Clean Kill (13 page)

THE BOYKIN GROUP WAS
headquartered in a nondescript building in an industrial district cluttered with small warehouses, stacks of steel shipping containers, and pyramids of pipe and other oil line gear. The company sign was painted on a weathered wooden door behind a little screened entranceway that kept out the flies. Jamal, a short and muscular man who moved with smooth efficiency, went into the screen enclosure, unlocked the wooden door and pulled it outward. Behind it stood a strong steel door with two heavy locks that threw bolts into the surrounding steel frame.

The office was nothing much. A floor of bland greenish linoleum with some of the tiles torn, and plaster walls covered with many coats of cheap white paint. Two second-hand desks faced each other. Thick shades covered the windows on each wall to keep out the sun, but if he chose to look outside, Boykin had an almost 360-degree view of the surrounding area. Bulletin boards were peppered with pinpoint holes, some hanging notes and a few old clipboards hanging on nails, their jaws chomping wads of paper. Overhead fluorescent lights hummed and flickered. The place looked as common as the dirt.

“This joint was built years back when construction was booming around the new port and nobody raised an eyebrow,” Homer explained. “Lots of weird construction was going on back then and our contractors and laborers were flown in along with the necessary specialized equipment, did their jobs, then left. No locals were involved. Did it all in less than thirty days.”

Kyle Swanson recognized it for what it was as he stood in front of an air-conditioning vent and let it blast the sweat on his back. “CIA safe house,” he said. The intelligence-gathering outpost was created because the Agency wanted trained eyes and ears in one of the world’s most important oil installations.

“Come on downstairs,” Boykin said, pushing a panel button. A section of the wall folded back, revealing a staircase. “The builders had a hell of a time drilling and pouring support columns for the basement. They kept striking oil. Damn stuff just oozed out of the sand and would fill the holes overnight if they didn’t pump it out.”

The basement was larger than the house above it and was cooler by being below ground level. Fans kept filtered air moving around the communications suite along one wall where secure computers, printers, speakers, and security camera feeds were in place. Cupboards containing emergency rations and boxes of bottled water were built along another wall and a chemical toilet and a small shower were curtained off in a corner. Folding cots leaned against one cabinet. At the far end, a steel ladder ascended one corner up to a hatch that exited into a rusting shipping container anchored on a concrete pad that was separated by a small driveway from the headquarters. It was maintained to appear to be a storage shed for tools. Emergency exit.

Another section of the basement was sectioned off with a locked cage of steel wire and contained the armory. Boykin twirled the combination lock and swung open the gate. “I understand you’ve done some work for us before,” he said. “We probably have anything in here that you will need, but let’s keep it to a sidearm until we finish the recon drive.”

Kyle found another Colt .45 and took a quick and approving look around the armory. It was spotless and the weapons were perfectly maintained. Crates of ammo were neatly stacked and explosives were sealed in plastic. The city of Khobz had been under construction for more than four decades. Swanson figured the Boykin Group and its predecessors in this little CIA operation had been modernizing and accumulating gear throughout that entire time.

Another result of that long tenure was that the intelligence specialists based here over the years had created a cartographic masterpiece that was secured to a nearby table. “Impressive,” Kyle said.

“We keep it current,” Homer responded, looking at it with undisguised pride. “Jamal and I pace off the distances while we hustle small contracts around the town and we photograph potential obstacles. Even the best satellite photo can still miss vital points that an operator on the ground would need to know.”

“You got that right,” said Swanson.

Boykin pulled up a chair and sat down and Jamal poured a cup of coffee for himself. “Major Summers told me this was a one-trick mission and that you would pass along the instructions. Langley approved. So here we are. What’s up?”

“No offense, but I assume Jamal has been vetted?”

