Clean Kill

you checked in. I assume you are on your way to London, and not coming directly back here?”

“You assume right,” Kyle said.

The Lizard picked up some papers, glanced at them, put them aside, found a tablet, and read the notes. “I’ve been in touch with Delara Tabrizi over there and she is arranging transport so you can drive straight to the clinic. A package will be waiting with everything you need, including FBI creds. Kyle, there has been no change in the conditions of the Cornwells. Sir Jeff is scheduled for surgery tomorrow morning for a head wound and to pick out chunks of shrapnel that peppered his lower spinal area. Both legs are broken.”

“How’s Delara?” Kyle asked. It was not a well-kept secret that he and the strikingly beautiful Iranian woman were lovers.

“She got through the attack with some minor scrapes and I don’t think she has slept since then. She’s worn out, but refuses to leave them.”

Kyle nodded. “I’ll make her get some rest. She’s the one person we cannot have keeling over from exhaustion. Can you give us a SitRep on Saudi Arabia?”

“Not over this clear channel. Just tune in Sky News and the BBC, and as usual, al Jazeera is getting cameras into places that others cannot. The Saudi government insists that everything is under control. It is obviously getting messy.” The Lizard stared at the pinhole camera on the edge of his computer screen. “Sybelle, your former boss is very unhappy with what is happening over there.”

He let the oblique reference dangle in empty air.

“Yeah. I’m sure he is,” she said. “Tell the general the rest of the team is heading back to the base as planned. We’ll contact you again right after we see the Cornwells.”

“Right. Give them my best.” Freedman clicked off the transoceanic call.

Kyle bit his lip in thought. “I think the Lizard was saying that the president may be planning some sort of military response. He can’t stand by and let the Saudi government fall.”

Sybelle typed on a small computer built into the narrow polished wood shelf that ran along the fuselage beside her seat, and Googled up SAUDI ARABIA OIL. Too many items to read, so she turned it off. “Losing that country would be ten times worse than losing Iraq. It would unhinge the entire global economy.”

Swanson yawned, stretched his legs. “And the Russkies aren’t going to politely stand aside if we make a grab for the oil patch, and everybody in the Middle East already hates the Russians. The Chinese will be watching, and every country in NATO. Toss in the Indians, for good measure, which also would mean Pakistan.”

“So who’s the enemy?” Sybelle kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet beneath her.

“Everybody.” Kyle said. He closed his eyes, turned off his mind, and went to sleep.

9

MOSCOW

A LOW, STEELY GRAY Ferrari F430 Spyder with the top down ripped crossed the cobblestones of Red Square and dashed through a gate in the tall brick wall of the Kremlin. In a metropolis where ransom kidnappings of rich men were commonplace, this driver moved freely.

His safety was born from the union of respect and fear and security forces, and Russian President Andrei Vasiliyvich Ivanov was untouchable. As the best criminal dynasties always do, his family had a history of adapting to the times, no matter whether a ruthless Stalin or a reformer like Gorbachev ran the state. With the collapse of communism thirty years earlier, they became the cutting edge of the violent and bloody mafiya, then anticipated the oncoming typhoon of capitalism and embraced it. His father took that same sense of unrelenting toughness into the emerging private oil business, one uncle became a media magnate, and another was a venture capitalist who helped start fledgling businesses only to later take them over. It was a powerful combination.

Young Andrei was sent into politics with a purpose, plenty of money, the backing of important allies, and an overreaching hubris. Assuming the role of a populist, he was generous and kind and was adored by common Russians. Bad things happened to anyone who challenged him.

He was not a foolish man, however, and although he drove alone, a large SUV brimming with bodyguards and automatic weapons trailed sluggishly at a respectful distance in the Spyder’s wake. Andrei packed a holstered Makarov pistol and a submachine gun was beneath the seat of his car. Forty-four years old, single, muscular, and healthy, he seemed to possess limitless energy and could work for hours on end. He had been at it until after midnight and now it was just after lunchtime. The clocks seemed to always cheat him.

As if fate had written his name in big letters, Ivanov had found the right place at the right time. Only a year earlier, Prime Minister Vladimir Putin had surprised everyone by appointing young Ivanov to be president of the Russian Republic, expecting to have a useful puppet. Then the old man was unexpectedly forced to the sidelines by a mild stroke. Instead of being just a political figurehead, Alexei was thrust into the job of actually running the country and he responded with vigor and determination. While Putin struggled to regain his ability to walk and still had some problems speaking, Alexei Ivanov set about making him irrelevant. The young leader’s personality won over many international critics who had grown wary of Putin’s harsh attempts to re-create a Russia in which little was possible. By racing through the streets in his private automobile and making personal, surprise gestures to help individual citizens, Ivanov cemented his popularity with the masses.

The common touch was leavened by his family’s belief that Russia needed a new tsar, and Andrei had more than a bit of imperial arrogance. He intended to not only make a name for himself, but to make history.

Once through the old crimson walls, Ivanov braked to stop against a curb where two people were waiting; his chief of staff, wearing a neat dark suit, and an efficient-looking, beautiful woman in a conservative dress, who was his personal secretary. He switched off the ignition and got out, taking off the black Prada sunglasses that shielded his startlingly light green eyes and flashing the blazing smile that was so familiar to television viewers.

He trotted up the broad granite stairs that had been laid down hundreds of years ago by craftsmen working for Peter the Great. The aides followed. In contrast to their careful choice of wardrobe, Alexei wore a parka of soft black leather, a dark blue turtleneck sweater, black trousers and hiking boots.

“Is the old gentleman in today?” He would have been surprised if Putin had shown up, but it was best never to underestimate the old KGB chief.

“No, sir. Not today,” replied Veronika Petrova. His secretary, known as Niki, had once been a professional fashion model and was frequently Andrei’s escort to evening functions. With both the personal and professional links, she also had become one of his few confidants.

“Well, Niki, please send him my warmest regards and ask if we can have lunch or dinner together soon.” He winked at her. I want to know if the old fart is dying yet.

“Yes, Mr. President.” She made a note on her pad.

All three went through a broad door into his office, Andrei threw his parka onto a sofa and settled into the soft chair behind the big desk. His assistant, Sergei Petrov, placed a leather folder before him. “The initial operation in Scotland was a success, as you know, sir. Now the unrest is taking shape within Saudi Arabia. This information before you is fresh as of thirty minutes ago.”

“How did Prince Abdullah survive? I don’t understand how he got away unscathed.”

“Luck. He actually was well protected in a bathroom when the attack hit. The prince has been taken to a private clinic, and the SVR already has a follow-up strike underway. We’ll get him.” The SVR, Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, had succeeded the old KGB and was firmly in Ivanov’s pocket.

Ivanov flipped through the pages. “Good, then. It’s a good start. Now get Dieter Nesch on a secure call for me. I want his personal read on how things are going.”

“Very good. Would you like some lunch?”

“Not yet. Any important appointments this afternoon?”

“Nothing immediate, sir. I thought it best that you have today free. Another SVR briefing is scheduled in two hours.”

Niki and Petrov left Andrei Vasiliyvich Ivanov alone in his big office, with a news channel chattering away on a