“So are you keeping the baby?”
“He’s two years old, you moron.” Ingmar Thompson kept his eyes in the game, watching the doorway of a multistory apartment house a mile away through a pair of binos.
“You going to marry the girl, then, are you?” Bruce Brandt was watching the same portal, only through the 25x scope above the long barrel of a big rifle.
“Been married coming on three years now. You were at the wedding. Several gentlemen exiting and taking defensive positions.”
“Right,” Brandt confirmed. “The guards. I’m just making some conversation to pass the lonely hours, Ingmar.”
Commanders had learned long ago that an élite sniper team was a terrible thing to waste on an ordinary terrorist. Pick off one and the victim would be hauled away for a glorious burial beneath a flag, with a lot of chest-beating, and some other guy would pick up the gun and carry on. Brandt and Thompson were helping change that equation. The two-man CIA sniper team were specialists, and dealt only with high-value targets.
While terrorist groups like ISIS and Al Qaeda don’t have traditional military ranks or organization, somebody has to be in charge of the other fighters. Religious zeal isn’t enough to ensure sustained operations that are sometimes years in the making. Even the most dedicated terrorist needs shelter, food, training, communications, and intelligence, no matter how screwed up an organizational chart might be. There are always leaders and followers, and the CIA team was a go-to pairing for use against insurgents whose standing was equivalent to that of a colonel or better. Killing someone in such a position left a hole that was much harder to fill.
“I count three dudes down there, all with weapons out of sight,” Brandt said, devoid of emotion. “The fourth must be bringing out the car. They seem relaxed enough. No sign of He Who Must Not Be Named.”
“He will be right along.” Ingmar glassed the busy street, which appeared totally normal. “Everything looks good.”
This was the payoff for months of hard intelligence work that had identified and tracked down Mohammed al-Jaboun, an ISIS supply master who roamed about making deals for beans and bullets. Kashmir was one of his frequent stops, since the city had long been a key trading route on the Pakistani border with India. The world came to make deals in Kashmir, and some of the negotiations ended in gunfire when the parties couldn’t agree. In a total security lapse, the ISIS merchant of death had made the mistake of establishing a regular apartment in the city, with a regular routine.
Brandt and Thompson had found it easy to come into the area, thanks to the lingering influence of the British Raj, which had left its imprint on both sides of the border. Everyone of worth spoke English, trade was normal, and the little office of a couple of British lawyers drew no special attention when it was established two months ago. The lawyers, who were actually veteran counterterrorism operatives, left last week and the snipers moved in, wearing business suits. The office had been outfitted properly, with facilities for tea and toilet, cell phones, food, and cots. Thompson was the larger of the two, an enormously strong man who stood six feet even and weighed two hundred pounds, with arms and legs that seemed to have been carved from tree trunks. He carried in the large suitcase containing an L118A1 rifle, scope, and suppressor.
“Mary, is it? Her name?” Brandt was on the gun now, feeling comfortable, letting it tell him it was ready. At five feet nine, he was as lithe and purposeful as a panther, and usually wore some sort of cap on missions to cover his bright-ginger hair. At a party, Thompson would anchor a table with pitchers of beer while Bruce freely went after every girl in sight, knowing that if it came to a brawl he had the strongest guy in the bar at his back. In the field, they worked together like twins wired to the same brain. After moving into the office, the pair had spent a lot of time out in the open, mixing with people of every nationality, eating at European and local restaurants, hiding in plain sight by becoming familiar faces in the community.
They had laser-ranged the target property and had even mounted a small flag atop an adjoining building to read the wind. The doorway was exactly 310 meters away, and the guards had conveniently shooed foot traffic to the far sidewalk. The space was clear.
“Here comes the car, turning now.” A black SUV maneuvered smoothly up to one of the guards who was holding a space for it. “No, her name is Laura. Tend to business.”
“On it.” Bruce checked the settings and the wind and the scene and the sun, factored in time, motion, and angle of fire, and logged them into his busy brain, then extended his right index finger to caress the trigger. “This guy is a real dirtbag.”
Mohammed al-Jaboun came through the door with confidence, without a care in the world. He was wearing dark slacks, an open-necked white shirt, and a blue sports coat; he had luncheon reservations at an upscale restaurant on Residency Road, where he usually ordered mutton curry. As he pulled a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket, he turned slightly to say something to the young woman behind him and, in doing so, presented the back of his head to Bruce Brandt and Ingmar Thompson. A good sniper never hesitates to shoot a target in the back. The focus was so razor-sharp that Brandt could see the brush marks in the thick black hair.
“Fire, fire, fire,” Thompson whispered.
Brandt was already exhaling, and he pulled back steadily on the trigger until the rifle barked and slapped his shoulder with a hard recoil. The ISIS man’s head exploded forward in a spray of blood, brain, and bone; the body stayed upright for a moment, then spun lazily to the sidewalk while his companion screamed and the stunned guards froze in their tracks.
The gunshot was still echoing around the streets, but it wasn’t attracting much attention. This was, after all, Pakistan. The guard detail started to freak out, caught between trying to protect their leader, who was already dead, dealing with the screeching and blood-soaked woman, and looking for the origin of the single lethal shot.
By then, Brandt and Thompson had finished a quick breakdown of the weapon, stowed it in the carrying case, and slid it into the closet. They put on their suit jackets, adjusted their ties and briefcases, and walked away from the scene, just two more people working to make a deal in Kashmir.
“You do know that I’m not married and that I have no children, don’t you?” Thompson asked. “Or are you just getting senile at an early age.”
Brandt shrugged. “Just makin’ conversation, man. Let’s get some lunch.”
The Prince drummed his fingers rhythmically on the tabletop. Time was running out. Was it his fault? Not really. He couldn’t preordain every single detail in such a complex scheme, but perhaps he could have built in a little more time, more of a cushion.
Still, he was confident that Nicky Marks would size up the situation and make an appropriate adjustment in the field. Just be patient, he told himself. It will all work out, then he could do his own part and snatch the prize he most wanted. Swanson would die, and the CIA would go into a death spiral of its own.
It would be a beautiful thing to watch unfold on the news channels. Like an evil magician, the Prince would disappear—poof—and exit into an entirely new life. His intricate empire of drugs, intrigue, and violence would collapse and he wouldn’t give a damn, because it had always been only a vehicle to prove to himself, over and over, that he could succeed with such an audacious plot. In the months to come, his contacts would start wondering where he had gone. In a few years, he would be a legend, a name to be whispered in conspiracies.
So don’t blow it all because of a few minor setbacks. Stay cool. The fun part was just ahead.