The Jordanian laughed, showing white teeth and a sense of humor. He dropped the façade of being a semi-ragged Middle Eastern hired hand. “My family comes from Jordan, but I’m first-generation American, born in Tennessee,” he said. “The Agency recruited me eleven years ago straight out of law school at Mister Jefferson’s University in Virginia because of my languages. Obviously my cover works. What are we supposed to be doing with you?”

“There’s a missile with a nuclear warhead hidden around here somewhere. My job is to destroy it,” Kyle said. His statement sucked the air out of the basement room.

“Be damned.” Homer Boykin shot a look at Jamal. “We’ve been telling Langley for months that something was strange with that Saudi anti-missile battery just outside of town. Our reports have been totally ignored.” He shook his head in disgust. “Those second-guessing fuckers thousands of miles away drive me nuts.”

Jamal agreed. “That’s a good place for a nuke missile. Hide it among a bunch of other missiles that are allegedly protecting the oil fields.” He placed his finger on a map location about three miles south of the city center. “It’s got to be right there, alongside the living quarters for about a few hundred soldiers who guard the production facilities.”

THE BITE HAD GONE
out of the scorching sun when they set out to drive around the city, Jamal at the wheel and Kyle in the passenger seat. Homer Boykin was on the long seat in the middle row of the van, leaning forward between them to talk in a normal voice.

“This place has always had a bit of nastiness to it. Used to be a rest stop for the foreign fighters going into Iraq. By the time one group was trucked off, a new batch of those hard-eyed sumbitches would be gathering,” said Boykin.

“Any of them still here?” Kyle adjusted the pistol tucked in his belt.

Boykin pointed. “You bet, and Jamal hears that some of those outlaw militia types from over in Basra have come in
from
Iraq for a change. Let’s go over near the mosque, Jamal.”

The minivan went around a corner and edged through the narrow street of an outdoor covered bazaar. The food stalls were doing the most business, swirls of anxious shoppers and women carrying plastic sacks that bulged with goods. “More people out this evening than normal,” Jamal commented.

“Like last-minute shopping before a hurricane,” said Kyle. “Everybody stocking up.”

Boykin’s trained eyes saw more. “Despite the increase in business, the shopkeepers are shutting down early. Not as many tents in the streets and the doors and shutters on a couple of stores are already closed.”

Jamal reached the broad road that was the main axis through the urban area. Boykin pointed. “There’s the main mosque up ahead at twelve o’clock. It’s the headquarters of the Committee on Virtue and that’s where the fighters stay.”

Oil money and political favoritism had been lavished on the mosque, which had a classical Arab architecture of graceful arches and long, straight lines. Men streamed in and out of the three entrances that were open behind the stone columns, and tall towers rose from the sides, where the
muezzin
could call the faithful to prayer. The towers also provided sentries with high perches from which they could see everything around the mosque. The building marked the separation point between the commercial district and the residential area.
Nobody up in the towers. Only one guard at the entrance
, Kyle thought.
They’re overconfident
.

“Go around,” said Boykin, and Jamal swung through traffic. An irregular ring road circled the big mosque and as they approached the back, they found a line of pickups and flatbed trucks, some minivans and small cars. “Convoy,” he said.

“Trouble, Boss,” said Jamal. “Police roadblock.”

“Turn through the alley,” said Boykin. “We’ve seen enough here. Those are cops, not soldiers, obviously there to stop people from being too curious about those trucks.”

Jamal waved to the few uniformed men at the roadblock as he made the turn and accelerated away. “You guys stay low. We don’t want to be showing white faces around here,” Jamal said. “I’ll take a shortcut back to the foreign compound. Then we can head south to the missile base.”

The first rock sailed up from behind them and clattered on the metal roof of the van, followed by a flurry of stones and bricks from the sides. “Gangs of kids are coming from all around. Get us out of here,” Boykin called.

Rocks and soda cans and debris of every sort rained from the rooftops, doorways, and the mouths of alleys as the minivan passed. No adults were out, just kids, their eyes wide in excitement, bombing Satan.

