terrorist had applied to the hinges. A terrific roar jarred the entire floor and debris needled straight out into the hallway opposite the destroyed door. The man was moving fast, knowing he had to complete his mission before assistance could arrive for the opposition.
Kyle had counted on that. He turned away from the blast, then spun back and triggered the Colt twice at the empty portal. The metal door was gone. Sybelle added two more rounds into the whirling smoke.
“I’m dry,” Kyle called in a panicky voice, dropping the.45 and bringing up the H &K submachine gun.
“I have a few rounds left,” Sybelle responded, making her voice also sound shaky. She also laid aside her pistol, charged the MP5 and rested it on the countertop.
The terrorist on the landing was listening and deciding his next move. He had counted two opponents on the roof, but they were armed only with pistols and almost out of ammunition. If he kept the pressure on with a spray- and-pray assault he could overwhelm them, and then deal with the Saudi prince he had been sent to kill. He pulled a grenade from his belt and removed the pin.
The cylindrical device came bouncing out of the doorway and Kyle yelled, “Flash-bang!” He stepped away from his hiding place and gave the explosive device a perfect kick that sent it spinning down the west end of the hall. Then he dove face-first back into the elevator alcove and Sybelle ducked her head and covered her eyes.
Designed to stun opponents long enough for a soldier or a policeman to breach into a room, the little grenade erupted with a blinding blaze that bathed the corridor with light that seemed brighter than the sun as a simultaneous cracking peal of thunder made the walls vibrate.
The intruder stormed through the door, trigger held back, firing on automatic. His eyes were protected by goggles, but his overall vision was obscured by the curling smoke. He let the MP5 chatter constantly as he ranged it from side to side and managed to take three running strides before Kyle and Sybelle both opened up and caught him in a crossfire at point-blank range. The bullets chewed at him mercilessly, jerking the body upright, and then pounding him backward and finally down.
When the shooting stopped, Kyle stepped over to the fallen terrorist. There was something strange about the face. He was not a man from the Middle East. White skin, no beard, and light brown hair. The terrorist appeared more Slavic, like someone from one of the Eastern European nations, and had performed as if he had been steeped in professional training. No matter. Swanson pressed the muzzle of the H &K to the man’s temple, and squeezed off a final shot. The head cracked like a melon.
“Clear!” Swanson called.
14
RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA
“THE BRITISH!” PRINCE GENERAL Mamoud Ali al-Fahd, the commander of the Saudi Royal Guard Regiment, had been raging since the first reports of the terrorist attack on the castle in Scotland. “They refused to believe that something like this could happen! They pledged their honor!”
The general’s job was to protect the king, which he did with a beefed-up elite force of three light infantry battalions and an armored battalion. Putting a similar shield around Prince Abdullah should have been someone else’s problem, and was impossible to accomplish from Riyadh, because the prince was the Saudi ambassador to the United States and spent most of his time in Washington. But His Majesty had declared that Abdullah was too important to be left with just ordinary diplomatic protection and al-Fahd had been personally instructed that in addition to his regular duties, the general also would coordinate the prince’s security and see that no harm befell him. Geography alone forced al-Fahd to delegate others to carry out that royal edict, and that weakness had been its defeat. The general could not be everywhere at once and if the others failed, it would still be Prince General Mamoud al-Fahd who would be blamed.
Vice Sergeant Mas’ud Mohammed al-Kazaz, the soldier who had been his valet for seven years, quietly placed a polished silver tray with hot tea and small cakes on a table beside his general. “Please have something to eat, sir. You must keep up your strength, for the good of the kingdom,” the valet said.
“I am not hungry.” The general waved at the tray. “Take it away.”
“Not until you eat, sir.” The valet stubbornly left the tray. He was one of the few men who could talk back to the general, although he did so with a polite and reverent tone. “Please sit down so I can pull off your boots.”
Al-Fahd propped one boot on the sergeant’s broad behind and raised the other leg between the knees of his aide. The vice-sergeant grasped the heel and gave it a hearty pull. He flipped it to the side, the general changed feet, and the second boot was pulled off. The general gave into the moment and had a drink of tea and bit into a sweet cake. Delicious. Another bite and another sip before the anger returned.
Al-Fahd got back up and paced the private suite of rooms that comprised the living space at his private headquarters. He had just returned from another tour of his forces in the field, heightening their alert status due to the incident in Scotland and the rash of confidential reports about civil unrest that were coming in from around the country. The general felt that the narrow line of light that held back the darkness of chaos was cracking, and smacked a fist into a palm in frustration.
“They assured me that our ambassador would be supremely well-protected and that nothing could possibly happen to him because so many security people were involved at an isolated location.” Al-Fahd rubbed his red- rimmed eyes. “Did they think this was some
Vice Sergeant al-Kazaz was used to hearing his general grumble while they were alone, when the man could express the intense thoughts he would never utter to a staff officer or outsider. “Yes, sir, they were. But may I remind my general that the ambassador survived, and that our king is safe and the guard lines are strong. That is your primary duty, and you have performed it well.” The valet unbuckled the brass round hasp of the pistol belt and laid the holstered weapon on a table, then helped the tired man remove his sweat-stained tunic and also laid it aside to be cleaned.
The prince gave him a tired smile. Al-Kazaz was always there, a comfortable shadow and as much of a friend as any common soldier could ever be to a prince of the House of Saud. The hard-working son of a small business owner from an allied tribe had compiled a good military record and after a thorough background check, won appointment to the Royal Guard. Intelligent, quick, quiet and competent, he was an ideal aide, hardly ever noticed but always around, usually carrying whatever was needed before the general had to ask.
“Yes. Prince Abdullah was saved by the hand of the Prophet and his wounds were not serious. He is now in a private clinic, and the British have promised even more that he is safe.” Al-Fahd paused. “How can this be believed? I have scheduled a plane to take him back to Washington as soon as possible.”
“They cannot be believed, sir. The plane is the correct response,” answered his valet, agreeing with anything his general said in order to push him along. “Your trousers, please, sir, and then into the shower. You look like a camel herder. Smell like one, too.”
Prince General al-Fahd had to laugh. “You dare order me around like I’m a private. I should have you whipped!” He went to a safe imbedded in the thick concrete wall, turned the dial, and opened it. The general removed a thin chain from around his neck that contained not only his military dog tags but also a small key, and placed it in the safe. From his wallet, he withdrew a small red plastic card embossed with black numbers and also put it inside, atop a small book lanced with the red stripe of Top Secret material, then closed and locked the little door. When those two items were not on his person, they were always in the safe. Allah forbid them falling into the wrong hands.
He stripped off his remaining clothes and went into the bathroom and entered the enclosure where the valet already had a steaming shower running. The flood of cool water washed away worry as well as dirt. When he stepped out, al-Kazaz handed him a warm, huge blue towel.
“I have your family on the telephone, sir,” he said.
The general sat on his bunk and had a brief conversation with his wife and both of their children. All was well at
