Dead Shot (23 page)

Walker said, “So communications are slow, and everyone with a badge or a crime kit is busy around the stadium. At least two thousand people have been pronounced dead already, and the figure is climbing fast. I will detail a special team to get a firm identification on this body and take over that crime scene and send us a picture, but it’s still going to take time.”

“How much time?” asked Middleton.

“Dunno, General. We’ll move as fast as possible. Realistically, under the deteriorating conditions out there, it will be a while.”

Swanson ripped a page off of the yellow legal pad before him, balled it up, and flipped it across to a trash can in the corner. It hit the rim and bounced onto the floor. He studied it with resignation and said, “He’s gone.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.

G
ENERAL
M
IDDLETON
, C
APTAIN
S
UMMERS
, Lieutenant Commander Freedman, and Kyle Swanson took a final look at the command center, which was slowly coming back to life. “We’re done here,” said the general.

“Okay,” replied Carolyn Walker. “Thanks for your cooperation.” Her tone was neither warm nor cold, but she was glad to get rid of the secret military unit. Now things could get back to normal and law enforcement could do its job without second-guessing by people who were not trained as investigators.

“Anytime. Just keep us in the loop if you catch a break and when you identify the corpse they think is Juba.” Handshakes all around, and the Trident team left by a side door. “Come on. I’ll buy us all a big breakfast. There’s a good pancake house over in Alexandria.”

They were all tired and frustrated, lost in their own thoughts as they drove over the bridge and into the redbrick section of Old Town, then on west to where the neighborhoods were not as ritzy and there were fewer antique stores, and then to an area that was rather seedy. The sun was bright, and the day was warming as they got out of the car. The restaurant parking lot was half full, mainly pickup trucks among two big rigs, because the eatery was popular among the over-the-road gang. A long wooden trestle table, worn smooth by generations of elbows of hungry working men, was empty in a rear corner by the kitchen, and the Tridents slid onto the benches. Napkins and silverware and a rack
of syrup were already on the table. Coffee appeared as if by magic from a passing waitress, followed soon by platters of pancakes, sausage and bacon, warm biscuits, and scrambled eggs, served family style. Everybody ate the same limited, delicious menu here.

“So, none of us believes that Juba is dead, right?” The general stated. “We unanimous on that?”

Everyone agreed.

“Pass the blueberry syrup, please,” said the Lizard. “The communications net is absolutely overloaded, there is probably not an investigator to spare in San Francisco, and the disaster is going to be sucking up all of the resources. If the DHS agents don’t get to it in a hurry, the other officers won’t get around to doing our corpse anytime soon. Juba always seems a couple of steps ahead.”

Kyle refilled his coffee cup. “He is no longer in the U.S. I’m confident of that. The air system was not shut down, and the West Coast airports dump dozens of international flights into Asia every hour. More to Europe. He needed a disguise and new papers, and he had to move quickly, but I would bet he made one of those planes.”

“Mexico? South America?” asked Middleton.

“He doesn’t specialize down there. Maybe he has connections, probably does, but right now he is looking for a comfort zone. As a sniper, he is extracting after completion of his mission. South America would be alien to him.” Sybelle ate a mouthful of eggs while she thought, then continued. “Same thing with most of Asia, from Japan to New Zealand. The only Muslim safe zones would be in the Philippines or Indonesia, and they would not risk the wrath of the United States by knowingly giving him shelter and protection. Maybe North Korea or Iran might shelter him, but he’s a pretty hot potato right now, and they could make points with Washington by turning him in.”

Middleton said, “Know what? I think the final destination for this crazy, murderous shitheel is Iraq. That’s the only place where he can disappear.”

“That’s my bet, too, boss. He is going to hide in the war. And that’s where I am going to find him.”

“Okay. So go get him. Sybelle will go along to keep everything under the Trident umbrella, and the Lizard will do his keyboard magic from our office here. Take whoever or whatever you need, but remember that there are no orders for anything, there is no paper trail, nobody ever heard nothin’ about nothin’. Then be clear on this, Dead Guy: I want Juba’s fucking scalp.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Kyle Swanson, already feeling the rush. Sniper against sniper. Me and Juba.
Bad shit comin’
.

