On Scope

Epilogue

“No. Of course we are not going to postpone the wedding. Why should we?” Beth Ledford said in a kind voice, shaking her head. She and Mickey Castillo, accompanied by Lady Pat, had taken his parents up to their hotel suite to calm them down with stiff shots of tequila and soft words. Carlos and Alita Castillo had never seen anything like what they had just witnessed. The image of the shining sword poking out through the man’s head would be impossible to forget, but Miguel and his bride-to-be and Pat seemed unfazed, on the verge of smiling. They took turns cleaning up in the bathroom of the suite while simultaneously tending to the shocked parents.

“But what happened down there…”

“Mama Alita, that’s all over now.” Beth hugged the small woman tightly. “This was actually a good thing. We were worried that an attack might happen tomorrow during the ceremony. I did not really want to wear body armor beneath my gown.”

Mickey handed his father a drink. “That was a very bad man, Mama. Remember the terrorist attack recently on the American Consulate in Barcelona? This was the man who led it. He was a cold, professional murderer, and there is no real estimate of the number of people he slaughtered during his wretched life.”

“You were expecting it? That’s awful.” Alita’s shock was giving way. “Hans seemed to be such a friendly person.”

Lady Pat leaned toward them, elbows on knees. “His real name was Djahid Rebiane, and his deadly skill was proven today by how close he came to success. He was trying to kill both Kyle and Beth and anyone else that got in the way. Good riddance to him.”

“We have been hunting him for months,” Beth declared flatly. “He was a devil.”

Carlos looked over at Mickey. “This is the kind of thing you do in the Special Forces.” It was a statement, not really a question.

“When we must,” his son responded. “Not so often at our own weddings. In this instance, we had to choose the time and place and let the terrorists come to us. It worked.”

“Kyle certainly handled himself well. It was all over in a split second. I hope he is not seriously injured. So much blood.”

Lady Pat finally gave a smile that seemed to lighten the mood. “Kyle has been doing this sort of thing for a long time, Carlos. The terrorist had the advantage but never had a chance. Mickey, Beth, Sybelle, Double-Oh — all of them — would have put him down. To get to you and me, the bad guys have to go through people like them, and just knowing that lets me sleep well and feel safe. You can, too. Kyle will be back in a few hours, all stitched up and ready to go.”

There was no deep police investigation, because the police had been part of the security arrangements from the start. An inspector arranged for the removal of the body to the morgue, oversaw collection of the evidence, and declared himself satisfied with the statements of the Mexican Marines who witnessed the attack.

The hotel staff moved portable screens around the gazebo and pool and began an emergency cleanup operation as soon as the police gave permission. A mop-and-bucket brigade, veterans of cleaning up extraordinary messes, was paid extra to get this scene back to normal as fast as possible. All traces of Djahid Rebiane disappeared within two hours; then the crew moved up to do the dead man’s room so that it could be rented out again tomorrow. The suicide last year of a rock star had been messier than this.

Commander Freedman, the Lizard, notified the CIA that afternoon, and the Agency passed the signal over to the U.S. Embassy in Istanbul. Attorney McKay Bannermann was contacted in Abu Dhabi and informed that Djahid Rebiane had been killed in a terrorist incident in Mexico. Bannermann personally told Marwan Tirad Sobhi that Yasim Rebiane had lost his vicious son and protector, so the shield had been lowered. The delicate balance in the rivalry had shifted, and Sobhi thought it would be best to take advantage of his opponent’s unexpected vulnerability. Foreigners might have difficulty reaching deep into Algeria, but the sheikh knew other Algerians who could.

Washington and the White House received the briefing with great relief. The Barcelona episode had been fully avenged, and a new mark had been set in how to deal with such incidents in the future. The risk had been high, but the payoff was worth it. From now on, the men and women who sponsored terrorism had to believe that they were also putting their own lives on the line by making such decisions.

The political fallout turned out to be negligible, for everyone set aside any thought of gaining a voting advantage. Both Republicans and Democrats had been involved in the shadowy foray along the blurry line that separates national security and personal freedoms, and recognized it as political nitroglycerin. Neither wanted the story to continue. It would only get in the way. If it had to be done over, the same decisions probably would be made.

Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson had to stay in the hospital overnight while doctors stitched up his wounds, and they released him the next morning with great reluctance. There was a lot of outside pressure on the administrators, and the patient was very uncooperative and loud, although he had been sedated for the work on his arm and hand. He was expected to recover fully, the doctors admitted, but they insisted that anyone with such injuries should remain under medical care for several days. Bandaged up and with his left arm in a sling, he was virtually kidnapped that morning by a gang of dangerous-looking individuals.

“He’s in no condition to do the sword drill,” Sir Jeff observed back at the hotel as the others worked to get the wobbly Kyle into his dress blues. “He is liable to stab someone else.”

“No problem,” said General Middleton. “I’ll take his place in the line, and he can escort Coastie down the aisle.”

“If he doesn’t fall over.”

“I can do it,” said Swanson. “Gimme my sword.”

“You could not even pull it out of the scabbard, you doofus. In fact, not going to let you have one today.” O. O. Dawkins held Swanson beneath the arms while Freedman steered the jacket on.

“He’s zonked,” said Double-Oh. “Maybe we should just let him sleep it off.”

“Coastie’s getting married! And I’m not going to be dead anymore! How cool is that?” Kyle announced to them all just before Middleton rubbed his face and head hard with a cold towel containing cubes of ice. He started to hum a tune that Jeff recognized from My Fair Lady: “I’m getting married in the morning…”

In thirty minutes, he was ready. Buttons and shoes were shined, belt and gloves snow white, and ribbons all arranged, despite the arm being in a sling. He felt great.

As the others took their places, he was able to stand alone, and Beth Ledford stepped into the waiting room, wearing a Dior gown. She locked him with a big smile. “You’re beautiful,” Kyle said.

“So are you,” she replied, taking him by the arm and moving to the entranceway that would lead them to the altar just as the music began. The justice of the peace was waiting at the far end.

It was debated later at the reception about who was steadying who while they walked down the aisle, because Coastie was gripping Kyle’s arm so tightly. Then he handed her off to Mickey Castillo and sat down in the front corner of the left first row on the bride’s side. Pat and Jeff were next to him. The Castillos were across the aisle.

The music eased to a stop, and Kyle Swanson sat there with a goofy smile of total satisfaction on his face as he watched the bride and groom say their vows.