On Scope

11

Yanis Rebiane and his son, Djahid, could see the towering spire of the Washington Monument straight ahead as they strolled on the Mall. Much of the towering marble obelisk, some 555 feet tall, was cradled in a web of construction scaffolding and canvas, under repair after being damaged by an earthquake. Yanis believed in his heart that it had been the hand of Allah, whose name be praised, that shook the earth’s crust and maimed one of the most cherished symbols in America, to remind these people and their unholy government that no person nor place nor thing was exempt from the wrath of the Almighty One.

The National Cherry Blossom Festival had ended on Sunday, and most of the tourists had gone home, so the two Algerian men could now conduct their business and enjoy the astonishing beauty of the flowering pink and white trees without being swarmed by thousands of sightseers. This warm April day was perfect for the leisurely stroll, and they spoke without concern that anyone might be recording the conversation. The White House, the very heart of America, was within a mile of where they stood.

“The Spanish police say they have no leads in the murder of our partner Juan de Lara,” said Yasim. “Just as they had nothing after the death of Cristobál Bello on Mallorca. I do not know what is holding them back from officially declaring the rather obvious connection.”

The sharp blue eyes of Djahid Rebiane swept over the people passing around them, heading both ways along the broad concrete sidewalks. “They were both sniper hits. Good work, too.”

“Too good,” replied his father, nodding in agreement.

“I looked at the shots, and they were extremely precise. Along with the planning required, and the stealth of getting into position and safely out without being detected — this was the work of professionals, Father.”

“Yes. But who?”

Djahid could only shrug. “The world is full to the brim with well-trained snipers these days. They are a needed specialty in urban combat. For the Americans, the training of snipers has moved to a higher level than most, and that field was expanded during the years of fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

“I believe the Americans are hitting back in retaliation for the attack in Barcelona. There has been very little indication that they are pursuing our actual strike team, so it seems that instead they are going quietly after individual civilians, the Six. That is most unlike Washington.”

“I absolutely agree,” said Djahid, unwavering in his conclusion. He could not shake the uncomfortable feeling of an unknown presence out there, someone as cold-blooded as himself. “I would think the most likely suspects would be SEAL Team Six or Delta Force, but they are not the ones. Those people leave big after-action support footprints because they commonly employ helicopters, planes, and ships and a bright digital track. The de Lara and Bello shots were very smooth, conducted in secret, and no clues were left behind other than the Mallorca house being cleaned out. That part indicates the CIA could be responsible. They have great shooters, too, usually on loan from the military. Absolutely nothing is being said, not a word. Spain would see it as U.S. meddling in its affairs.”

“The truth is that we don’t know who is behind this,” Yasim told his son.

“No. Whoever it is, however, is going after the Group.” Djahid said, and they stopped. “First the fixer, now a banker. Since you are a member of the Group, Father, eventually you are likely to be targeted. I do not like the way you move around without protection.”

Yasim never felt personal fear, for what was he, or anyone, but a pawn to be used as Allah had ordained? Dying was something that everyone would eventually do. “Yes. I am probably being hunted, but I am not helpless, am I?”

“No, Father, you are not. You have me, and I will lay down my own life if I see that it is required to keep you alive. But I would like to have a good security screen around you.”

They resumed walking, making a slow turn to head in the opposite direction, where the shining white dome of the Capitol loomed at the other end of the Mall. Yasim pointed at it. “A beautiful building, is it not? This is where we begin hunting the hunters.”

Djahid’s face broke from its normal implacable setting of sharp planes and shadows and showed a trace of surprise. “We are going into Senator Monroe’s office? The Capitol Police will never even let us in the building.”

His father laughed. “Why, the Americans call it the ‘People’s House,’ and we are people, are we not? I have documents that prove we own an import-export company that is expanding our international agricultural interests into Missouri, the senator’s home state. It’s just a front, of course, and operates out of a Kansas City mail-drop business. We have been regularly donating to his campaigns since political spies identified him about ten years ago as being willing to take a bribe. In the last election, we even set up an anonymous and secret political action committee that increased his treasury. His office has confirmed that he would be delighted to meet with us today.”

“He just wants more money? What a sucking dog.”

“The senator is corrupt but can be useful, for he sits on the Senate Armed Services Committee. He can find out who is responsible for what is going on behind the scenes with these shootings, if given the right motivation. Having you along will help remind him that he may have a motive even more important than a monetary donation. Fear works wonders, don’t you think?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. Just be yourself.”

They stepped to the curb when the approaching black hulk of a Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows blinked its lights on and off twice and whispered to a purring halt beside them. The rear passenger door was pushed open, and Senator Monroe slid back across the leather seats to make room.

