Swanson paused to drink some water, then continued, “Let me get to the point. I met this Abdullah dude in England.”
“You know the new king?” Stone was surprised.
Swanson nodded. “He was wounded during the terrorist attack in Scotland and was a patient at the clinic where Sybelle and I took out those tangos.”
“Sweet,” said Travis Stone.
Swanson’s eyes blinked open and he stared at them, each in turn. “Not so fast, Trav. Just as the rebellion cooked off, we found out that the Saudis had five nuclear missiles. Only bargain basement nukes, but the threat is huge.”
Rawls said, “Ghetto nukes? Civil war. Oil. Terrorism. Can this get any better?”
Swanson peered up at him. “Sure. One of their missiles has gone missing.”
Rawls groaned. “You’re shitting me.”
Swanson smiled. “When King Abdullah learned about that, he did a flip-flop on refusing all American help. He wants to turn the remaining four missiles over to the United States and asked the White House specifically to name me as the U.S. liaison during the handover. Like I say, he knows me.”
“So what’s our mission?” Travis Hughes asked.
“I leave for Riyadh tonight to meet with King Abdullah and finish setting up the transfers. You guys will be in charge of removing the four missiles that are still scattered around the country. You each will command a plane that will fly in to do the pickups, personally take charge of the warheads, and stay with them until they can be safely stored on a ship. A platoon of MEUSOC Marines will provide overall security. Your only concern will be the nukes. Sybelle will oversee things from here. You report only to her. This is a Trident show all the way.”
Tipp asked, “Uh, what about that fifth one?”
Kyle Swanson gave them his special, meaningless smile. “Not to worry about that one. I snatched it while I was visiting over in Khobz and it’s already aboard a navy carrier.”
34
JEDDAH, SAUDI ARABIA
JUBA STRUGGLED BACK TO consciousness on a comfortable bed in a private villa. His stomach remained queasy, but not as bad as the first two times he had been awake, when he had vomited. His mind was emerging from the cobwebs and lethargy caused by the strong alcohol and narcotics. Someone had placed a bottle of spring water on the bedside table and he drank deeply from it.
He did not know exactly where he was, but trusted that the damned airplane had delivered him to the right place, Jeddah, the second largest city in Saudi Arabia. The room was spacious and when he forced himself from the bed and over to the window, he was pleased to see bright sunlight glinting harshly on a vast body of water, the Red Sea. He pushed the windows open wide and inhaled the hot air.
A clean bathroom with intricate tiles and polished fixtures lured him through the open door. He turned the shower water until it was hot before stepping into the enclosure. Strong waves of steam played over his face and body and he put his head directly beneath the big showerhead. He leaned forward with his hands against the wall to let the water slosh away the remains of the horrible trip. After soaping up and using the shampoo, he adjusted the water slowly to a cold setting. He was feeling almost awake as he finished, stepped out, and grabbed two towels from the warming rack.
His own shaving gear had been placed on a white towel beside the sunken basin and he quickly lathered his face and scraped off the rough whiskers. Juba smirked at his own reflection. You are a mess. He brushed his teeth. Someone had hung his clothes and neatly put away the shirts and underwear, leaving the valise in the closet. Juba decided on lightweight grey slacks and a starched maroon shirt with long sleeves, dark socks, and shined black loafers. Hendrik van Es from Indonesia, who padded around his own home in sandals and a sarong, was no longer present. Juba slid easily into his old skin. He opened the door of the bedroom.
The young man who had picked Juba up at the airport was settled in a large chair, with his long legs crossed. He had a long face framed by a well-trimmed beard and his hair was naturally curly. Juba estimated he was not yet thirty years old, probably stood about six foot two, and had a body that was slim and showed some work, although the manicure indicated that the muscles were the result of gym workouts and not from labor or soldiering.
“Get me something to eat,” Juba softly said.
“My name is Amin,” the man said. He had a strong edge in his tone as he stood, wanting to establish immediate authority. “I am not your servant.”
“I don’t care who you are and that was not a request.” Juba adjusted the eye patch to a more comfortable position. “I had to stop my work and fly halfway around the world to return to this shitty country. If some food is not out here in ten minutes, I’m leaving and your revolution is fucked. I want fresh fruit, croissants, and scrambled eggs. Strong tea. Then go get Dieter.”
Amin was stunned by the extraordinary change. This did not seem like the same person! Not only had the passenger washed away that awful smell, but his commanding manner was that of someone used to having his orders obeyed. Juba walked to the large television set standing blank in the corner, turned it on, and started surfing channels in search of news. He had to catch up.
“Very well. I shall inform the kitchen staff and summon my employer.” Amin did so by picking up a telephone and using an internal system. With that done, he hung up and intentionally moved to stand behind Juba, a tactic that he employed routinely so that his size would intimidate visitors. Maybe this stranger was no fool, but the white hair, the single eye, and other deformities left an overall unimpressive image. “Your food is on the way.”
Juba ignored him and was frustrated by the television broadcasts. Almost everything was being blocked and or heavily censored. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.
Amin said, “I cannot believe that you are the magic one who has been orchestrating the overthrow of the royal family.”
Juba snapped off the TV and dropped the remote, moving silently to the dining table in the next room and taking a chair in a place that had been set for him. A dark blue plate with gold trim matched the rest of the setting and a maid placed a pot of tea beside it. He poured and sipped.
Amin followed, growing more irritated at the treatment he was receiving, as if he were an underling. He pulled out a chair for himself, angled it and sat, unbuttoning his coat, leaning back and crossing his legs again. A pistol was visible in a shoulder holster. A tight smile came to his lips. He felt that his pressure was working as he reasserted his authority.
“Juba!” he said with a mocking tone. “I have heard so much about the famous fighter and jihadist, the maestro of death.” Amin shook his head. “And I finally have the opportunity to meet this hero, only to discover that he is just a frail old man.”
Juba put down the tea, unrolled the folded blue cloth napkin and arranged the dull knife, a spoon and fork, still without saying anything. He emptied a spoonful of sugar into the tea and then added a bit of cream. It tasted good. Food would settle his stomach.
“No wonder you hide in a place where no one can see you,” said Amin, accusingly pointing his left index finger. “I will no longer tell children that they must behave or that the scary Juba will come in the dark and snatch them from their beds. You may have some people fooled, old man, even Dieter Nesch, but I see you plainly for what you are.”
Moving with the speed and force of a bullet, Juba stood in a single move, grabbed Amin’s hair in his left hand and pulled him forward. The table knife was in his right hand and he extended his arm parallel to the floor, with his thumb on the bottom of the blade, and swept it across the bigger man’s left shoulder to plunge it into the soft throat.