Clean Kill

“What is our own exposure now, Andrei?”

“We are pulling out of it entirely. There will be no trace, no accounts or electronic data of any sort, that might indicate that we were ever involved. I have dispatched SVR teams to eliminate Nesch and Juba, who are the only links to us.”

Putin stopped petting his cat. “You promised that this plan of yours would work.” The question was blunt.

Andrei spread his hands on the broad surface of his desk. “It was worth the risk. The money we spent was a pittance in comparison to what we might have gained.”

“Yes,” Putin replied. He stood, brushed the front of his slacks, and made a clicking sound. The tiger rose in a fluid motion, a threat by its mere existence. “Andrei, my young friend, you are doing a very good job. I knew that you would excel, which was why I picked you for the position over many older and more experienced candidates.”

Andrei Ivanov also stood, relieved that Putin was leaving and taking the beast with him. “Thank you, sir.” The old gentleman was not going to do anything.

Putin finally broke into a smile. “Yes. I always have admired aggressive plays, as you know. The only way Russia will achieve its former glory is to take a chance now and then. What Juba does with Israel is no concern of ours. But I want you to recognize that there is another truth at our level of politics,” he said.

“What might that be, Prime Minister?”

“Failure is unacceptable.” Putin snapped a leash to the collar on his tiger and led it out the door. He did not want the cat to be startled.

Andrei stared at the door as it closed, feeling a wave of satisfaction. Despite the implied threat, Putin was toothless and Sweetie was nothing but a cat. Neither had claws.

Niki Petrova withdrew a small pistol from her leather case, pointed it at the back of his head and pulled the trigger twice.

53

RIYADH

MAJOR HENRY TSANG ARRIVED a little early at the Marriott, looking fresh in a charcoal gray suit with faint stripes, a white shirt, and a tasteful tie. At the reserved table, he chose the seat that would allow him to keep his back to the wall. Silverware gleamed in the bright artificial light and soft jazz music spilled through speakers hidden in the ceiling. He shook out a cigarette and lit it. Swanson would arrive in a short while but Tsang had things to arrange beforehand.

Tsang ordered a carafe of hot water and slices of lemon, promising to order breakfast when his friend arrived. After the waiter vanished through the swinging doors to the kitchen, Tsang slid a small microphone into a small arrangement of flowers and pointed it toward the chair in which Swanson would sit. Everything said at the table would be transmitted to a recording station in a blue surveillance van parked outside the hotel. The pager on his belt buzzed one time as the listeners confirmed that everything was working, picking up the sounds of the restaurant.

The waiter returned. Tsang put a slice of lemon in his cup, poured in the hot water, and settled in to wait, calmly smoking his cigarette and enjoying the drink. It was nine fifteen on Sunday morning where he sat, which made it four thirty in the afternoon back in Beijing, where things were busy and final decisions were being made and orders were being cut. This time tomorrow, his country would be at war.

Ranking people were awaiting his report of this backchannel meeting.

He was here. Where was the American?

KYLE SWANSON WAS STRETCHED out comfortably on a plush sofa and Jamal Muheisen was in a large leather chair, absorbed in a paperback whodunit mystery. Jamal turned the pages slowly, killing time. Swanson stared at the white ceiling. “Hell of a prison, huh?”

“Yeah,” Jamal replied. “Fuckin’ A-rab dungeon. You want me to call for some fresh coffee?”

“Unh-unh,” grunted Swanson. “I’m coffeed out.” He got up and went to the window to watch the cars and trucks go by. He could not hear the buzz of the traffic below because the huge office was soundproofed. A few military vehicles rolled past in small convoys, but the capital city was returning to normal. The morning sun was shining brightly.

The room was the spacious personal office of another Saudi prince who was senior vice president for special assignments for Saudi Aramco, the petroleum giant that controlled the vast oil fields of the nation. The place was immaculate, with several bright hand-knotted carpets, tall bookshelves, chairs, tables, and a few sofas. A large desk dominated the area before a set of windows, and every paper on it was squared neatly with all of the others. Framed pictures of members of the royal family and foreign dignitaries hung on the dark walls. A full bathroom, including a shower, was just through a doorway.

“Fuck this,” Swanson said as he returned to the sofa and plopped down. The two soldiers at the door watched, but remained silent. The security team was changed every thirty minutes, and another pair of guards was just outside.

Swanson knew any hope of surprising his Chinese contact was blown at the time of their arrest. Now the entire meeting was at risk. All methods of communicating with the outside world had been removed from them and, although the borrowed office had every creature comfort, even a game console, there were no telephones, no TV sets, and no device that would let him call for help. They were trapped in an air-conditioned cave of riches.

Big chunks of time were falling away like an iceberg calving in the summertime. A nuclear warhead was still out there to be collected, but it was fading in importance with the anticipation that the Chinese were about to attack. Stay calm. Wait it out. Be ready.

THE MAIN DOOR OPENED at nine seventeen, according to Kyle’s watch. The guards snapped to attention but never took their eyes from the prisoners. Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid walked in, grim and unsmiling, and went straight to the desk. He flung his black beret down in exasperation, then sat in the chair and stared at Kyle. “You lied to me.”

Swanson returned the glare. “Don’t expect an apology.”

“You were under my orders,” the prince retorted in a frosty tone. “I gave the two of you permission to go to the hotel and you tried to play me for a fool. When I had my aide check up on you, he found that you were gone.”

“I was never under your orders, colonel. We are working together. There’s a big difference. Instead of finishing our mission of getting all of the nukes, you became wrapped up in that conference with the talking heads on television screens and I was left sitting there with my thumb up my ass while a war may be brewing. Why the hell should I wait around when there was work to be done?”

“How dare you speak to me like that!” Mishaal was on his feet and his voice thundered. The guards became more alert. “Your job was to help me collect the nuclear weapons and we have done so, except for the one in Tabuk. We will go and retrieve it right now, and then you both will be expelled from the country. I’ve already discussed this with His Majesty and he approves. We appreciate your help, Gunny, but your job is almost done. You are too much of a loose cannon.”

Kyle shook his head in dismay. “Of course I’m a loose cannon, Colonel. I do what needs to be done, even when things escalate out of control, even in an entirely different situation. I am a scout-sniper and the rule for any commander is to not tell a sniper how to do a job.”

Mishaal sat back down. “You have no idea what has been going on. Our military is in the midst of cleaning up the mess from the coup attempt and have zero time to get reorganized. Those conferences that you so disdain involve the highest level of national security and how we will respond to this possible Chinese aggression. We are talking all-out war here, Gunny Swanson.”

“Don’t count your nuclear chickens before they are hatched, Colonel.”