Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

A smooth and flawless operation, Kyle decided.

That was the mechanical side. What had him puzzled was why a sealed envelope with his name on it was among the paperwork given to the colonel.

T HEIR PLANE MADE Asmooth landing at the King Faisal Air Base within the military city and taxied to a stop near a group of senior officers standing stiffly before a line of sedans. Prince Mishaal was the first person off the plane and his grim face gave them no solace. He was in a rage, and their nervousness was made complete as his aide went down the line making a list of their names.

Kyle went down the stairs into the heat lifting from the tarmac, determined to keep Mishaal in check. It would do no good at this point to have him just fire a bunch of officers because he was angry. “Get that envelope,” he said from just behind the prince’s shoulder.

Mishaal barked an order and a full colonel stepped forward and handed him the sealed manila envelope. A rather elegant looping handwriting had written the name of the addressee.

“Now take us to the office of the commanding general,” Mishaal ordered. “Is the body still there?”

“Yes, sir. No one has touched anything. We were awaiting your arrival.”

Kyle and Mishaal got into the rear seat of the second sedan, with Henry Tsang given the passenger side in the front. As the line of cars blasted away from the flight line, Swanson ran a finger beneath the sealed flap and tore it open. An eight-by-ten piece of common writing paper, folded one time, was inside.

I am waiting at the end of the world. Juba.

“Shit!” snarled Kyle. He passed the brief note to Mishaal, who read it and gave it to Tsang.

“What does it mean?”

“It means we are facing down a total madman, a terrorist who is responsible for thousands of deaths, someone I thought was already dead.”

Henry Tsang spoke up. “Juba. The terrorist from the biochem attacks in London and San Francisco a few years back? He’s behind this?”

“Maybe not the entire plot, but he probably was the one pulling the triggers to order the specific attacks.” Kyle looked out the window as the sedan screamed toward the headquarters building. “I can’t believe he lived through that mess in Iraq. Not only did I shoot him, but we dropped a bomb on his head at the same time. Unbelievable.”

“So this message is a challenge to you? He wants some kind of duel to exact revenge?”

“It looks that way. Like I said, he is crazy and has apparently become fixated on killing me. Don’t expect logic from someone who is insane.”

The car slowed and curved into a broad parking area before a large whitewashed building that was three stories high. Guards were at the doors.

“And he wants to meet you at the end of the world,” said Mishaal as he opened the door to the office of the commanding general.

TABUK

T HE SMELL OF DEATHblocked them at the door, an overpowering combination of a body already decaying in a small space. The general was slouched back in his chair behind his desk and the cushion behind his head was saturated with dark blood. A torrent of blood also had swept from the large exit wound onto his uniform. A dark circular bruise the size of a gun barrel surrounded the single entry wound and specks of unburned gunpowder stippled the skin. The pistol was still gripped in his right hand.

“It looks like he considered what he was doing, maybe hesitating at the last minute,” said Kyle. “He finally just jammed the pistol hard against his temple and pulled the trigger.”

“The filthy animal had nothing to live for. He had dishonored himself and his family and got caught on the wrong side of the coup.” Mishaal’s eyes rested on the dead man. “I never liked him. Now let’s get back to work.” The prince spat on the corpse and led the group back outside. Investigators took their place.

A colonel escorted them to a fresh office in a nearby building and then briefed them on how the general had led the unauthorized raid to take the nuclear weapon. The colonel handed Mishaal a piece of paper, an official fax of authorization from the Department of the Interior in Riyadh, in proper form, on letterhead and signed by a deputy minister. “After we spoke with you this morning, I tried to contact the man who signed that authorization. He apparently is nowhere to be found.”

Mishaal passed the paper to his aide and said, “Call Riyadh and give them my orders to find him. Colonel, please speak in English for our guests.”

Kyle cleared his throat and the prince nodded that he could address the colonel. “About how many men did the general have along with him this morning when they took the device?”

“Just the driver in each truck, somebody else was with him in the command car, and four men in the Humvee escort. The general said they were to rendezvous with a special unit that was unaffiliated with the base. I thought about questioning that, since we have thousands of men on the base here, but he was my commanding officer and had the transfer document.”

“So in total, less than ten men were in the raiding party. Nine, now that the general whacked himself.”

“Yes,” said the colonel.

“Who was the other guy in the command car?”

“An American who had CIA credentials.” The colonel checked another list. “The name was Jeremy M. Osmand.”

Kyle turned to Mishaal. “Damn. Juba is a Brit. His real name is Jeremy Mark Osmand. What arrogance! He really wants to be sure that I get his message.”

Mishaal instructed the colonel to throw as many planes and helicopters in the air as possible to expand the search already underway between the base and the border, then dismissed him. Kyle, Mishaal, Henry Tsang, and Jamal were alone in the office. “You have been very quiet, Major Tsang,” the prince said.

“The situation is troubling. When we were back at the hotel, for a moment, I thought you might really have something that my country would find of great interest. Now, with the general dead and the nuclear weapon missing, I have grave doubts.” The Chinese intelligence officer spread open his palms in frustration.

“Jamal? What do you think?” asked Kyle.

“I’m also uncertain, just like the major. This revenge thing Juba has going with you is not the same for a decent terrorist as dropping a nuke on Israel. No offense, Kyle, but you’re a pretty small fish in comparison.”

Swanson rose from his chair and went to a white greaseboard hanging on a wall. “I assure all of you that this lunatic’s obsession is not returned by me. He should have learned the last time we met that there is no honor involved; I just want him dead. We literally blew apart the house in which he was hiding, and he was buried under the debris. Plus, I’m certain that I hit him with a.50 caliber bullet just before the bomb struck. Somehow he lived through it. I’ll do the same thing again, and use every weapon available to us. This is no duel. It’s just his fantasy.”

Mishaal stood and stretched. The tension was locking up his muscles. “Still, he is very dangerous. He has the weapon. We must get it back.”

“Maybe it is not quite as urgent as we first thought. Juba coming out and identifying himself actually is a help. Hell, I didn’t even know he was in the game until now. Under his terms, we have a time cushion before he even tries to set off the nuke because he wants me within range.”

“But Kyle, he can punch the button at any time,” Jamal said. “Let me play psychiatrist for a minute with this nutcase. Maybe he just wants you to be close enough to watch him do the launch, to show you that you failed to stop him. Then, once the missile is away, he can try to settle accounts between the two of you.”