Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

Kyle automatically withdrew his laminated identification card and gave it to Jamal, who found his own ID and placed them both on the leather-covered dashboard. The line did not really stop, but inched steadily forward, more as if the drivers were gawking at an accident than the stop and go of vehicle searches.

“This line is moving too fast,” he said, straightening up in his seat. “They’re not checking the truck loads.”

The truck ahead accelerated when the guards waved it on. It rolled between armored personnel carriers that were stationed on each side of the road. Bright lights illuminated fifty yards on each side of the checkpoint, and spotlight beams danced across their faces. A Saudi sergeant motioned for Jamal to stop. When an officer approached, Jamal pushed the button to lower the window. Another soldier appeared at the front bumper on Kyle’s side and stopped, a rifle held loosely in his hands. Others approached from each side.

“Identification, please,” the officer asked in perfect English.

Jamal handed over the plastic-covered cards.

The officer studied the IDs for a moment, returned them, and said, “Thank you.”

Instead of moving away from the window, the captain gave a signal and other soldiers broke from a formation at the roadblock and poured into position around the car. The officer said, “Now please pull over behind that Humvee. By order of His Majesty, King Abdullah, you are both under arrest.”

MOSCOW

R USSIAN P RESIDENT A NDREI V ASILIYVICHIvanov was again at the wheel of his Ferrari F430 Spyder, easing off the accelerator as he entered Moscow after zooming in from his dacha outside Moscow. A young newspaper vendor called out from the sidewalk and the Ferrari’s horn beeped a reply. The driver waved.

The Saudi plan had not worked, but no one looking at the smiling, healthy, young man could detect that anything was wrong. He was doing a big of campaigning while on the way to work. A mile later, the car stopped abruptly beside an old woman who was huddled against a wall. Her skin was drawn and wrinkled, the matted hair covered by a kerchief and the frayed clothes were wrapped tight against the biting early morning cold that said winter was coming. Ivanov hopped out and approached her. “How are you today, grandmother?” he asked with sincerity.

Her watery eyes sparkled when she recognized him. “I am good, Andrei. Thank you.”

“Why are you out here alone and so early?”

Her glance toward a nearby coffee house gave her away. “I’m just taking a walk.”

“A beautiful woman should never walk alone. Do you have time for me to buy you a small breakfast?” He had her by the elbow, steering her toward the restaurant, where the owner had been watching the scene and threw open his door.

“Andrei! Please come inside.”

“I am afraid that I cannot this morning, unfortunately. But would you please give our grandmother a cup of warm soup and buttered bread?” He reached into his jacket pocket and peeled off a few bills to pay for the meal.

“Put away your money. It will be my pleasure.” He took the frail woman’s hand and led her inside, into the warmth. The fact that he did so would be noted and remembered, a small favor that would increase the restaurant’s business today.

Andrei stuffed the bills into her pocket and pecked her on the forehead. “All Russian women are beautiful, just like you, my darling. I have to go to my office now. Perhaps we will meet here again some time and you can tell me a story of the old days.” He hurried back to the car and was gone in an instant.

“Andrei Vasiliyvich works too hard,” the restaurant owner observed. He had caught the message that Ivanov might return unannounced and that the frail woman had just become a regular recipient of morning bread and coffee. “He understands us.”

“He’s a good boy,” she said.

A FEW MINUTES LATER,the Spyder charged through a gate in the crimson brick wall of the Kremlin, and the domes of St. Basil’s glittered in the early sun. When Ivanov stopped at the curb, his usual greeting committee was already there. His chief of staff was impeccable in a business suit and his secretary was modestly dressed, which did nothing to hide her beauty. Andrei switched off the ignition and got out. Ivanov wore a black sports coat over a heavy white sweater, dark blue pants, and polished hiking boots. He was only forty-four years old, single, muscular, and healthy, and had already put in a full day of work at his home, exercised with his guard, and had received a full briefing on the domestic and international scenes while a barber trimmed his thick black hair and gave him a close shave. A manicurist buffed his nails.

“Good morning, sir,” his aide said, welcoming the president of the Russian Republic. “Prime Minister Putin would like a word with you. He is in his office.”

“Hah! I’ll bet he would.” The aides followed. “Stefan, please tell the old gentleman that I’m too busy right now.”

Putin was said to be declining in strength, so the power of the state eventually would fall to the Ivanov family. Russia was going to belong to Andrei and his heirs.

The young president pushed open the door to his office and stopped short. Putin was waiting for him, seated in a chair beside the desk, running his fingers through the soft fur of that damned tiger he had adopted as a pet. The thing was no longer a little cat and it lay sprawled on the crimson carpet, purring contentedly and twitching its tail. The steady, evil eyes of both Putin and his Siberian tiger were locked on Ivanov. It did not look like anything was wrong with either of them. Fuck. Had Putin been toying with him?

Andrei recovered quickly and smiled, closing the door and moving to his desk as if nothing extraordinary was happening. There was a murmur of a growl from the tiger. “Good morning, Prime Minister,” he said. “I am delighted to see you looking well. And I see that we have an extra guest today. Mashenkia is getting huge.”

Putin returned the smile. Not a muscle in his face twitched and he spoke with perfect clarity. “Yes. Unfortunately, I cannot keep Sweetie at home in Novo-Ogaryovo much longer. Her front claws have been removed and we keep her calm with a low-grade hypnotic. Still, her weight and teeth make her very dangerous, so she is going to be moving to a zoo soon. Isn’t she beautiful?” His hand ruffled the short hair on the face of the beast, a blend of white around the eyes and mouth, and orange with black stripes.

“How are you feeling?” Andrei sat down. “All of Russia will be pleased that you are recovering so remarkably well.”

“Excellent. Long walks with Sweetie help. I do miss my judo exercises, but I seem to get a little better with each day.”

“Stefan told me that you wanted to see me, and I was just dropping off my jacket before going directly to your office.”

The slender face of Vladimir Putin gave away nothing. It never did. An American president once said that he could see into Putin’s soul, but he was wrong. As far as Andrei could determine, the old KGB chief had no soul.

There was a brief knock, the door opened, and the secretary, Veronika Petrova, swirled into the room, her face studying the documents she carried. She glanced up and saw Putin, then caught the look from Andrei that warned her to say nothing important. “Oh! Good morning, Mr. Prime Minister,” she said. “And here is Sweetie! What a beauty!”

“Hello, Niki.” Putin said. “I won’t be long; then you and Andrei can get along with the business of running the country.” His mouth remained a straight line. It did not require genius to determine that Andrei was enjoying the sexual favors of the tall, shapely blonde. Putin had seen the photographs. The liaison meant nothing to any of them.