Clean Kill (8 page)

RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA

“THE BRITISH!” PRINCE GENERAL
Mamoud Ali al-Fahd, the commander of the Saudi Royal Guard Regiment, had been raging since the first reports of the terrorist attack on the castle in Scotland. “They refused to believe that something like this could happen! They pledged their honor!”

The general’s job was to protect the king, which he did with a beefed-up elite force of three light infantry battalions and an armored battalion. Putting a similar shield around Prince Abdullah should have been someone else’s problem, and was impossible to accomplish from Riyadh, because the prince was the Saudi ambassador to the United States and spent most of his time in Washington. But His Majesty had declared that Abdullah was too important to be left with just ordinary diplomatic protection and al-Fahd had been personally instructed that in addition to his regular duties, the general also would coordinate the prince’s security and see that no harm befell him. Geography alone forced al-Fahd to delegate others to carry out that royal edict, and that weakness had been its defeat. The general could not be everywhere at once and if the others failed, it would still be Prince General Mamoud al-Fahd who would be blamed.

Vice Sergeant Mas’ud Mohammed al-Kazaz, the soldier who had been his valet for seven years, quietly placed a polished silver tray with hot tea and small cakes on a table beside his general. “Please have something to eat, sir. You must keep up your strength, for the good of the kingdom,” the valet said.

“I am not hungry.” The general waved at the tray. “Take it away.”

“Not until you eat, sir.” The valet stubbornly left the tray. He was one of the few men who could talk back to the general, although he did so with a polite and reverent tone. “Please sit down so I can pull off your boots.”

Al-Fahd propped one boot on the sergeant’s broad behind and raised the other leg between the knees of his aide. The vice-sergeant grasped the heel and gave it a hearty pull. He flipped it to the side, the general changed feet, and the second boot was pulled off. The general gave into the moment and had a drink of tea and bit into a sweet cake. Delicious. Another bite and another sip before the anger returned.

Al-Fahd got back up and paced the private suite of rooms that comprised the living space at his private headquarters. He had just returned from another tour of his forces in the field, heightening their alert status due to the incident in Scotland and the rash of confidential reports about civil unrest that were coming in from around the country. The general felt that the narrow line of light that held back the darkness of chaos was cracking, and smacked a fist into a palm in frustration.

“They assured me that our ambassador would be supremely well-protected and that nothing could possibly happen to him because so many security people were involved at an isolated location.” Al-Fahd rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. “Did they think this was some
Lawrence of Arabia
film and a British hero would ride in on a white camel to set things straight? We were allowed to have only three…
three
…of our own security men with him. Outrageous. The Brits were arrogant and insolent and wrong!”

Vice Sergeant al-Kazaz was used to hearing his general grumble while they were alone, when the man could express the intense thoughts he would never utter to a staff officer or outsider. “Yes, sir, they were. But may I remind my general that the ambassador survived, and that our king is safe and the guard lines are strong. That is your primary duty, and you have performed it well.” The valet unbuckled the brass round hasp of the pistol belt and laid the holstered weapon on a table, then helped the tired man remove his sweat-stained tunic and also laid it aside to be cleaned.

The prince gave him a tired smile. Al-Kazaz was always there, a comfortable shadow and as much of a friend as any common soldier could ever be to a prince of the House of Saud. The hard-working son of a small business owner from an allied tribe had compiled a good military record and after a thorough background check, won appointment to the Royal Guard. Intelligent, quick, quiet and competent, he was an ideal aide, hardly ever noticed but always around, usually carrying whatever was needed before the general had to ask.

“Yes. Prince Abdullah was saved by the hand of the Prophet and his wounds were not serious. He is now in a private clinic, and the British have promised even more that he is safe.” Al-Fahd paused. “How can this be believed? I have scheduled a plane to take him back to Washington as soon as possible.”

“They cannot be believed, sir. The plane is the correct response,” answered his valet, agreeing with anything his general said in order to push him along. “Your trousers, please, sir, and then into the shower. You look like a camel herder. Smell like one, too.”

Prince General al-Fahd had to laugh. “You dare order me around like I’m a private. I should have you whipped!” He went to a safe imbedded in the thick concrete wall, turned the dial, and opened it. The general removed a thin chain from around his neck that contained not only his military dog tags but also a small key, and placed it in the safe. From his wallet, he withdrew a small red plastic card embossed with black numbers and also put it inside, atop a small book lanced with the red stripe of Top Secret material, then closed and locked the little door. When those two items were not on his person, they were always in the safe. Allah forbid them falling into the wrong hands.

He stripped off his remaining clothes and went into the bathroom and entered the enclosure where the valet already had a steaming shower running. The flood of cool water washed away worry as well as dirt. When he stepped out, al-Kazaz handed him a warm, huge blue towel.

“I have your family on the telephone, sir,” he said.

The general sat on his bunk and had a brief conversation with his wife and both of their children. All was well at home, Allah be thanked. “A fresh uniform, if you please, vice-sergeant.”

