Clean Kill (14 page)

INDONESIA

JUBA WATCHED THE TELEVISION
news on the 42-inch flat plasma screen, mentally keeping track of the score. The bodies were piling up and he was winning easily. The House of Saud had been decapitated, the country was temporarily leaderless and that sanctimonious weird preacher, Mohammed Ebara, was busily stirring the religious pot. Everything going as planned.

Using the remote control, he replaced the chattering news people with the Web site of a private Swiss financial institution that served only very wealthy customers. The money was piling up in his private account, and more than enough was available to pay the people he had hired to continue the pressure. Slowly, slowly, he would stoke the fire with unexpected strikes throughout Saudi Arabia. The fighters were already in place, just waiting for him to release them. It was a tight schedule that eventually would build to a crescendo of violence.

The complicated scheme did not provide him with the same instant thrill as in the old days, when he pulled the trigger on his sniper rifle and could watch a bullet strike home and a target die in his scope, but he had moved beyond such things as routine assassinations. The stakes today were so much higher, and the overall effects of his work were so much more important!

The achievements so far called for a bit of private celebration and he opened the seals of red wax on a new square bottle of Jewel of Russia vodka, a new brand distilled from wheat and rye. He poured and raised the glass in an imaginary toast to the old philosopher-scientist Isaac Newton, who had figured it all out many years ago with his first law of motion: Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it.

The royal family of Saudi Arabia had been paddling comfortably on their underground sea of oil. Juba pictured himself as the external force needed to change that.

He had done a lot of homework before putting the final plan together. In the tumultuous inner circles of the Saudi royal family, there had always been plots and counterplots about which prince of the House of Saud should be the actual ruler. In 1975, the sitting monarch was shot to death by his nephew. For Juba, a simple assassination would not have been good enough. He wanted something spectacular, a showy attack that would paralyze the confidence of the people and open the door for a government takeover by Muslim extremists. By the time he was through, the whole country would be moving backward in time. The vodka was tracing a pleasant burn down to his stomach when a maidservant softly announced, “Your guest has arrived, sir.”

An Indonesian man stepped through the wide entranceway to the mountain mansion. He was of middle age, with black hair retreating on the high forehead and a belly that pushed hard against the buttons of his shirt. With narrow shoulders, Muhammed Bambang Sukarnoputri was shaped like a pear.

“Governor. It is good to see you again.” Juba shook hands with the smaller man and led him to a comfortable area with overstuffed chairs. They made small talk until the maid returned with a tray of fruit and juice for the pious provincial governor, who did not drink alcohol. Juba had only a glass of chilled water.

Officially, the Indonesian government kept religion out of its politics, although the country was 88 percent Muslim and Juba had found it simple to cultivate powerful allies. On the far side of the mountain on which he lived was a government weather research facility that secretly fed him all of the electrical power and telecommunications and scientific support that he could possibly use. With his own computer network feeding from those secure grids, Juba was guiding the upheaval in Saudi Arabia, half a world away, and the TV reports were flashing across the big screen.

“This television coverage reminds me of the make-believe carnage in American movies about the end of the world,” said Sukarnoputri. “Your work has been astounding.”

Juba gave a small nod. “International reporters are surging into Saudi Arabia in invasion-level numbers, and with the death of the king and the crown prince, the street demonstrations will grow more violent. The military will have to respond with force, and that will only create more demonstrators.” Juba handed the provincial governor several computer printouts held together at the left-hand corner by a spring clip.

“Some army units already are hesitating to perform their duties if it means killing civilians. When the cameras show children and old people being bloodied and killed, it will appear that a popular uprising is trying to overthrow a ruthless and immoral royal family.”

“Very good. However, I bring a private and important message from our mutual friend,” the governor said. “Is there somewhere we can speak that is beyond the hearing of any servants?”

“Certainly,” Juba said. This was curious. There was a hint of strain in the voice, a touch of alarm. Sukarnoputri was not the jittery sort. Not only was he the governor of the local province, he was also the brother of the powerful Mobile Brigade of the Indonesian National Police Force. Since both had political and military protection and government-protected communications security, he frequently acted as a cutout between Juba and Dieter Nesch.