“What the fuck? Are we in Somalia?” yelled Kyle, covering his head with one hand and grabbing the pistol with the other. A rock the size of a softball smashed through the back window. People whistled and yelled.

“We ride out here all the time and never have trouble. These people know us,” Jamal responded, spinning the steering wheel. They flew around another corner and the crowd disappeared, evaporating as if nothing had happened. “The kids are the early warning system to keep outsiders away from the mosque,” he said. “Something’s coming down.”

A FEW MINUTES LATER,
Jamal drove through the gate to the foreign compound, nodded to the single soldier on guard, and entered a different world. It was a neat layout with straight roads and cookie-cutter, Western-style homes, cars in the driveways and TV satellite dishes bolted on the rooftops, a complete opposite of the nearby communities of square mud huts interspersed with a few grand homes of the local residents. The people of the desert lived out beyond the wire.

“Mostly only guys are still living here,” Boykin explained. “Khobz is not pleasant for Western women, and absolutely no place to try to raise a kid because the
muttaween
religious cops rule outside the fence and really influence what can go on inside this perimeter, too. This is not a diplomatic quarter with any sort of immunity, so Saudi law rules. Families are better off in nearby countries where Daddy can go see them on a long weekend and spend the big oil paychecks.”

Many of the houses seemed empty and forlorn with no lights on, although darkness was beginning to fall. Kyle mentioned the exodus at the airport and Boykin said that unofficial withdrawal had been going on for several days. “Anybody with a brain and a choice is leaving,” Homer said.

The supermarket in the mall was still open, but the bowling alley was closed, as were the public swimming pools and the clubhouses, as if the little community was holding its breath.

“We need to pick up anything from our house, Homer?” Jamal asked, pausing at the driveway of a two-bedroom home that was identical to its neighbors in every way.

“No. We’re good. Let’s get on out to the military pad before the light gives out.”

Kyle shook his head. “Let’s not. Judging by what we just saw, they won’t let us anywhere near the place and we don’t want to seem to be overly curious. I can go out tonight for a look.”

Homer said, “Okay, if that’s what you want. You up for some pizza?” he asked. “Got a place down by the beach run by a Chinese family. They operate 24/7 because the oil business never shuts down. Make more money selling thick crust slices than they would sweating out on the rigs. We’ll pick some up and go back to the shop.” He took out his cell phone and hit a speed dial number for Dragon Pizza. “Hope you ain’t a vegetarian.”

They returned to the safe house with two large pizzas stacked with meat and redolent with onions and peppers, went through the steel door and down to the basement. Boykin grabbed a slice as he booted up his computer, typed in his password and checked the e-mails. Nothing.

Jamal was telling a joke about camels when his cell phone rang with a Stones tune. He looked at the caller ID, raised his eyebrows and answered, “The Boykin Group.” He listened, closed the connection without responding and tossed the phone on a counter.

“The convoy is leaving the mosque,” he said, stuffing one more bite of pizza into his mouth and opening the armory cage. The first salvo of explosions could be heard dully stomping around the foreign compound.

Jamal and Homer actually watched Kyle Swanson change before their eyes, as if some motion picture special effect stunt was turning an ordinary man into an icy machine. A steadiness settled over him like a cloak and his eyes sparkled, the mind racing. He was instantly amped and ready, went into the armory cage for an MP5 submachine gun and a couple of spare magazines. He also picked up a set of bolt-cutters and a combat knife. Jamal handed him a headset radio.

“I’m going to use the noise and distraction as cover to check out the missiles.” Swanson was up the stairs and gone.

Homer finished the pizza while helping Jamal load up the van.

RIYADH

A FEW HOURS AFTER
dark on the day the king was murdered, small processions of expensive automobiles began to arrive at a restaurant on the outskirts of Riyadh. As usual, the chairs around small tables on the sidewalk out front were occupied by men drinking sludgy gahwa Arabian coffee from tiny cups and sharing the pipes of hookahs filled with rosewater. The men were the outer cordon of guards for the meeting that was about to take place on the second floor of the plain-looking building.

