that this was another attack by Juba.”
The general closed the drawer with his foot and slid the chair forward so he could rest his arms on the desk. “What’s your take, Captain Summers?”
“I agree with Double-Oh. It’s got to be Juba, sir. Shoots, kills, and disappears. We don’t know whether he is just one man or several different snipers, whether he is even real or just some Arabian fairy tale to pump up the spirits of the jihadists. Whatever, he’s the best they’ve got, and pulling off an assassination like this in the Green Zone enhances his reputation.”
Freedman did some calculations in his head. “I figure the shooter had a target area of no more than an inch. The unprotected opening between the vest and the sleeve of the first victim was only about an inch wide, and the sniper squeezed a bullet in there. The second shot was exact enough to hit the vein, an even smaller target. I can work up the ballistics, angles, and all that if you want.”
“Not necessary,” said Middleton. “The people in Baghdad are doing that, and we will have their data when it comes in. What is interesting is that he knew exactly who to shoot and when the target was going to appear in a certain place at a certain time. Total inside information.”
“Liz, did the informant say anything else worthwhile before he got popped?” Double-Oh crossed his right leg over his left knee, taking up even more space. Sybelle pushed him.
“An intel report arrived just before we came in here for the meeting,” interjected Middleton. “The scientist said he had escaped from a laboratory in Iran, and he gave a general location near the Iraq border.”
“He used that particular word, sir? Escaped?”
“Right. So, people, that’s our mission. We are going to do a little snoop and poop and find that mysterious lab.”
Middleton stood and stretched, throwing his arms wide, then put his hands on his hips. “So we’re going in. Sybelle, you will stay here this time and oversee the operation. Spin up an infiltration team and get them over to Doha. Double-Oh, you will lead the team on the ground. On your way over, detour out to Sir Geoffrey’s boat and pick up Swanson. Give them a briefing, and then you two hustle down to Kuwait. Order anything you need through Lieutenant Commander Freedman.”
The Lizard blew out a short breath of relief. He did not like to travel far from his desk. “Sir, is it wise to use Gunny Swanson on this? According to Captain Summers, he really needs some down time.”
Double-Oh answered. “Liz, if there is any fucking chance at all that we might bump into Juba while we run this job, I want our best shooter along to cover my ass. I’ll put my money on Kyle, tired or not.”
“Then he can sleep on the plane to Kuwait,” said General Middleton. “Get to it, people. Go get me some pictures of this Palace of Death.”
4
EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND
THE ROYAL WEDDING OF Prince William and the beautiful Barbara Seldingham, the future king and queen of England, was a plum for the press. A billion people would gather around television sets from Africa to Australia to watch the splendid event.
Television stations wanting to personalize the coverage could send a reporter and crew to London but could not transport their own mobile rigs overseas and had to lease the needed technical equipment. Every such company in the region had been booked for months in advance, and others were created just for that purpose.
Edinburgh All-Media Ltd., in Scotland, was one of the small companies founded to serve the huge demand. It had filed papers for a business permit, found a storefront office, then bought and reconfigured two vans especially for commercial television use, including external generators to power computers and editing gear inside the cargo areas. One was immediately rented by a television station in Little Rock, Arkansas, and the other was leased to a cable company in Italy. The two trucks were given distinctive purple and white paint schemes.
Juba wore a jumpsuit that matched those colors as he drove the lead van away from the city center and onto the City of Edinburgh Bypass, the A720. He slipped on dark sunglasses as he turned east, directly into the morning sun, and drove on until the A720 merged with the A1 at Old Craighall Junction. The second van followed, and they crossed the border at Lamberton.
They made the journey of a twisting 420 miles to London in a single day, entered the city, and maneuvered to the cordoned-off far end of Kensington Park that had been reserved for the regiment of production trucks that would support the television horde. There was a short line of trucks waiting to get in, and the two vans from Edinburgh All-Media slid into position at the rear. A policeman told them to stay with the vehicles until the security teams cleared them. For thirty minutes, they followed as the line grew shorter until Juba drove onto a special parking pad caked with detection sensors, where a four-man squad and their bomb-sniffing dog thoroughly combed the vehicle and found nothing. Once cleared to be inside the quarantine area, a van could not leave until after the wedding.
Juba was given a map with a specific parking slot highlighted with a yellow marking pen: the very back row, against the Cyclone fence. The other purple and white van had a slightly better spot, one row in front and about fifty yards away, to the left. The Italians had more clout than the station from Arkansas.
The driver of the second van caught a late train back to Scotland, where he would dismantle the little office of Edinburgh All-Media Ltd. Juba did not have far to go: he was spending a few days with his mother and father at their small place in the West Midlands, the home of his boyhood.
IN THE MED, A streak of sunshine as bright as a spotlight came through the slightly parted curtains over the porthole and hammered the face of Kyle Swanson until he woke up. It was almost noon. Everyone passing in the corridor outside had been content not to awaken him and had tiptoed around his cabin door. After stretching, he took a shower and shaved. By the time he put on fresh jeans and a golf shirt and running shoes, he almost felt human. His head hurt.
Stepping outside, he found that the storm had passed on and had been replaced by a calm green sea and a sunlit sky, and the
Up one deck, he entered the main cabin of the yacht, a spacious lounge with a full bar in one corner and a comfortable arrangement of sofas, soft chairs, and heavy antique Chinese tables. A giant flat-screen television set and an electronic entertainment center were built into one bulkhead. Sir Geoffrey Cornwell was hunched forward and reading news reports flashing on the screen of a laptop computer. A retired colonel from the British Special Air Services, Jeff had built a fortune making and selling state-of-the-art weapons systems. He seldom got excited and was very aware that warriors handled stress in different ways. It was not exactly a secret that they got drunk on occasion to deal with the stress.
Jeff raised his shaggy eyebrows. “Rough night?”
A carafe of chilled orange juice was on the buffet, and Kyle poured a glass and drank it before answering. He filled a thick ceramic mug with coffee and picked up a small bowl of fruit at the buffet. “Was drunk. Now sober.” No apologies.
Lady Patricia was reading a magazine beside a large window that provided a panoramic view of the passing sea. She looked up, took an elegant pull on a small, thin cigar, and blew away the smoke. “You are our wayward boy, Kyle. You were quite naughty last night, but we’ve seen you worse. Do it again, however, and I shall spank you.”
“Is that an offer, m’lady?” He smiled. Conversation made his head hurt.
“Don’t act the little pervert now. Ask Dr. Russell to give you something for your hangover.”
“I’m fine,” said Kyle.
“Spoken like a true warrior. You are truly a hard man, Kyle Swanson,” Sir Jeff said without looking away from