“Sir, this would be a good time for you to get a few hours of sleep. You must rest if the country is to survive this crisis. A fatigued man makes mental mistakes,” insisted the mild, polite voice. He handed over a set of pressed pajamas.

“There is no time to sleep, Mas’ud,” the general replied, although the soft bed seemed to tug at him. He yawned. “There is just so much to do.”

“I will awaken you if there is a real emergency. The appropriate forces are dealing with this rebellion of dogs in the slums, sir, and it will all be over soon. We protect the king and I must not let your attention be diverted from that holy cause. I’ll fetch the chief of staff in four hours to brief you.”

“All of these developments…so awfully bad.” The general stretched out.

“There is nothing more you can do about it for the time being, sir. I am sure that Prince Abdullah is now probably the most protected man on earth. I will finish my chores here and then take a chair right beside your door.”

Prince General al-Fahd felt his muscles agree to what his mind was fighting, and he relaxed. “Very well, vice-sergeant. You’re the boss.”

“Rest then, soldier. It is lights out for you.” He had dimmed the two big fixtures and only a soft 75-watt bulb of a lamp beside the bed remained on, not enough to tempt him to read more reports. The valet turned off the final switch and the room went pitch dark.

Soldier?
The tension was broken by the small impertinence. The general turned on his left side and stretched and began to doze immediately although sounds still came to him. There was the low buzz of the central air-conditioning, and Mas’ud was busying himself gathering the dirty laundry, the boots, the pistol and the belt, and the tea tray. The full uniform would be cleaned, brass bright and leather polished, by the time the prince general awoke. He listened to the familiar sliding of oiled metal and clicks of his 9 mm Heckler & Koch pistol. Just Mas’ud unloading the magazine and clearing the chamber to be sure the weapon was safe before taking it away for cleaning.

His soldier’s mind registered something odd. The procedure, which he had heard thousands of times, didn’t sound right. Something was out of sequence. He snapped awake in the darkness and managed to partially turn onto his back but was out of time, and could neither see, fight, nor shout.

Mas’ud had wrapped the dirty uniform around the pistol, aimed the muzzle close to the face, and was already pulling the trigger. The head of Prince General al-Fahd was punched open by the big bullets. Blood, brains, and bone fragments from the commander of the Royal Guard Regiment spewed onto the cot and slapped onto the wall in a fan-shaped pattern. The folded clothes had silenced the gunshots.

The valet snapped the table lamp on again and carefully checked his own uniform and body for blood spots. There were none. He threw the clothes onto the dead man and reloaded. The turncoat assassin hurried over to the safe and unlocked it. He had watched the general do it so many times that he had long ago memorized the combination and even practiced opening the little vault when he was alone in the room. Grabbing the key, the red card, and a small booklet, Mas’ud stuck them in his pocket, turned out the light and left, locking the door behind him. Leaving the building, he passed along the order to the chief of staff that the general did not wish to be disturbed until 0600 the next morning.

The vice sergeant slid behind the wheel of the shining black staff Mercedes and drove away unmolested, heading for a nearby mosque to deliver the key and the red card to his imam, and then onto the fashionable home of the prince general to murder the general’s family. Only one more task would remain after that: He would turn the weapon on himself and become a martyr, trading his life for the good of the jihad and a promised payment of money to his impoverished family. He had received a love note by e-mail.

THE WHITE HOUSE

“WHAT DO WE HAVE
on this soldier who pulled the trigger on his own general?” President Mark Tracy was interrogating his team of close advisers in the Oval Office.

Steve Hanson, his chief of staff, sighed and leaned back against one of the small couches on the edge of the huge circular rug that bore the eagle symbol of the United States. A bright sun streamed in through the bullet-proof glass windows but the air-conditioning kept the inside comfortable. Hanson worked in rolled-up shirtsleeves and had assembled the various dossiers compiled by the CIA, the U.S. embassy in Riyadh, and the Defense Department. “Sir, the guy was a product of the Islamic religious schools, a
madrassa
, where the Koran is their primary text. Saudi intel says one of his teachers long ago was a hate-based radical who preached the need for a religious government in Saudi Arabia. By the time the preacher died in prison about nine years ago, he had churned out some pretty violent followers. There’s no way that he actually could have steered this soldier for this exact operation, not so many years in advance, but he certainly planted the seed.”

Bartlett Geneen, the director of the CIA, was on the other couch. Wisps of white hair curled around his balding head and deep worry lines etched his face, tracks of having been around the spook business for a long time. “It has all the looks of a one-man terrorist cell. The soldier bided his time, followed his instincts, and waited for the right moment. Those are almost impossible to detect or stop.”

The president sat still and considered that, taking a sip from a cup of coffee, then returning the sturdy Navy mug to a little table beside him. The Saudis had helped bring this crisis down on themselves in so many ways. How far had the rot penetrated the supporting structure? A Muslim kid going to a village school twenty years ago had learned the wrong lessons and now his problems had become the world’s problem. “So he acted alone? Killed the general and the general’s family? People who apparently treated him kindly and considered him a friend, and then he commits suicide? It makes no sense.”

