Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

Abdullah went silent, rubbing his hands slowly, an unconscious habit while he considered a new idea. Kyle Swanson again. He just happened to be in Khobz, Ash Mutayr, and Jeddah at the time of each one. A dangerous man.

The king gave a sharp laugh. “It is one thing to incite rebellion from the safety of a mosque and to distort Islam to cover treason. It is entirely something different to find one’s self on the firing line. These men routinely sent others to their deaths, but never expected to be in danger themselves.”

“We expect to turn the corner on this revolt within about forty-eight hours, Your Highness,” said the interior minister. “As the rebel imams go into hiding, their followers have no leadership and guidance. When they get tired, they will go home.”

“Very well. Now let me pass along some good news. I just spoke with President Tracy in Washington and he informed me that the missing nuclear device has been recovered by the Americans and is safe. He did not have the details yet. The important thing is that we now have secured three of the weapons and Prince Mishaal informed me that the fourth one will be transferred within a few hours from al-Taif. One more and that problem will be solved.”

There were murmurs of approval among the counselors. They were impressed by the manner and the actions of their new king.

The interior minister studied him closely. As cousins, they had known each other since boyhood. From his years as a diplomat, Abdullah had developed an outward appearance of being suave and calm, radiating confidence and trust. The deep-set dark eyes, however, could tell a different story, a soldier’s story, and often mirrored his inner feelings. Right now, the eyes were almost glowing in anger.

“It is time for us to establish a back-channel contact with the Grand Mufti and other important religious leaders,” Abdullah declared with a firm voice.

“W HAT DOES H IS M AJESTYwish for me to convey?”

The king stood up and adjusted his robes, then walked to a broad desk, pulled out the center drawer and held up some notes that he had jotted during his long hours of pondering the next step. “First, I want to firmly remind them that all of us are devout in our religious beliefs. Faith is not the issue here. Then give them a little history lesson on the long and mutually beneficial relationship between the House of Saud and Muhammad ibn Abd-al-Wahhab, dating back to the year 1744. Until now, despite some difficult days, that relationship has worked. We ran the country and they ran the mosques. We allowed them a lot of power.”

The king looked hard at each man in the room. “That trust was torn apart by this rebellion, in which some religious leaders have tried to overthrow the House of Saud! Even the moderate clerics stood idly by while a coup was launched, our king was assassinated, and the crown prince and other leaders, both Saudi and foreign dignitaries, were murdered. In short, they breached their sacred trust and brought the country into a civil war. You can emphasize now that these are my words: Things will never be the same between us.”

The interior minister waited, with his pencil and notebook in hand, but the king stopped speaking. “This will not be well received, Your Majesty.”

Again the king was firm. “I do not intend for it to be considered anything less than it is: a direct order from the king of Saudi Arabia. Tell them clearly, my cousin, that the House of Saud has survived…and that now it is our turn.”

JEDDAH

A DUEL OF WILLSwas underway in the villa of Dieter Nesch as the two terrorists-the money man and the killer-inched toward important decisions.

The chef had outdone himself to prepare a special meal that might cool the tempers while the demonstrations still plagued the city. The maid served a salad studded with fat rubiyan shrimp and a main course of grouper, sliced open and smothered in sautéed onions, tomato, garlic, hot peppers, and lemon wedges. Bowls of spices and platters of fresh bread and cheeses were at hand. The two men touched glasses of white wine in a salute and settled into the lavish meal, talking only of little things during the meal.

A FTERWARD, THEY MOVED TOthe big room, which was warm and bathed in sharp orange by the midafternoon sun. Outside in the street, a small mob roamed past the villa, yelling and wildly firing AK-47s into the sky.

“I assume you have been considering what to do next.” Nesch let his eyes flick briefly over to Juba. It was important to keep him satisfied. This was almost like being in a basket with a cobra. Let him lead himself to the decision.

Juba tasted the sharp, dark Remy Martin and welcomed its warmth. He looked out at the passing men. “Hardly more than a handful of rebels in the streets of a major city that should have been blowing apart at the seams by now,” he observed.

“I agree totally,” Nesch replied, settling into a chair beside a small table with a lamp, an ashtray carved from stone, and a humidor of dark Spanish cedar. “The question I now put before you is whether we can push things forward at all, perhaps on a new track entirely? I trust that tactical brain of yours, Juba. Find me an answer.”

Juba sat on the low windowsill and put his drink beside him. Hands on knees, thoughts racing. “No. The few remaining rebel groups will be crushed. Too many elements changed from the original plan and the time-line has been destroyed. By now, all of my contacts will have gone to ground. I doubt if any of them would even answer my call. The pressure needed to cause the volcanic eruption of a revolution has drained away. Ebara was weak and stupid.”

“Ah, Ebara? Yes. All of my sources had promised that he could deliver what he promised. We needed him in power.” Nesch rubbed the flat box. “Unfortunate. How about a cigar to accompany this swish of cognac? Let me tell you first that there is a 9 mm pistol in the box.”

Juba waved the offer away. “I don’t smoke, and I removed the bullets.”

Nesch was unperturbed. He asked, “Would you mind if I have one? They come from Costa Rica. The gun was one of my bodyguard’s little toys. Didn’t do him much good, did it? Did you also find the one on the top bookshelf?” Dieter removed a cigar, clipped the end, and took his time to light it.

“Yes. I did.”

“Amir was unprofessional. I could only have reached that one if I stood on a stool.” Nesch laughed and got a wry smile from Juba. Good. “So does this all come down now to, um, shall we call it, ‘the nuclear option?’”

“Since Saudi Arabia is not going to turn into some radical Islamic state, that is all that is left of interest,” said Juba. “Whoever has the missile holds some power. I want it.”

Nesch exhaled and a cloud of fragrant smoke rolled around his chair. “Juba, I respectfully have to disagree. As a banker, I simply look at it all as numbers on a balance sheet. Our man in Moscow is going to be very nervous about the death of Ebara, and I will have to recommend that he forget about this particular enterprise. Doing this on the quiet was one thing, but Russia cannot afford to be seen as openly involved in the coup. At least, that’s my opinion.”

“You want to back off of everything? Give up the nuke, too?”

Nesch tapped the cigar ash into the stone receptacle. “Yes. With your approval, that would be my recommendation. I will be honest about Ebara’s mistake in calling you to come here. I will also stipulate that both of us have done everything possible to carry out our assignments and, therefore, I keep my entire commission and you receive a nice bonus. Say, another million euros. How does that sound? You return home to Indonesia while I return to Germany and lay low for a while. Maybe next year, I will start shopping for another lucrative mission. Give up the nuclear missile idea, Juba. Trying to take it now would be suicide.”