Time to Kill: A Sniper Novel

13

Seven minutes before the one o’clock appointment, Kyle Swanson was in his suite at the Blue Neptune, finishing a quick change of clothes. The suit he had worn that morning was creased and dirty from the ferry ride and smelled faintly of smoke and oil. He had stripped, jumped into a hot shower for a rinse to shock his body back to normal, dried off, and put on fresh underwear and black socks. The shirt, suit, and tie were on hangers in the bathroom to let the steam generated from the shower work on the wrinkles because there was no time for valet service, or even to iron them.

Two large blue duffel bags were beside the closet, and he lifted them to the bed, where sunlight highlighted the official seal of the United States and long zippers that were sealed with locks. Kyle ripped open the envelope he had been given at the front desk and shook out a key that popped both locks; then he hauled down the zippers and opened the bags. Bless you, Lizard, he thought. In his last call to Task Force Trident before leaving London, he had asked Commander Benton Freedman to somehow get him a package of what he called “the necessaries.” Liz had come through big-time.

The term “diplomatic pouch” was a misnomer, dating back to the days when confidential messages were exchanged between nations. As embassies grew, so did the need to supply them with more things, ranging from crates of liquor to food and medicine. The privilege often had been abused to transport drugs, illegal cash, and once even a kidnapped Nigerian ambassador locked in a box. Stamped with diplomatic immunity, goods pass through customs offices without being opened or X-rayed. Almost anything could be in them, and the Lizard, working through the resources of the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency in Egypt, had outdone himself. A local DEA agent had dropped the duffel bags at the hotel.

A disassembled M-16A3 match grade rifle was secured inside a backpack, along with eight hundred rounds of ammunition, enough for more than twenty full magazines. He felt like a kid at Christmastime as he dug out the toys: a satellite radio-telephone, four fragmentation grenades, four smoke grenades of various colors, two Willie Petes — white phosphorus — a pair of claymore mines, four bricks of C-4 plastic explosive, and a supply of det cord, primers, and timers. He felt a surge of adrenaline, for although he was standing there in his underwear, he no longer felt naked in this worsening situation. When he snapped the rifle together and shoved in a clip of ammo with a satisfying click, it felt better in his hands than a lingerie model.

Also folded in the bags were local rags of the sort that an Egyptian workingman would wear, so if needed, Kyle could blend in with a crowd. A pair of jeans, two polo shirts, and a tattered and stained heavy pullover hoodie completed the set. The final items were enough bottles of water and MREs, the infamous Meals, Ready to Eat, to last three days. In all probability, he would never need any of the material, but before he left tomorrow morning, he could give the entire stash to Omar for the MI6 agent’s future use.

He pushed the bags in the closet and finished dressing, again looking like a businessman but feeling more like a sniper. At one minute before one, he hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on his doorknob, made sure the door was locked, boarded the elevator, and punched the button to the penthouse.

The door opened smoothly to reveal an immaculate reception foyer and two men who might have been graduates of World Wrestling Entertainment. Both were in suits, but without ties, and the open collars allowed room for their massive necks. Each weighed at least 240 pounds and had olive skin, curly and thick black hair, a broad forehead, and dark eyes that missed nothing. One of the brutes stood directly in front of the elevator, blocking passage with his bulk, while the second was ten feet away, at an angle to give a clear field of fire, with a stylish flat carryall hanging from his shoulder. Inside the bag, his hand was wrapped around an automatic pistol. They stared at Kyle without saying a word.

Swanson had expected guards so had left his .45 with the other weapons in the room. “Kyle Swanson of Excalibur Enterprises to see Youssef Gaber,” he said quietly, stepping forward to hand the big guard an embossed business card and to open his own jacket. Under the watchful eye of the man with the hidden gun, Kyle was thoroughly patted down, including a search for an ankle holster and a pat beneath the balls and his ass to determine if anything was hidden between his legs. The guard moved back, knocked on the door behind him, and opened it. The man with the carryall never looked away.