AUSTRIAN AIRLINES
FLIGHT 512

Ten hours. Halfway. Juba was feeling talons of claustrophobia seizing his flesh, as if the airplane were shrinking in on him. The spacious first-class seat had narrowed and the bulkheads seemed closer, but he had work to do, so he popped open his briefcase and removed the laptop computer and a single condom in its sealed plastic container.

The diagrams, the formula, and the instructions for assembling the weapon were spread over several files, and he had spent some time in Paris putting it all together for future use. It was in several folders, to meet different contingencies. From the briefcase he removed a tiny memory stick, attached it to a USB port, and downloaded the final file, which included the updated material from the Iranian laboratory, the final step in the process. The folder containing the date for the poison weapon used in London was in a file by itself, called File 999, and contained no indication that it was incomplete. The product would kill, but not do what was done in San Francisco. When the ultimate formula file was downloaded, he sighed with resignation and erased it from the hard drive.

Then he spent time transferring the various bank accounts and codes to the tiny memory stick and erased most of them, too. He pulled the memory stick free and he pocketed it, then stashed the computer.

When he got up to go to the bathroom, his head whacked the
overhead storage bin. In the narrow bathroom thirty thousand feet in the sky, Juba washed his face and hands and under his arms and stared into the mirror: The disguise was still good.

Stop this nonsense!
He stared hard at the reflection, an edge of his mouth slewing downward, angry with himself. He was a professional, and this was all part of the plan. It had been expected, just as a sniper has to remain immobile and idle for hours at a time in a hole.
Sweat it out. Losing personal control is not going to get this big damned airplane to Damascus one second earlier. Turn the glass over and instead of being only ten hours away from North America, you’re halfway to freedom!

Remember that you are no mild little college professor. You are still a sniper, a killer of men. You are still Juba. You can do this. You will do this.

He took a deep breath, allowed his bodily rhythms to settle, and then unbuckled his belt and dropped his trousers. Moving swiftly, he tore open the condom packet and removed the lubricated rubber contraception device and slid the computer memory chip in as far as it would go, folded the condom over, and tied the end. Another deep breath and he bent over the sink, spread his legs, and pushed the condom deep into his anus. Uncomfortable, but not impossible. Drug mules did it all the time, so he could do it, too.

He readjusted his clothing, washed his hands and face again, opened the door, and returned to his seat. A movie was playing on a little screen that he could tilt, so he put on the earphones and tuned it in. A tray of food was presented. Lunch. When the movie was over, he pushed up the covering of the window and watched the blue sky that stretched out forever, but he refused to look at his watch.

Halfway. More than halfway there.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“Middleton is going to be up to his eyebrows in bitching generals. We can’t run this mission as a usual black op because we are going onto other units’ battle space and crossing boundary lines. They don’t know
who we are; they could open fire on us.” Sybelle was at her desk in the Pentagon, and Kyle was across from her.

Operating beyond the shadow of secrecy presented problems, but Swanson figured it was worth the exposure because they were going to need the entire might of the U.S. military establishment to make this work. Iraq was a huge country, and they needed to shrink the number of places where Juba could feel secure, which meant using intelligence assets from satellites to local informants. First chase him across continents, and then across nations, then into a city or town or village, onto a certain street, into a specific house. Make the rabbit run for his burrow.

“We’ll work around it. No big deal. How big a package should we field?”

“Do we want mobility or firepower or both?”

Kyle thought about that. “Mostly mobility. A small team can move faster, and we will have support troops all over the country we can call on. Even get air support in a tight spot. But we will be moving in the cracks, chasing one man, and I just need to get close enough to get a shot.”

“So we have enough to cover your ass and call for help if and when we need it? Ride in on tanks?”

“Use the whole available force, Sybelle. You run the show from a mission command post in real time.”

“Bullshit. I’m going in with you.”

“Bullshit right back at you. You’re a damned good operative, you don’t have to prove that to anybody, but your real value is in coordinating the show.”

She stared at him, hard. “I’m no little damsel in distress, Kyle.”

“That’s not the point. Juba is dangerous and he can bite. If I have to call for help, I want you on the other end of the horn, not someone without the warrior smarts who might not deliver when the shit hits the fan. Shooters I can get elsewhere.”

