Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

“Ah, but you must!” The king smiled at Kyle’s discomfort. “I obtained the explicit permission of President Tracy. You and the major are to donate it to the National U.S. Marine Corps Museum in Quantico as a symbol of our friendship. You are quite a pair, and this is the least that I can do.”

“Well, sir, thank you.” He slid the blade from the scabbard. Razor-sharp and as old as sand. “I appreciate it, sir. Major Summers may pry out one of those stones to make a ring.”

The king laughed and took a seat behind a broad desk. “Now let me tell you the main reason that I was speaking with President Tracy: the presence of nuclear weapons in my country. In retrospect, I understand the reason for getting them, back in the days when Saddam Hussein in Iraq and the Taliban in Afghanistan were growing menaces. Now, however, they are a destabilizing influence. I want to get rid of them as soon as possible, for I have no intention of starting nuclear war. Trusted people will facilitate our end of the handover, but if a dangerous situation develops, I give you my permission to handle it. I will back you up. Just help us get rid of those things.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s the right decision.”

The king shifted his position. “I suppose that you were briefed that one of the missiles may have fallen into the possession of the terrorists?”

“Yes, sir. I am confident that your military will recover it. We should process the remaining four as quickly as possible.”

“Exactly. We have a large force now searching for the missing device. Only the warhead was taken, not the delivery system, so it is not just something that any common soldier can operate. Too many built-in technical and redundant safeguards for that.”

“To consider my role properly, sir, may I ask your opinion of the overall situation in the kingdom at present? Obviously, I have already been sworn to secrecy.”

Abdullah pulled gently at his goatee and defiance flared in his dark eyes. “I think we have great challenges ahead, but there are positive signs, too. The most telling point is that the overall population does not seem to be deeply involved. Our citizens are devout and conservative, but will not throw away everything we have earned and learned in the past century. Without the people, the plotters cannot succeed.”

Kyle had one more question. “And have your intelligence people figured out who is behind all of this? Who do the rebels want to take your place?”

“There seem to be several major players. To answer your main question, no one is going to take my place because they want to replace the monarchy entirely. A religious regime would be established instead, and the prime candidate to become its leader is Mohammed Abu Ebara, the head of the Religious Police. Ebara is a dirty piece of work and somewhat mentally unstable. For instance, it was his decision a few years ago to let that school in Makkah burn down with fifteen girls trapped inside. His police would not allow the students to escape from the building because they would be unescorted by male relatives. Similarly, the firemen, as unrelated males, were prevented from going inside. It was medieval stupidity.”

“Does this Ebara have the support of the entire religious community?”

“That remains to be seen. As usual, the Grand Mufti has not been heard from, which hinders Ebara covering his uprising with that needed permission. We believe that Ebara’s campaign is being financed from outside of Saudi Arabia. We have picked up reports of foreign financial supporters. Russia and China are likely suspects.”

Kyle leaned forward, elbows on his knees, lost in thought for a moment. “I can understand how this Ebara guy might be the one whipping up the support for a rebellion by going on television and shouting his sermons. But I assume most of the Saudi military is still loyal to the House of Saud, despite the horrendous attack by a couple of rebel pilots. Am I right?”

“Yes,” replied Abdullah. “It appears that this spirit of rebellion is a momentary thing within most of the units. Overall, the soldiers are still obeying their orders.”

“So that leaves a good question, sir. If the officer corps is still loyal to the throne, who is running the tactical side of the coup?”

The king paused. “We don’t know.”

“Whoever it is, is a professional. He knows what he is doing,” said Kyle. “Let’s get all our intel people here and in Washington working to identify him. Chop off the head, the rest of the snake dies.”

The king rose. The private audience was over. “I will give such instructions,” he said. “Meanwhile, collect those nuclear weapons as fast as you can.”

JEDDAH, SAUDI ARABIA

M OHAMMED A BU E BARA TOOKa long look at the bright cover of the entertainment magazine. It featured a beautiful young woman in a bikini walking hand-in-hand on a sparkling beach with a muscular male who also was in a tight and skimpy bathing costume. Ebara found the public display of nudity and affection to be both disgusting and offensive. A headline over the color photograph read:

STEFI AND BARNS:

CARIBBEAN HONEYMOON?

Stephanie Haddad of Lebanon was among the most popular singers in the Middle East, a product of the MTV generation, known as “Stefi” by her millions of fans. Only twenty years old, she was mysteriously sexy with black hair that had been lightened with color until it was a tawny waterfall that reached past her shoulders. She had a reputation for being wild, was rich, dressed provocatively, drove a red Porsche convertible, and openly dated British football star Barnaby Weathers. They were a stunning couple whose unblemished faces and perfect bodies were often displayed in magazines, and her hard rock songs and sultry dances were among the most downloaded items among the young people of Saudi Arabia.

Ebara flung the disgusting magazine into the trash. It was a lie. The harlot was not in any holiday resort in the Caribbean with her infidel boyfriend. Right now, she was cooped up in one of Ebara’s barren jail cells, alone and wearing nothing but a dingy gray scoop-neck prison shift that buttoned along the back.

I N ADDITION TO BEINGa celebrity, Stephanie Haddad was also a Muslim and had decided to fulfill a requirement of her religion by making a haj , the pilgrimage to the holy city of Mecca in Saudi Arabia. She was much too well-known to appear during the proscribed time for the real festival, but she felt safe in making an umrah , an off-season visit that would still be spiritually satisfying. When she was older and no longer in the spotlight, perhaps she could perform the true ritual visit. This time at least she could make the walk seven times around the black cube of the Kaaba and stone the devil.

Her trip was planned in secret and her publicist announced in Lebanon that she and Barnaby were taking an extended holiday at a villa on a Caribbean island. The photo of Stefi and her boyfriend had been staged on a secluded beach in Spain and leaked to the media. Then, with the color washed from her trademark mane of hair, the makeup removed, and the Victoria’s Secret lingerie left behind, Stefi entered Saudi Arabia under an assumed name. She was covered and pious, a proper young woman traveling with her brother, naïvely believing that her fame could be left behind.

O NLY TWO HOURS AFTERshe crossed the border, Mohammed Abu Ebara knew she was in the country. What better way to demonstrate his authority than by publicly degrading and whipping this particularly insulting harlot who pranced naked before the face of God? Before Stefi even had a chance to leave Jeddah, the gateway to the holy shrines, he struck.