The surprise lay inside the room, not out with the guards in the hallway. Not only was a man that had to be Gaber waiting, but so was a rather frazzled Egyptian army brigadier general, both standing beside a big window that showcased the manicured gardens, and the golden beach that sloped down to the foamy water that shone like diamonds when gentle waves broke in the bright sun. Tourists were still enjoying their holidays, and colorful catamarans with big sails bellied before the breeze were racing out beyond the marina. Boat traffic seemed normal. Everything seemed normal, except for the cloud of smoke on the horizon that knifed into the cerulean sky.

Youssef Gaber waved Kyle over and shook his hand to make the introductions. “Kyle Swanson. At last we meet. Sir Jeff has constantly entertained me with stories about your work together.” Kyle also knew the background of his host, who had just turned fifty. He was a native Egyptian whose father had been a merchant, and the boy had developed a sharp sense of how to trade. By twenty-one he was running his own import-export business, then had branched out into real estate, oil, and finance. Having made enough money to last several lifetimes, Gaber had retired from active business, but he sat on the boards of a number of companies and was a director of the Central Bank of Egypt. His gray hair was freshly cut, and he wore white linen trousers and a blue blazer with buttons made of gold.

“Good to meet you, too, Mr. Gaber. Jeff says you attract money like bread crumbs attract ants.”

“Jeff exaggerates.”

“He does.”

“Kyle, would you please call me Youssef? And allow me to introduce Brigadier Mohammed Suliamin of the general staff.” Swanson shook hands with the slender man in the tan uniform, who almost seemed weighed down by the olive shoulder boards with gold stars and the rack of colorful ribbon on his chest. Judging by the tired eyes, the general had not been sleeping well and was under pressure.

“Mr. Swanson. It is a pleasure to meet an executive representative of Excalibur Enterprises.” The tone of his voice let Kyle know the general was aware of this identity charade, and as a senior officer, the man was reluctant to be talking directly to a Marine gunnery sergeant.

Youssef defused the moment by pouring drinks, a pale whisky.

“Nothing for me, sir. I never drink on the job.” Swanson had stopped drinking entirely at one point, just like he had once experimented with being a vegetarian, but had pleasantly discovered that he was not an alcoholic and did not crave the bottle. Everything in moderation was a better way to go. He accepted a glass of water with ice cubes instead, and they did a salud.

Their eyes went back to the scene beyond the window as another flash of fired churned through the dark stripe of smoke. “We were speculating about what may have happened out there,” said General Suliamin.

“Well, let’s take a wild guess.” Swanson put his glass down and crossed his arms. “Maybe four Harpoon missiles bearing the insignia of the Egyptian Air Force were fired from a portable launcher parked near Hurghada, and the first two each hit a single ship, the third one was shot down, and the fourth popped the oil tanker.”

“We don’t know any of that to be fact,” said the general.

“Sure you do. That and more, which is why you are looking so worried. I know it because I saw the platform, the missiles, and watched them fly and hit. Now what do you know that I don’t?”

The general stiffened and glanced over at Youssef Gaber, who said, “This must be a full and frank discussion, Brigadier. Tell him.”

“Very well. The first vessel, the one that apparently was the primary target and was sunk, was a ship of the Iranian Navy.”

“Oh, shit,” said Kyle.

There was a knock on the door, and Dr. Tianha Bialy of MI6 entered, neat and modest in a white blouse and a long dark skirt. Kyle wondered if she had been given the same thorough search of welcome by the big guard. Her eyes fired daggers at him as she crossed the room and introduced herself.

Gaber and the general led them to a seating area. “There is food on the buffet, if anyone wants lunch. I am not particularly hungry, but let us not worry about such things. If anyone wants anything, please feel free to make a plate. We need to get to work.”

“What can we do that the official diplomatic route cannot?” asked Kyle. “Egypt has been the subject of the day for months now.”

“And it will remain that way for some time,” Gaber answered. “Even after such a long time has elapsed since the revolution that toppled the dictator Mubarak, our country remains fractured. Kyle, you and Dr. Bialy must convey to London and Washington that Egypt has not yet descended into the wilderness of wild-eyed radicals, despite the political gains and outrageous statements made by the Muslim Brotherhood.”