“No, Mr. President, it doesn’t. Such things happen, so we can’t rule it out. But I agree with you. This one smells. It happened right on the heels of the Scotland attack, and that is too much of a coincidence for me to accept. We can’t prove it yet, but I think he was acting on someone’s specific order to hit that specific target.”

“Then there’s the other odd piece of that puzzle that hasn’t been put in place yet,” said Hanson. “The safe was found open in the general’s room and the aide’s fingerprints were on the dial, but it doesn’t look like anything is missing. There was cash in there and some secret military plans that might have been given to the radicals. They were untouched.”

“So what was he after? A lone wolf murderer doesn’t murder an important officer then stick around to open a safe just to exercise his fingers.”

“That we don’t know yet, sir,” answered Geneen. “The Saudis say they are working on it.”

President Tracy shook his head. “Keep me posted, but let’s move on to the central question: The rebellion is growing, but will it succeed?” His eyes darted back to the CIA director.

“Too early to tell, Mr. President. So far, the military seems to be holding it all together, but crowds are making things tricky in the cities and the religious police are really ramping up the shouting, hollering about how the royals betrayed Islam and have to be eliminated.”

“Eliminated?”

“Killed or driven out of the country.” Director Geneen snapped shut the buff folder that was propped on his knees. “The murder of Prince General al-Fahd will shake the confidence of the ruling family. If the commander of the Saudi Royal Guard Regiment can be assassinated by his valet, then who among them is truly safe? We’re picking up backchannel traffic that some of the minor princes are inquiring about possible emergency flights to other countries.”

Hanson studied his notes. “It’s the domino effect. If some leave, they all could start pulling out with the idea of living on their fortunes in investments abroad. The princes head for Monaco, Paris, and New York while the House of Saud falls to the clerics and the mobs.”

“We can’t let that happen,” said the president.

“We can’t stop it,” responded the CIA official.

“So the question is going to boil down to military intervention to support our friends. Do we have forces available to help?”

General Hank Turner, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, picked up the conversation. “Yes, sir. We have one carrier battle group in the area and another can be on station in a week. For ground forces, we can retask divisions out of Iraq and shift armor in there fast. Plenty of air power available throughout in the region.”

“Jesus,” said Steve Hanson. “We jump from one war to another over there. No offense, general, but I don’t know if that’s going to be the answer this time.”

“I never said it was, Steve. The president asked to know his options,” said Turner, unruffled by the oblique challenge. Part of the game.

“What’s on your mind, Steve?” The president and Hanson had come into political office from the business world, where they had headed one of the biggest electronics corporations in the nation. Hanson was never shy about sharing his opinions.

“We need another full-fledged war like a dog needs a scooter. The bottom line is the Saudi oil, which is the only reason the king and his court are important at all.”

“The United States gets more oil from Canada than it does from the Saudis, and almost as much from Mexico,” the CIA director pointed out. “We could actually get along without them for a while, particularly if Iraq develops its full potential.”

Hanson agreed, with a serious look at the president. “It will disrupt the flow, and I don’t think Americans are going to like to deal with oil that could cost hundreds of dollars per barrel. Nevertheless, the kingdom is the world’s gas station. It has one-fifth of the entire global reserves and we’re not the only ones watching what is going on over there. Those reserves need to be protected and traded legitimately on the world market.”

“I don’t like where your scenario is heading, Steve,” said the president. “We will not throw our friends in Riyadh under the bus, let their government fall and then just move in ourselves to take over the Saudi oil operations, even as an honest broker.”

“Sir, the hardest decision the Saudi government might have to face in this crisis would be deciding whether to allow thousands of American troops to enter the country if their own military proves insufficient or riddled with disloyalty. Just because we are willing to commit forces in there does not mean they will allow us to intervene.”

The president crossed his arms and chewed at his thumbnail in silence for a few moments. Thoughts rushed through his mind.
So much to do. A new secretary of state must be appointed right away and there will be a state funeral at Arlington tomorrow for my old friend Ken Waring. Saudi Arabia is coming to a fast boil. Perhaps a UN force to stabilize the oil fields? All that and a half-dozen other crisis points on completely different issues that have nothing to do with foreign relations.
He rubbed his eyes.

“Is the Saudi ambassador back yet?” President Tracy stood. The meeting was over.

“He’s on the way. Our last word was that he was planning to leave the clinic in England today. Prince Abdullah will be a good guy for us to have around right now.”

“Please let him know that I want to see him as soon as he gets in,” said the president. “There must be some way out of this problem.”

Hanson looked at the others and gave a silent nod and they began to leave the room. “We’re on it, sir,” he said. “Look at it this way. Things could not be much worse.”

“Steve, the one thing that I’ve learned in this job is that things can always get worse.”