Personal representatives for six of the most powerful men in the kingdom of Saudi Arabia arrived separately, with their own bodyguards, and moved through the tables, beneath an archway and through a double-door that opened into a bland dining area lit only by strings of naked 100-watt bulbs that dangled from loose cords. Other guards, these openly carrying weapons, were in the corners. The restaurant owner welcomed the men in turn, and passed them through the downstairs area to a staircase that ascended to the second floor. Their retinues and personal bodyguards were left downstairs. Only six men were allowed up.

The principals did not attend because even with the safeguards that were in place, it was the kind of tense evening when long knives might flash. The half-dozen men who went up the dusty stairs represented the royal family, religion, the military, major nonpetroleum business interests, the tribes, and oil.

There was an immense difference between this room and the rest of the building. It was brightly lit, neat and clean. In one corner was a fully stocked bar that included exclusive brands of alcoholic beverages. A large round table occupied the middle of the room, with six chairs spaced evenly around it, the places marked by sealed bottles of water. A feast of food was spread in the middle: plates of fresh pita bread, bowls of spices, falafel, rice, hot peppers, and mutton and other meats that had been vertically roasted on spits.

The group was gathering for the most urgent of reasons, to decide who would be their next king, but Arab tradition required a certain informality that showed friendship, respect, and honor. Only when the men had helped themselves to the food and drink and exchanged small talk about their families could they get down to business. No one was technically in charge.

The talk did not get around to the business of the night for almost an hour, until Prince Aziz, a minor member of the royal family, tore off a final bit of pita, rolled it around a chunk of rice and lamb, dipped it into a spicy mixture and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, licked his fingers, and gave a loud burp. His demonstrated appreciation of the fine meal marked the end of the first phase of the meeting and a termination of the uneasy politeness. The belch was a starting signal to launch the serious discussion.

“The line of direct succession has been severed,” said one voice and everyone looked at Aziz, who was representing the sprawling royal family. “The king had appointed his eldest son to be the heir, but the simultaneous death of the crown prince has left the position open. We must choose a new leader and announce him as soon as possible.”

“Agreed. The question is, ‘How?’” said a colonel who was the military envoy to the meeting tonight. He was not in uniform. “The successor must come from among the king’s sons or grandsons. I cannot see either of His Majesty’s full brothers ascending.”

The construction magnate from an influential family, chosen as the spokesman for the nonpetroleum businesses, agreed. “Both of the brothers are too far along in years to assume day-to-day responsibility during this crisis. His Majesty had three sons in direct lineage. With the crown prince also dead, only two of the true sons remain as candidates. The sons by other wives do not qualify.”

“The eldest is a corrupt playboy and is unacceptable to the tribes,” snorted the sheikh who was a Bedouin chief from the south. “The youngest has not proven himself as a man, for he is a father of daughters—no sons at all. He is also unacceptable to us.”

The conversation lapsed into silence for a few moments. Not only royal succession, but competing commercial pressures were in play at the table. Fortunes were on the line.

The executive from the rich oil industry coughed to get attention. “Let us not forget that there is a rebellion going on outside these doors, my friends.” He cast a stony glance across at the imam who was the religious faction’s man at the table. “Our king was murdered by zealots who are out of control.”

The imam retorted, “The rebellion was caused by a corrupt government that strayed from the will of Allah and the words of the Prophet, praise be unto him. The Grand Mufti is not involved in any way in this matter.”

The eyes of the oil man swept around the table. “You are wrong. The overall population is not in rebellion. They are still sitting it out, huddling in their homes, just like our exalted Grand Mufti. His silence has allowed that vile dog Ebara and his
muttaween
to seize leadership of the rebels. Ebara is a disgrace to our faith.”