Senator Jordan Monroe was halfway through his second term in the U.S. Senate after having served five terms of two years each in the House of Representatives, and he had learned the truism that staying in office was expensive. His most recent election, which he won by less than 1 percent of the statewide vote, had cost almost $20 million. That wouldn’t be enough in the next cycle, which meant the most important part of his job was raising funds, and this Rebiane fellow seemed made of ready money. The senator always made time for major cash cows, even ones who brought along muscle like this silent and menacing bodyguard. Well-invested donations to Monroe could translate to influence in the centers of power.

The man they sought — the hunter — was much closer than they could have imagined. Marine Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson at that moment was relaxing in a small conference room with the rest of Task Force Trident, just over the bridge at the Pentagon, and planning another attack on the Group of Six, which had shrunk to the Group of Four. The sniper hits had served several purposes, including forcing the remaining financiers bankrolling the Spanish overthrow attempt to hire more guards, while also making those guards spread out to cover a wider area, hunting for potential shooting lairs.

“I want to change tactics for this one,” Swanson said. “No use making it easy for them to defend these people.” He remembered the stricken widow of Mike Dodge crying in his arms, and he wanted to get just as up close and personal. Six dead Marines on a plane, taking them home in coffins for six grieving families.

The next target identified in Commander Freedman’s folder was Mercedes Sarra Bourihane, the only woman on the list. Her picture was a head-and-shoulders photo of a woman perhaps in her fifties with a pleasant smile, dressed in a red designer jacket and discreet, but expensive, jewelry. The sandy hair had been styled by a professional, and the white teeth were the work of an artist, not some common dentist.

“Don’t be fooled by that sweet ‘I’m just your average grandma who shops at consignment stores’ look. This woman is a hardboiled player.” The Lizard ran through her French-Algerian background, her pampered childhood, her graduation from college with honors in economics, and her entry into the international banking arena, where she had made her name. Other photos showed Bourihane wearing a scarf over her head, for she was devout in her worship of Islam. It was virtually impossible for any woman to be recognized and excel in either banking or religion in Algeria, but she had shredded those odds by becoming a person with whom the men of central banks around the world liked to deal. She was not seen as a threat in those circles, and she considered the men to be the usual run of sexist fools.

“Bourihane is the person guaranteeing that the Islamist banks across the region will allow Spain to retain its political independence without the economic restructuring demanded by the EU and the United States. She can back her play with billions of dollars in assets, and Spain knows it.”

General Middleton, the Trident commander, asked, “And you’re certain she is one of the Six? No doubt on that?”

“Not a shred of doubt, sir. In fact, she is their poster girl. Watch.” He tapped his keyboard a few times, and a video came on the big flat-screen embedded in a wall. A confident Mercedes Bourihane was addressing the European Banking Risk and Regulation Congress the previous year, doing the initial introductory roll-out of the Islamist banking effort. She said, “I am honored to be one of the ‘Group of Six,’ as we call ourselves, because being very smart people, we could not come up with anything better.” A smile, a round of laughter. “This is a serious and open offer to help rescue Spain, my friends, and details will be made available…” The Lizard turned it off. “She confirms being one of them.”

Master Gunny Double-Oh Dawkins grumped, “Hard to believe.”

“Why? Because she’s a woman?” Coastie almost barked in his face.

“No. Calm yourself, my child. I think it is hard to believe because she put this group out in the open way back then and nobody picked up on it as being anything more than an elaborate money scheme. After Barcelona, she is fair game.”

Lieutenant Colonel Sybelle Summers rapped on the table. “Coastie has a good point, however. No matter how important Bourihane may be, she’s not one of the boys over there. I think we might use that to get at her.” She paused and looked around the table. “Let Coastie and me take a run on this one, since we can likely get closer. Kyle can do another one at about the same time. That will shock the hell out of any borderline supporters, change the attack pattern, and increase both the pace and the pressure on the opposition.”

A broad grin spread on the general’s face. “Surprise. I like it. Who else you got, Lizard?”

Freedman fiddled with the keys, and in thirty seconds the broad screen divided into four quadrants, with photos of Bourihane and three men. “Pick one and I will work up the details. Meanwhile, I have something else.” Juan de Lara had received a cash infusion the day before his death, the Lizard said, and the payment had been routed through a New York broker.

“What’s strange about that?”

“Well, for starters, the broker didn’t have the money to make that kind of transaction. In fact, he doesn’t have much money at all and is maxed out on his cards. I’m still digging.”

“Suggestion?” Middleton wanted answers, not vague comments.

“Since you guys are all getting out and about, I think that Master Gunny Dawkins and I should go up to New York and have a talk with that broker.”

“Yeah, I’m tired of sitting around while Swanson and my baby-faced assassin here have all the fun.” Dawkins patted Coastie fondly on the shoulder. “I’ll demonstrate for her that it is not always necessary to kill someone to accomplish a mission.”

“Shut up, you Godzilla freak of nature,” she snapped.

“Go,” said the general. “Sybelle, I will clear a Green Light for you and Beth on Bourihane. Kyle, you review those remaining targets and make a plan with a timeline. Bring in a couple of MARSOC operators for backup if you need them, but it’s your call.”