Bialy spoke. “They have the presidency now, sir, and have a significant block of votes in the Parliament. That gives them a lot of power.”

“Not quite true, Doctor. Ours is a coalition government and Islamist in composition. But the Brotherhood itself is split into many factions. They are not a unified front, no matter what their rhetoric, due to historic tribal and sectarian infighting for power. Also, while they know how to demonstrate loudly, they are still learning how to run a government.”

“How do you think can we help?” Kyle steepled his fingers and settled back in the comfortable chair.

Gaber handed off to General Suliamin. “The military still remains as the power behind the throne. There are rogue elements in the ranks, to be sure, but we are weeding them out as they are uncovered. We can be observant of our religious beliefs, loyal citizens, and good soldiers at the same time.”

“Can you hold it together?” Tianha wanted to know.

“Doctor, you know better than most how this ancient land has survived for centuries. It is our intent to remain in the community of civilized nations, and we will not be buried by this latest sandstorm of religious zealotry. Everyone who speaks Spanish is not from Spain, and millions of Chinese have never even seen China. The Irish are not the same as the English. So why do Westerners believe that all Muslims are alike?”

“Nine-eleven.” Kyle spoke simply but brought up the vision of airliners plunging into skyscrapers filled with innocent civilians.

“Exactly, Kyle,” said the general. “It was a terrible thing, but we had nothing to do with it. Except for a few hotheads, the average Egyptian thought it a despicable act. The best proof is that despite this revolution in our country, we are still here, still working hard with our friends so that we remain friends. I went through training at Fort Bragg and have an advanced degree from Stanford. I considered the attack by those madmen to be an attack on me personally, for they tarred the names of all of us.”

Tianha had moved to the buffet and dipped a slice of carrot into a bowl of hummus. Gaber said, “We are going to show the two of you secret documentation that will demonstrate that Egypt needs and deserves the continued support of the United States and Great Britain. You will take it back and report to your governments.” He booted up a laptop to start a PowerPoint presentation.

Kyle interrupted. “One moment, Youssef. Say we accept everything that you say. Why the attacks on the Iranians — the ship and the soccer team? Is there an outside force?”

“Absolutely,” the general shot back with anger. “The Iranians are at the root of the problem. We can prove this with firsthand intelligence from a highly placed source.”

Bialy was still at the buffet. She turned and said, “You’re speaking, of course, of the Pharaoh.”

It was if the air had been sucked from the room. “How do you know that name?” demanded Suliamin, rising from his chair.

She answered the question with one of her own. “Do you know his real identity?”

“You are discussing secret material, Dr. Bialy. Go no further.”

She remained unaffected. “It is not very secret, Brigadier. The Pharaoh also has been a source for MI6, and we do not know who he is, either. That’s why I have been sent to Egypt, sir, to find him.”

Kyle remained silent, but the veiled hostility between the two agents startled the economist and the general. Swanson’s sudden decision to leave tomorrow had forced Tianha to change her plan to dangle him as bait to bring out the Pharaoh, for now she had to be the target herself. Omar had already floated the story about Kyle being a CIA agent, and now he would have to openly expose Tianha as the real contact. The Pharaoh would learn about both of them.

“I thought you were together on this,” said Gaber, quietly disturbed.

Swanson looked out at the sea, where the midday sun was reflecting as if hitting a mirror. “We have been traveling together, but I’m on a plane back to London tomorrow to deliver the information you give us. With that, my job is done. Dr. Bialy will stay here and do whatever she has in mind with the Pharaoh.”

The general stared at each of them in turn, then let out a long breath. “It is not unusual for rival agencies to have different agendas,” he concluded. “Dr. Bialy and I can discuss this intelligence source after we have dealt with the more important matters before all of us. Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Kyle picked up a triangle of bread smeared with cheese and cucumbers. So Tianha and Omar have decided to stay in the game on their own. I’ll give my weapons to Omar tonight and be out of here on that first plane. That works.