“Who is this Jeff?” Delara asked. “What are you going to do with me?”
Kyle touched her shoulder, and she immediately relaxed. “Jeff is a good friend, and by the time he finishes working his magic, you will pretty much have anything you want. A new country and a new future. A new you.”
Sybelle was on her feet. “Joe and Travis, we’ll leave you here. Good job, guys. Thanks for the help.”
“Sure, Captain,” said Tipp. “Anytime.”
“Y’all take good care of our girl Delara,” called Travis Hughes. “I already taught her how to say Semper Fi!”
A Humvee was parked outside, and the three of them got into it, with Sybelle at the wheel. “I didn’t want to mention it in there, but there’s another reason we have to get back on board the Vagabond.” She glanced back at Delara, whose eyes were already closed.
“The Lizard has flown out from Washington to meet us there. You have a Green Light package.”
“I would like to get some sleep first.”
“And I would like to be thinner,” Sybelle said. “Neither is likely.”
THE LIZARD HAD EVERYTHING ready when Swanson, Sybelle, and Delara flew out to the Vagabond. Delara was turned over to Lady Pat for the time being, while Sybelle and Kyle met in Sir Jeff’s private office with Lieutenant Commander Freedman. A big pile of documents was at the Lizard’s side, and his computer was already running on secure circuits.
“This is the voice of Ahmad Hikmat Aseer, a known al Qaeda operative, in conversation with another al Qaeda leader. The NSA Big Ears picked it up. The caller is so furious that he ignored normal security precautions and made contact from his home telephone.” The Lizard tapped his keyboard and turned up the volume. A torrent of French sprang from the speakers in an angry and threatening tone, so fast that Kyle could not follow the words. It sounded like the guy was spitting on himself in his rage.
The Lizard handed transcripts to Sybelle and Kyle. “It seems that Ahmad had a brother named Youcef, who happened to be the head of al Qaeda operations in France. Youcef’s body was found floating in a Paris canal several days ago. That’s when Ahmad made this call.”
Kyle read carefully. Ahmad said that his brother was last seen alive before an important meeting at his home in Paris with the outcasts Saladin and his bodyguard Juba. “They killed him and his own guards in his own house!” Ahmad Hikmat Aseer sputtered. “Not only that, the arrogant pigs have confiscated the house as their own!”
He demanded revenge, insisting that al Qaeda send in an execution team, and that was when the other man realized the danger of the call and challenged Ahmad about making it. He hung up.
“By then it was too late; the Big Ears had it. NSA gave it to the CIA, and they turned up an address in Paris for the deceased Youcef Aseer.”
“So why give us a Green Light? Let the CIA handle it.” Sybelle skimmed the transcript again.
“I don’t know that. Too far above my pay grade. I could guess that if the CIA mucks up the arrest of Saladin, there would be an embarrassing trail back to Washington. Anyway, General Middleton gave me the assignment to brief you and get you on your way. I have a military jet standing by on shore. You’re going to Paris.”
“What about me?” asked Sybelle.
“We go, but to a support point in a separate location. Kyle comes back there when he finishes.”
“When do we leave?” “Now,” the Lizard said.
PARIS
The Lizard had reserved him a businessman’s suite at a nondescript and out-of-the-way hotel that catered to executives of companies that did not allow lavish expense accounts. Paris on the cheap. Kyle checked in without any problem. He called down to room service for a steak and salad and a bottle of water. The sun would be setting soon and he could move. Then he stripped down and got under a shower, alternating hot and cold water.
He let it cascade over him for five minutes. Drying off afterward, Swanson stared into the brightly lit bathroom mirror and did not particularly like the man he saw looking back. Bleary-eyed, tired, the mouth a grim line, and blue-gray eyes as hard as stones. The tanned body was nicked with scars and the puckered skin of healed bullet holes. His hair had returned to its normal shade of brown from streaky surfer blond. He splashed more water on his face and went back to bed, with the Glock 17 pistol handy on the night table. Are the weapons still just tools, an extension of me, or have I become an extension of them and what the fuck kind of question is that, anyway? He laced his fingers behind his head on the fluffy pillow. A psychiatrist would have said he was undergoing severe depression. Swanson believed this was deeper than any shrink’s diagnosis. I think I am about one step away from going nuts. One small step for man, one giant leap for me.
There was a knock on the door, and he put on a robe, picked up his Glock, and answered. A waiter pushed in the food cart. Kyle unwrapped his hand from around the Glock in the pocket of the robe and signed the check with a generous tip. He pushed the plastic DO NOT DISTURB card into the exterior electronic key slot and closed the door.
He surfed the television channels while he ate the steak, watching British newscasters, CNN and Fox, and American sitcoms translated into French. Nothing. Kyle pushed away the food cart, washed his hands again, and then smoothed a white towel over the tufted bedspread. He spread out his personal weapons, which he had been able to keep in his possession because they had come in on a military flight and did not have to go through customs.
Glock, Ruger, Gerber. Marine armorers had given both pistols Limited Technical and Procedural Firing Inspections before he had left for the Middle East, but they needed a good cleaning after the raids into Iran. He opened a small gun-cleaning kit and arranged the toothbrush, the bore brush, cotton swabs, the vial of oil, and a soft rag.
The push of a lever in front of the trigger took off the slide of the Glock, leaving the pistol in two pieces, the barrel assembly and the butt. With the slide out, he removed the spring and began a careful examination to see that nothing was frayed or chipped. A look down the barrel confirmed it was neither dented nor warped. He only wiped down the butt section, because doing a proper job on an intricate trigger assembly was the task of a gunsmith. Swanson spent five minutes cleaning it, then reassembled the Glock and did an ops check to make sure it worked. He pointed it at the mirror on the back of the door. The trigger clicked on empty.
He had four magazines with fifteen rounds in each clip, and Kyle thumbed out the bullets one by one to personally examine them for any defect. The shiny brass cartridges were laid out side by side on the white towel, gleaming in the overhead light, each a marvelous little piece of engineering built precisely by Beretta to fit the barrel of the 9 mm pistol. They were all soft-tipped rounds designed to avoid a ricochet indoors. The bullet would create an entry wound as small as a dime, but once it slammed into bone, the soft nose would splinter with the impact of a small grenade and shred everything around it. It was not supposed to exit the body. Swanson always enjoyed watching movies in which shooters used their knives to carve an X on the tip of a bullet to make it open up. Fantasy. The rounds were already designed to do that. Start screwing around with your rounds and you will screw up the barrel and the accuracy of the weapon; then you are the one who is screwed. He reloaded the magazines.
The little Ruger five-shot revolver was even easier, but the maintenance was performed with the same amount of care. Open the cylinder, visually inspect it, clean it, load it, and bingo, it was ready. The Gerber knife was easier still. Just wipe down the blade, which gleamed along the cutting edge that had been honed in the armorer’s shop. Field strip and op check on all weapons. Good to go.