They walked outside into the cool and gentle wind and along a stone path that led through a garden ablaze with flowers. A rugged rock wall, about waist high, bordered the edge of the outcropping, beyond which was a sharp slope all the way down to the sea. From this vantage point, they could see for miles.

“I am afraid that something has arisen that will require some changes in your plans, my friend,” said the governor.

Juba fixed the man with an unsettling one-eyed stare. With so much at stake, with the game successfully underway, a late operational change was wanted? Nesch knew better than that. “Go on.”

“This will sound quite unbelievable, but our mutual acquaintance has sent word that Mohammed Abu Ebara has somehow come into possession of five nuclear missiles, including their launch codes. I was instructed to tell you that Ebara demands your presence on the ground in Saudi Arabia, as quickly as possible, to handle them.”

Juba leaned on the stone wall and listened to the sea while he thought.
Leave here? He “demands” that I spend many hours in an airplane and run all the way to the Middle East at his command?
He took a deep breath. “That was not part of our original arrangement,” he said. “It does not matter whether he has found some nuclear weapons or slingshots in the sand, we cannot stop the current operation in its tracks.”

“I know that and so does Dieter. But Ebara is adamant. He apparently is having visions from paradise, voices that are guiding him.”

“Damn. What does the Russian want?”

“Apparently, our friend in Moscow is letting Ebara have his way.”

“So I am supposed to just close down shop, abandon months of careful planning and the spending of millions of dollars to get things ready, just to go hold the hand of Ebara?” Juba walked slowly around the area, tasting the breeze. “Without me here to control things, the overthrow of the government may not work. Everything depends on the timing of the coming attacks. This is a huge risk.”

Governor Sukarnoputri spread his palms in a helpless gesture. What can we do?

Juba’s thoughts were reeling, trying to find some way to make it all work. The coup had been his primary goal. What could be gained with nuclear weapons? They could not be used within Saudi Arabia during this uprising.

Perhaps afterward? A potential new reward began to surface in his mind. Consider them as a separate matter and not part of the current strife. With nuclear weapons in his possession, he could be recorded in history as one of the most dangerous men who had ever lived! He could destroy Israel! Europe might be within reach. England? His thoughts began to race. Would it be possible to smuggle one to the U.S.? A smile twisted on his deformed lips. A few hours of discomfort in an airplane in exchange for an eternity of notorious fame.

“It will cost more.”

The governor said that he had already taken care of the renegotiation, and Dieter Nesch was promising another million euros for Juba just to make the trip, assess the possibilities, and soothe the growing mania of Ebara. The governor and his brother would both rake off a commission.

“Go back and contact Dieter again. Tell him to make it five million euros. If they agree, I can be on my way tomorrow.” Juba considered his fledgling plan. He could force Ebara to turn the weapons over to him so that he could blackmail other governments. That would work to the benefit of Ebara, the Russian, and everyone on the money train.

The governor smiled. A bigger commission. “My brother will arrange your transport. A helicopter can ferry you from here to the airport in Jakarta. From there, a private jet will fly you to Jeddah in Saudi Arabia.”

They bowed to each other and the governor left. Juba remained in the garden and a slight shudder ran through his body. The trip would be extremely difficult. But for five nuclear weapons, he would do it. Juba thought that he might change the face of the world with those things. Yes, that would make it worthwhile.

AL-KHOBZ

GOLDEN-RED FLASHES OF EXPLOSIONS
flickered in the night sky, painting the buildings in sharp silhouette. The rattle of small-arms fire echoed through the streets while shadows hurried past him, civilians running for their lives. The rebel attack was centered at the main gate to the foreign compound and Swanson veered away to the south. For a change, he was not looking for a fight.

He jogged steadily for about five minutes, listening to the sporadic crack of gunshots. Personal weapons were forbidden in al-Khobz, but almost every house had at least one. Even so, resistance would be isolated and ineffective unless some organization was brought to bear, and that was where the experience and better weaponry of Homer and Jamal would help. Swanson could not provide that tonight. For him, the shooting was a distraction to help him slip away.