She pushed her legal pad aside. “Getting in some field work is important for me now, Kyle, because I don’t want to be tied to a desk for the rest of my career. I’ve been selected for major…”

Kyle interrupted. “Selected below the zone? That’s great, Sybelle. Proves my point. Even the Pentagon thinks you’re something special.”

“General Middleton recommends that my next step be a tour as a White House military aide.” Sybelle Summers was clearly displeased that she was obviously being groomed for higher rank, moving up ahead of her peers. “Very nice, but it’s not what I signed up for, or why I went to the Naval Academy, and certainly not why I put up with Force Recon training. When I try to look over the horizon, all I see is desks, desks, and more desks! The men get field commands and I get another glass ceiling.”

Swanson grinned at her. “Golly. That’s really awful. I’m very sorry that your career track is pointing you toward being a general someday. That is not today’s problem, however. We are trying to catch this mass-murdering terrorist son of a bitch Juba, remember?”

That made her laugh. She could only talk about that sort of stuff with Kyle. “Right on, Gunny. I think we should do this with some of the same MARSOC guys that we used in Iran, since they are pretty much up to speed on it. Captain Newman to be the ground commander again.”

“Yeah. Rick is good people. I’d like Travis Hughes along as my spotter, then Darren Rawls and Joe Tipp as shooters. Five of us should be plenty to move fast or hold tight while you bring in backup and blow the hell out of whoever is bothering us.”

“I can do that,” she said with a nod. “But I’d rather be a shooter.”

“We all got problems.”

DAMASCUS, SYRIA

Juba was buckled in his seat and eagerly looking out of the window of the passenger jet as if he were a first-time flier. After the announcements were made for landing, the plane descended with a professional smoothness; the wheels came down with a hum and locked in place. The wheels kissed the tarmac and the nose came down and the engines roared and the brakes took hold. Normal, normal, normal. His senses
were alive, and the bulge in his anal tract seemed enormous. This was the last point of danger, but he was back on friendly turf. Or, if not friendly, at least not unfriendly.

As was his habit, he unbuckled as soon as the plane came to a halt so he could have freedom of movement, although there was really nowhere to go on the big Boeing. It coasted toward the terminal without delay, meeting the printed arrival time. Juba knew the Damascus airport was a hard place for passengers lining up for departure, but the arrivals seldom had much difficulty, and part of what the purchase price of the first-class ticket bought was being allowed to get off of the plane first and gain an advantage in the customs area. Once he cleared customs, he finally would be able to breathe easier.

The crew unlocked and opened the doors, and the covered exit ramp oozed out from the side of the terminal like some great worm. “Please remain seated until the doors are clear and secure,” came the overhead announcement in three languages. “Passengers in the first-class cabin will be able to depart and…”

Juba never heard the rest of the announcement. Three large men in civilian suits with pistols drawn and two uniformed soldiers with submachine guns came running aboard and into the first-class section as the crew stood aside. They surrounded him. “You will come with us,” said the leader, with a tone of outright menace.
Mukhabarat,
Juba thought. Secret police.

They placed him in the middle of the guards and picked up four more security operatives on the way out of the airport and into the waiting convoy of husky Land Rovers. Motorcycle police rolled out on their bikes with sirens wailing to lead the way over the eighteen miles into the city, and Juba heard the distant
wocka-wocka
of a helicopter overhead. They were taking no chances.

He settled back in the seat, a guard on each side, and considered the situation. Were they keeping him from escaping, or preventing the Americans or other covert operators from snatching him? The arrest had been abrupt and disappointing but not rough. Damascus International
Airport was a known entry point for young men sent from other countries to be martyrs in Iraq, to strap explosives around their bodies or drive car bombs into targets. The arrival of another terrorist would not cause much concern there. But, Juba reminded himself, he was no longer just a terrorist but the most wanted man in the world. Nothing was certain.

The Land Rovers swooped into the city, and he began to pick up familiar landmarks and got his bearings, for he had been to Damascus many times in transit to other places. The convoy pulled to a stop at an ugly gray office building across from an open area with a few palm trees, a tall monument, and a small domed mosque, the Sahat al-Marje, Martyr’s Square. Uniformed guards popped the doors and fanned out in a protective cordon while the three civilian agents hustled him inside the Ministry of the Interior, took him up two flights of stairs, and placed him in a nondescript office with orders to sit down and wait. He asked for some water and was ignored.