just inside the rear door of the building to help keep it cool from the desert heat. When he pulled a dollar bill from his tattered wallet, a small white business card came out with it and fluttered to the floor, landing face-up beside his feet. He glanced down: Chinese lettering.
“I’ll be damned,” he said, picking it up and turning it over to read the English translation in raised lettering on the other side. Swanson bought the drink, took half of it in a single long draught, and went back outside. “Where’s my sat phone, Jamal?”
“Back seat,” said the CIA man, tilting his head to see Kyle better in the overhead light. Swanson got into the car and dialed in a long set of telephone numbers to make an international call.
It was a commercial telephone number that started with the prefix of eight-five-two for Hong Kong, and then the telephone number itself. There were a lot of beeps and hisses as the call was bounced from carrier to carrier until it was answered. A cryptic, sleepy voice gave no greeting other than his name, “Henry Tsang.”
“Hello, Mr. Tsang. This is Kyle Swanson. We met the other day on the plane going into Khobz. Got shot at together.”
There was a pause while Tsang came awake and leafed through his memory. “Mr. Swanson. Why yes? How are your fiber optic sensor security systems doing?” There was humor in the question. The game was on.
“Probably about as well as your accounting work.” Kyle heard a yawn. “We need to meet.”
“Why? Are you here in Shanghai? This is a very busy time for me. Tax work.”
Swanson gambled. “No, I’m not in Shanghai, and neither are you. Right now I believe you are standing in your pajamas in Riyadh. In fact, my guess is that you are some type of cultural attache at the Chinese Embassy, or have some title that hides the fact that you are a deep cover agent. Like me.”
There was a snicker of laughter. “Mr. Swanson, you have a wonderful imagination. We are James Bonds? Where are you calling from?”
“The Saudi military base at al-Taif, where we have just removed the fourth of the five nuclear warheads from this country. Are you interested in some more information?”
“Yes.” The voice downshifted to quiet and all business. “Tell me.”
“Not over an open line. We should get together in Riyadh as soon as possible.”
“Very well, Mr. Swanson. The Mediterranean Grill then, at the Marriott. I will have a table reserved in my name at nine thirty.”
“Can we make it sooner? I’m only about an hour away by plane.”
“I fear not.” The voice firmed up. That meant Tsang was going to check with his superiors back in China before doing anything at all. “Zero-nine-thirty is the best I can do.”
“All right, then,” Kyle said. “See you there.”
50
JEDDAH
JUBA AND DIETER WORKED with a sense of careful urgency while still in the villa, laying out the possibilities and honing their ideas. Two large flatbed transport trucks, drivers, a military escort, and official documentation from the Saudi government were at the top of their list.
“Juba, what are you going to do with this thing once you get it? Is it just a decoy to lure in that Marine you want, or do you really want to set it off?” Dieter had his BlackBerry on the table beside a yellow legal pad and a leather-bound notebook filled with telephone numbers and bank accounts.
“Does a vision of a final holocaust for Israel trouble you? A destruction of the holy city of Jerusalem?”
“No. I don’t care about the Jews one way or the other. I just don’t want to be nearby if you detonate it.”
Juba said, “I don’t know for sure yet about actually employing the weapon. My main goal is to get Swanson into the kill zone. A ripe target site and a ticking nuclear bomb would solve a lot of problems.”
“So it would be wise for me to stay away from Israel?”
Juba stretched and yawned before answering. “That would probably be a very good decision.”
Juba worked with the German’s superb computer set-up while Dieter called contacts on a secure telephone. Funds were transferred and messages were sent while the maid and the chef rushed about packing for the emergency escape. Almost all of the elements of the new plan fell rather easily into line, but there were a few stumbles along the way.
The major general in command of the huge military base at Tabuk, in northwestern Saudi Arabia where the nuclear device was resting, had been following the news closely and his courage had wavered. The coup was collapsing and he did not want to be part of the long night of retribution that was sure to follow. So far, his name had been kept out of the plot and he decided to keep it that way.
Dieter Nesch had no luck in getting him to cooperate on this final job, even after reminding the general that he had been well paid in advance and his task was not yet done. The general felt secure at his headquarters on the large but relatively isolated military base and refused to take part in any further element of the rebellion. He now had firm orders to turn the missile and the warhead over tomorrow at noon to a special collection team consisting of Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid and a United States Marine by the name of Kyle Swanson. He would obey those orders.
Nesch looked at Juba and scrawled the name “Swanson” on the legal tablet. Keeping his voice steady, he replied, “I sympathize with your position, general, but a deal is a deal. Would you please hold on just a moment? Someone else wishes to speak with you.”
Nesch covered the mouthpiece of the phone momentarily and whispered to Juba, “You were right! Swanson is involved in the missile pickup tomorrow.” He handed over the telephone.
“My name is Juba! You know who I am.” The declaration was cold, and stated with a snarl. “You have this one last opportunity to do as you are told.” Then Juba calmly recited details about the general’s wife and three young sons-their schools, birthdays, hobbies, friends, and other relatives-and dispassionately described how each would be killed, mentioning words like toenails, tonsils, and testicles. He advised the general that a pair of contract mercenaries were standing by near the family home and would turn off their cell phones at a specified time, beyond which Juba would be unable to stop them. He read out the proper address and also promised to personally execute the general.
“Make up your mind right now. You have something I want,” he said with smooth menace. “I have personally murdered thousands of people, general. Thousands! Killing your family will not alarm me in the least.”
The general agreed to carry out his agreement. He was sweating when he put the telephone down.
Similar persuasion was needed for a ranking bureaucrat in the Saudi Ministry of the Interior, who was stubborn and reluctant. When Juba was through dealing with him, that man also changed his mind and agreed to return immediately to his government office and accomplish his new task.
The work came together in a tight two-hour span. Juba, Dieter, the cook, and the maid boarded a small chartered plane that sped north from Jeddah to the town of Tabuk, which only had a population of a hundred thousand people but was the largest town in the entire desolate area. Its strategic value was that Tabuk lay less than two hundred and fifty miles from Jerusalem. Dieter shook hands with Juba as the terrorist left the plane, then made himself comfortable aboard the private jet, and accepted a drink of Scotch and ice from the maid. They would refuel in Amman, Jordan, then continue on the long journey to Switzerland and safety. He looked up another private number to call once they were on the ground and safe in Zurich. An old friend who worked for Mossad, the Israeli intelligence service, would be very interested in this new information Nesch had to sell.
51
SWANSON FINISHED HIS SODA, crushed the can, and flipped it into a trash barrel lined with a black plastic garbage bag. “Jamal, are you tired of hanging around here?”