He loped along for another six minutes, following the main road south and keeping to the dark areas as the congested urban center gave way to more open space on the right side of the broad avenue, while the waterfront and the rigs glowed like groups of holiday lanterns to his left. He jumped the drainage ditch and darted into a small alleyway partially blocked by plastic bags filled with trash.

Settling low, he could see a bright necklace of floodlights that threw white circles along the fence of the army base about two kilometers away. An alert siren was groaning. Kyle slipped his radio headset into place and keyed it. “You guys there?”

“Yeah,” Boykin replied, his voice already heavy with exertion.

“How’s it look?”

“The rebels are streaming in through the main security entrance like a bunch of cockroaches. The guard is sprawled out, apparently dead, alongside a second body. Western civilian. A pack of SUVs, pickup trucks, and cars are parked outside the gate and men are hiding behind them to fire into the compound. The shitty part? A pair of blue and white police cars are out there, too. Uniformed cops are working with those assholes.”

“Any organized resistance yet?”

“Bits and pieces. We’re working on it. I sent two guys to round up everybody they can find and Jamal and I have set up a cross-fire from a couple of buildings overlooking the main breach area. That should stop the ground assault. One surprise is that quiet Chinese dude who came in on the plane with you: He knows how to shoot.”

“Not surprised at all. I’ll let you know if I spot any rescue force rolling your way.”

“Are you sure about where you’re going?” asked Boykin.

“I can see the Saudi army base from here. It’s all lit up, and there is a lot of movement. Out.” He made a final check around his hiding place and saw two shadows doing a fast creep toward the military camp. He flipped down the Cyclops night vision goggles for a better look and found they were an ambush team carrying rocket propelled grenades. Swanson darted from his hide and swung in behind them.

FATEHI AWWAD, A FORMER
Egyptian soldier and drug smuggler, hugged the ditch as he stalked toward the site he had picked for a blocking position. A film of sweat and dirt covered his face. He was nervous. Salid, the young fighter carrying an AK-47, was trailing behind. The boy was supposed to be protecting them but had been caught up by excitement. He was anxious to become a martyr, and Awwad was constantly reminding him that their job was to stay alive and stop any attempt by the Saudi soldiers to rescue the foreigners who were under attack in Khobz. The young Salid disregarded the lectures and was falling far off the pace.

“Keep up!” Awwad demanded. “Forget the other fight!”

“I should be back there, helping our brothers slay the infidels.”

“Be quiet, boy. Carry out your assignment!”

The 40 mm rocket launcher rested easily on Awwad’s right shoulder as he moved toward the illuminated missile base. He had scouted the area and found a large concrete culvert that ran beneath the road to connect the drainage canals. He dropped into the crossing ditch and slithered into the culvert. “Now we wait,” he said.

There was no response, no hurrying footsteps. Awwad took a deep breath, listened, then cursed. Salid had given into the craving for action, the lust for blood and glory that could override good sense. Son of a pig!

Awwad adjusted. Children should not be trusted with important assignments. He would have to carry out the ambush on his own and would fire his RPG when the first vehicle, most likely a Humvee or a small truck, came out of the base camp. That would block the road, idle the rest of the rescue convoy, and force a delay while officers assessed the danger. While they were doing that, Awwad would disappear, for there could be no follow-up shot. Salid had taken the only other RPG round with him.

SWANSON WATCHED THE MAN
in the rear hesitate, then stop instead of following the leader who carried the RPG. For some reason, this one was not advancing, but just standing there with an AK hanging around his shoulders. A wolfish grin spread over Swanson’s face.

He moved with a quiet grace, soft and low to the ground, invisible to the hesitating fighter who was blind to the darkness. Swanson found a crumpled depression in the side of the ditch, slipped into it, and lay on his belly in the dry sand. The night vision goggles clearly painted the fighter who was only five steps away and standing, undecided.

The fighter looked back toward the RPG man, who hissed,
“Keep up! Forget the other fight!”