Prince Aziz steepled his fingers before speaking. “Our religion and our politics are threads in the same fabric. The House of Saud ruled with the support of the Wahhabis, and the monarchy in turn allowed them to spread and enforce the tenets of our beliefs.” He turned to face the imam. “It appears that the religious leaders are no longer satisfied with that longstanding arrangement.”

There was a rumble of private discussions around the table for a minute before the oil representative again spoke. “All of us are worried about the future,” he said. “Saudi Arabia is not Iran. The citizens will not accept a totalitarian theocracy, nor rule by the
muttaween
. We must show our people that our new king has unanimous support, so he can assume the throne immediately.”

The imam was sweating beneath his robes. “There are proper groups already in place to make this decision. Why should just the six of us tell the rest of the nation what to do?”

The colonel slapped the table. “Yes! We have the Consultative Council and the
ulema
and the
Majlis
and the
Shura
and the
muktars
and twenty million other bargaining Saudis. They would never even agree that a circle is round, much less come together on a decision of this magnitude.”

Prince Aziz sighed: “I have thousands of cousins in the royal family and all of them would like to ascend. Even me. But we can haggle later. Right now our people need a king and our military needs a leader in order to quell this rebellion. If you are all satisfied with the House of Saud, please, just pick somebody!”

The powerful executive from the oil industry concurred. “This tawdry rebellion threatens to swallow us all. We need to stabilize this situation fast or risk having some outside force come in to seize our production facilities. If that happens, our very lifeblood will be under the thumb of international supervision for many years to come. Our most precious resource will be beyond our control.”

The imam had his own instructions from the leaders waiting in the mosques. “There is much more to consider than the oil and money,” he stated with a cold glare. “If it is the Will of Allah, praise be unto him, that a new kind of government is rising to save our nation, then we are all bound to obey.”

The tribal sheikh stared at him. “You would let a foolish thug like Ebara take over? I will tell you here and now that the
Bedu
will never stand for it.”

“Then let us choose,” someone said. “Who among the grandsons? I put forth the name of Prince Abdullah, who is easily the most qualified among those in the true bloodline.”

The imam became stiff in outrage. “The ambassador to the United States? That disgraceful man was about to sign a peace treaty with the Jews!”

“He was following the decision of our government,” the colonel reminded him. “Our country has never fought Israel and let’s hope we never do. Many in our generation are tired of hearing sermons about how the Jews are to blame for everything that goes wrong. The military has no objection to Abdullah. Does anyone else have a nomination?”

“Prince Abdullah has the diplomatic and military experience to take over. We can live with him.” The man from the oil sector settled back into his chair. The tribal sheikh agreed.

“That is our decision, then,” said Prince Aziz. “It is unanimous, is it not?”

“I shall inform the Grand Mufti of your suggestion,” the imam said. “His decision will be rendered after appropriate thought.”

That was too much for the sheikh, a man known for his fiery temper. He rose from his chair, his eyes darkening and the muscles of his jaw quivering with barely suppressed fury. He was a man of the desert, a Wahhabi Bedouin, a tribe that never hesitated to purify the wishes of the Prophet with the blood of enemies. Violence was part of his heritage and he brooked no respect for preachers. He pulled back his robe and a jeweled dagger glittered in his belt. “That is not good enough. You are stalling. You will take this to the Grand Mufti as the choice that he must endorse immediately! Or, perhaps you may not go back at all. Perhaps I should cut off your ears and give you a better reason for not hearing what we have all decided? We can always send another messenger.”

The colonel rose. “I believe the sheikh and the imam have a few private matters to discuss. I would be honored if the rest of you would join me downstairs for some coffee.” They all walked out, closing the door behind them.

Five minutes later, the imam came stumbling down the stairs and went through the group without a word, his face pale and his fingertips shaking. The sheikh followed, a sneering smile on his dark face. “It is now unanimous. Tomorrow we announce a new king.”