Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

“Tell me about the shooting. You know something.” Nesch needed to see behind Juba’s mental veil. He poured another round.

Juba grunted. “Yes. It was a magnificent shot under very difficult conditions. The sniper knew exactly where the target was going to be and at a specific time. That required excellent intelligence, so it was not some random event. Ebara was targeted.”

He took another swallow of whisky, paused to collect his thoughts, then continued. “The shot itself came from a vehicle that stopped for a moment on a busy highway overpass a mile away, again something that did not happen by chance. Then the bullet went over the crowd and hit Ebara almost the moment he stepped outside. The shooter vanished into the traffic without a trace, almost before the shot hit the target. A lot of moving parts were involved, and I agree that the Americans are the most likely ones who could have pulled it off. Low-key, effective, and spectacular.”

“So?” Dieter’s round eyes were almost in slits as he took off his glasses and polished them. “The world is full of snipers for hire. You can buy one off the shelf whenever you need one.”

“Not for this kind of job,” Juba replied. He poured another splash from the bottle. “Maybe four snipers in the world could have made that hit. It took a totally experienced specialist. Since it was probably an American show, my money would be that it was a Marine named Kyle Swanson. He sometimes does work for the CIA.”

Nesch looked curiously at his friend. “Why? Do you know this man?”

Juba pointed to the blind eye covered by the black patch. “He’s the one who almost killed me in Iraq. I can smell his fucking stench on this hit!”

The banker shrugged. “Well, my friend, it makes no difference. We have bigger problems than him.”

“It makes a difference to me,” said Juba. “I want to kill him.”

“Fine. Then kill him. Let’s finish this job first so we can get out of here.”

“The job? You mean this silly rebellion? Dieter, the coup is over.”

“I think so, too, but we don’t want to make any rash decisions in the heat of the moment. There is too much still in play and we need to do some serious thinking when our emotions cool. So, I’m going to take a shower and a nap. Look, some spots of blood are on my suit pants. Damn. You should get some rest, too. We’ll get up in a few hours, be refreshed, have a nice meal, and I will call our Russian employer. Then we will decide what to do next, if anything.” The banker walked toward his bedroom.

Juba just nodded his head. He did not need to let his emotions cool because he was dead calm inside his head. He stood by the broad window, looking out at the sunlit Red Sea and thinking about the possibility of taking down Swanson.

A NOTHER M ERCEDES SEDAN, Awhite one with heavily tinted windows, was still on the road. Jamal and Kyle had ditched the van for the luxury car and were heading southeast from Jeddah toward the holy city of Mecca and into the Hada mountains.

Their destination was the city of al-Taif, about a two-hour drive from Jeddah on a remarkable highway that lifted motorists from the seaside and desert up through a series of tunnels to the green and cool summer resort some 2,000 feet above sea level. The Mercedes hardly drew a glance, since it was a favored style among the wealthy Saudis who frequented the long highway. Jamal kept the accelerator down as they climbed.

With periodic checks by his sat phone, Kyle had finished arranging events at the huge military base outside of the small city. Everything would be in place for the arrival of the handover team. Any luck at all, and things would be done before darkness fell.

Events were moving faster and faster, and Kyle believed they were entering the critical period in which things were not going to be happening in weeks and days, but in hours. Maybe minutes. He thought: Do the fourth nuke in Taif this afternoon, then yank out the final one tomorrow. Get it done. He hardly gave any thought at all to shooting Ebara. That was truly in the rearview mirror and fading with every kilometer the Mercedes put them farther away from Jeddah.

Jamal worked the car through Mecca carefully. “Check it, dude. Things are stable here. They have to know about Ebara’s death by now because we can’t outrun the radio and TV broadcasts. I expected this place to be in an uproar.”

“Maybe they haven’t figured out which way to jump yet,” Kyle replied, his eyes sweeping the area for danger signs. No roadblocks. No rioting. “Keep going. Sooner we get to the base, the better off we will be.”

“Particularly since we’re hauling around your big-ass sniper rifle.”

“Gotta put it on the plane back to Kuwait, Jamal. Remove any chance of the bullet ever being matched up to an American weapon.”

“I want to get on that plane, too. Doha sounds great about now.”

Kyle laughed. “I need your sorry ass to stay here with me. Anyway, you’re a CIA assassin now.”

Jamal looked over, taking his eyes off the road for a second. Then he smiled. “Mom will be so proud.”

RIYADH

“T HANK YOU FOR CALLING,Mr. President. I appreciate the information. It will make things much easier on this end. One less worry.” King Abdullah was agitated but kept his voice neutral and pleasant. He listened a moment longer, then said, “Yes. We’ll speak again soon. Goodbye, Mr. President.”

He hung up the secure telephone but let his hand rest on it for a moment. His experience as a diplomat served him well in such situations. It was indeed good news and he would take time to be angry later on, when he was alone. He had bigger responsibilities now than spending time being furious with Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson. It had to be Swanson!

This role of eternal dignity was already growing stale to Abdullah after a life of movement and excitement. Servants everywhere, anticipating his every need in this gilded cage. He was determined not to become just another isolated monarch who was distant from his people. Abdullah was playing a role that he did not particularly like. The time of the autocrat was over. The House of Saud had to change. He picked up another telephone and buzzed for his secretary. “Bring them in,” he said.

The door opened and a half-dozen counselors appeared for one of his daily briefings. He motioned for them all to sit, and they did. Every command was obeyed. It felt strange. He got right to business.

“How did the unexpected removal of that dog, Ebara, impact the overall situation?” he asked his military chief of staff.

The general put on his reading glasses and scanned a briefing paper before responding. “His death caused a temporary outbreak of violence and unrest in some locations, particularly in Jeddah. It seems not to have inspired the population to general revolt. In fact, there seems to be a sense of relief spreading throughout the country as people realize that normality may be returning. The Religious Police are drawing in their horns and showing signs of caution. They are clearly worried. Meanwhile, our troops are regaining control in every region.”

“The revolt is not over,” observed Abdullah.

“No, Your Highness. It is not. But it is slowing dramatically. No one has stepped forward to replace Mohammed Ebara as leader of the muttaween .”

There was a pause as the counselors waited for the king to speak. “It seems that clerics are dropping like flies around the country,” he observed.

The interior minister responded. “Yes, Your Highness. There is a striking similarity between the assassination today of Mohammed Ebara and the murder of the rebel imam in Khobz. Then there was the traitorous cleric who was responsible for the revolt at the Ash Mutayr base.”