The loud whisper of a younger voice responded:
“I should be back there, helping our brothers slay the infidels.”

“Be quiet, Salid. Carry out your assignment!”
Then the RPG carrier continued forward.

The rifleman was concentrating his attention back the way he had come, looking past the prone Swanson, attracted by the sounds and flashes of distant gunfire. He took one more step forward to follow his leader, then decided to go back to the guns. He started running back down the ditch, out of breath, panting with anticipation.

KYLE ROSE LIKE A
specter as the young man passed, and threw an anaconda on him. Swanson’s right forearm wrapped around the front of the neck to crush the windpipe, while his left hand grabbed his right to increase the leverage. Immediately, all air was cut off to the boy’s brain and Swanson snatched him from his feet with the rear naked choke hold. Swanson knelt down, taking his opponent with him, then lay on his back and flattened out, clamping both legs around the victim for a full body lock, steadily squeezing harder the entire time. Salid was out cold within fifteen seconds without having uttered a sound.

When the body went limp, Kyle rolled out, stood, slung the prisoner across his shoulder and returned to his secluded hide behind the garbage bags.

In seconds, he had the kid blindfolded and gagged, with his arms tied behind him, but the legs left free. Swanson looped the sling of the AK-47 around the young fighter’s throat, twisted it once and let the weapon dangle down the back. If the prisoner tried to run, Kyle could just yank on the AK and choke him back into submission.

Swanson roughly awakened the youngster, jerked him to his feet and gave him a push. Sticking to the darker patches, Kyle soon found the service road that looped around the edge of the city to a side gate of the base. He slowed, moving cautiously until he closed to within a kilometer of the mesh steel fence that was topped with concertina wire. Despite being able to hear the gunfire back at the foreign compound and knowing an ambush was waiting at the front gate, Swanson did not hurry, adhering firmly to his own prime rule: Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. He shoved the prisoner to the ground, sat on the young man’s back and took time to study the target through the Cyclops. Careful surveillance was seldom time wasted.

On its surface, the base had the primary purpose of supplying a guard force of several hundred men to protect the oil production, storage and shipment apparatus in the area. As part of that assignment, it supposedly maintained a contingent of antiaircraft missiles that could spread the protective umbrella out beyond the rigs. It was reasonable to assume that it was all part of the same package, but Swanson tried never to assume anything.

Remembering the map in the Boykin Group basement, he knew the base was sliced into four equal parts. A perimeter road followed all the way around inside the fence line. A north-south road ran from the main gate to the far side of the camp, dead-ending at the fence. It was bisected in the middle by an east-west route which emptied onto the supply road where Swanson waited. The headquarters building was in the middle: a standard military layout, there was genius in its simplicity. Everyone could get anywhere smoothly.

Soldiers and vehicles were surging toward the front of the compound, with troops running from the living quarters located in the uppermost left hand corner. Several Humvees tore out of the motor pool and equipment area in the lower left quadrant and gunners were already standing in the vehicles behind machine guns. Officers coming from smaller buildings in the upper right hand quarter were marrying up the troops and vehicles, putting together a rescue mission for the besieged foreigners. Swanson heard the orders being shouted and the motors revving.

So if this was an AA base, where were the antiaircraft missile sites? It would have been logical to have them in protected hard stands with open fields of fire all around, probably near the corners to eliminate obstructions. Instead, he found the missiles nestled near a long, narrow building in the area closest to him. A group of three Humvees sat in a line, the lead one decked out with aerials, which denoted the command and operations vehicle. The next two Humvees had bulky pedestals on the rear deck, where gunners would sit between reloadable pods of heat-seeking Stinger missiles. The group presented a genuine threat against any marauding helicopters or low-flying planes. They remained idle tonight because they were not needed in the coming urban fight.

Swanson thought for a moment, then spoke in Arabic to his prisoner. “Junior, here’s a free scout-sniper lesson for your future military career: More important than just seeing something is to know what you’re looking at. The only reason for having those missiles on wheels is to move them somewhere. Let’s go look inside that building.”