowed out of the airport and hit the highway. Armored troop-carriers were parked near most intersections and military patrols walked the sidewalks as the curfew time of nine o’clock neared.

Kyle was surprised at the quietness of the downtown streets, for he had anticipated seeing clashes between the authorities and rioters. Instead, everyone seemed to be heading home, not toward some confrontation. Never jump to conclusions . It was natural that security would be extremely tight in any area leading to the royal palace. Mobs would have been broken up before having a chance to coalesce.

A man’s view of a battlefield never extends beyond what he can see. The vision of a private does not stretch far beyond the brim of his helmet, while a headquarters general with only a map usually has no personal idea of the ground over which his troops are fighting. Both are effectively blind to things beyond their immediate area of responsibility. And riding in a tightly secured convoy would give Kyle no indication about what was really happening throughout the broad country of Saudi Arabia. Still, he mentally noted that he was not seeing chaos and fires, nor hearing gunshots, nor having to crash through street barricades in Riyadh.

The SUVs rushed out of the city center and soon swept through a huge stone gate that marked the entrance to the palace grounds, the heavily guarded private preserve of the royal family. When Swanson stepped from his vehicle, he felt transported into some Arabian fairy tale. It was not really a palace at all, not a single sprawling building, but a small city unto itself, a labyrinth of streets and structures so vast that the palace staff drove battery-powered golf carts to reach from one end to the other. He was escorted down a long and wide corridor bordered by tall columns, through another high and beautifully ornate gate, then across a courtyard of inlaid marble that was veined with green and black streaks. A spouting fountain broke the quiet of the place and they stepped into a vestibule, beyond which was a large, high-ceilinged room with thick carpets on the floor. A row of men in uniforms, regal robes, and business suits stood along one side. At the end of the room, standing next to a long sofa of gold brocade, was King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia.

“Kyle Swanson! Welcome!” he called, raising his hand in greeting.

Kyle felt the eyes of everyone in the room on his back as he walked closer to Abdullah. “Good evening, Your Majesty. It’s good to see you again.”

Abdullah put a hand on each of Swanson’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “And under much different circumstances, eh?”

“Yes, sir. Quite.”

The monarch motioned toward the other men in the room. “These are my closest councilors, family members, and friends, all of whom you will meet later. And, gentlemen, you have heard me speak of Gunnery Sergeant Swanson’s bravery during the terrorist attack at the hospital in England. I emphasize again that I trust this man. If he wanted me dead, he would have already killed me. You will all do your best to make his mission here a success. He has my total support and confidence. I trust that my wishes on this are clear.”

There was a murmur of agreement among the diplomats, government officials, and military officers. King Abdullah nodded. “Now, Gunny Swanson, please come with me for a few minutes of private time before you set to work.”

Kyle followed the king into an adjoining private chamber, across a floor patterned in blue and white tiles. “Close the door and have a chair,” he said. Swanson did so, remaining silent until the king might indicate a response would be welcomed.

“First, I have some excellent news for you from England. The physicians say that our friend Sir Jeff is recovering well. A long road of recovery lies ahead of him, but he is on the mend. I know how close you are.”

“That’s good to hear, sir,” Kyle replied. “I was very worried about him.”

Abdullah picked up a rectangular box made of shining wood. “I want to formally express my thanks to you and Major Summers for saving my life at the hospital. I won’t forget that.” He handed Swanson the container. Resting inside on a cushion of maroon velvet was a double-edged Arabian dagger, a jambiya , with a blade that curved up from a bone handle decorated in bright stones held tight in a web of silver.

“Your Majesty, I cannot accept this. I was just doing my job. We’re not allowed to receive private gifts.” Swanson was stumbling for words. Are those rocks real?