Juba had not moved a muscle. His combat sense clicked into play and he instantly reversed the path of the bullet, concluding that it had come from a vehicle along the elevated highway about a mile away. It was an amazing shot, something that could be done only by a very experienced sniper. He agreed with Nesch. “Yes,” he replied. As if he had been expecting this all along.
As they hurried to their car, heaving people out of the way, Nesch was puzzled. Juba suddenly seemed happy.
43
JEDDAH
DIETER NESCH SPED HIS black Mercedes sedan away from the plaza and dropped back to a safe and legal speed only when they reached the highway. Back at the square, the stunned crowd degenerated into a mob and broke into spontaneous demonstration for the new martyr, Mohammed Abu Ebara. The cleric’s bloody corpse was picked up and passed above the frenzied crowd on a moving bed of open palms of men who wiped his blood on their faces and clothing.
“The Jews did this! Kill the Zionists!”
“Death to the king!”
“Death to the Shi’ites!”
“Death to the Americans!”
The spectators had come to the square to see death and had found much more than they had anticipated. More men were flooding into the plaza by the minute, drawn by the allure of blood and violence. After passing the body around for a while, the frenzied mob fell upon the three condemned men and hacked them to pieces.
“Death to the enemies of Allah!”
The central square of downtown Jeddah was gripped by unreasoning madness as thousands of people rioted. A traffic cop was snatched and thrown into the mob, looters broke into stores and shops, children were crushed underfoot, and in dark places, women were raped.
“Ebara! Ebara! Ebara!”
NESCH AND JUBA MADE the drive back to the villa in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. The German banker was mentally sifting a cascade of financial figures, adding up the potential damage and trying to forecast the next move in this deadly game in terms of risk-reward, profit, and loss.
Juba pushed the soft seat all the way back, crossed his legs and began to softly recite a nursery rhyme to himself. He had learned it while growing up as a child in Great Britain. Most people believed it was about an egg, but Juba had always been more drawn to the first verse, and the part about the master sniper with only one eye had become particularly appealing to him.
In Sixteen Hundred and Forty-Eight
When England suffered the pains of state
The Roundheads lay siege to Colchester town
Where the King’s men still fought for the crown
There One-Eyed Thompson stood on the wall
A gunner of deadliest aim of all
From St. Mary’s Tower his cannon he fired
Humpty Dumpty was its name
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall…
NESCH DROVE THE MERCEDES into an enclosed garage and they walked into the main room of a villa. The whisky bottle, Johnnie Walker Black Label, came out and they each had a stiff jolt.
“Tell me about the shooting. You know something.” Nesch needed to see behind Juba’s mental veil. He poured another round.
Juba grunted. “Yes. It was a magnificent shot under very difficult conditions. The sniper knew exactly where the target was going to be and at a specific time. That required excellent intelligence, so it was not some random event. Ebara was targeted.”
He took another swallow of whisky, paused to collect his thoughts, then continued. “The shot itself came from a vehicle that stopped for a moment on a busy highway overpass a mile away, again something that did not happen by chance. Then the bullet went over the crowd and hit Ebara almost the moment he stepped outside. The shooter vanished into the traffic without a trace, almost before the shot hit the target. A lot of moving parts were involved, and I agree that the Americans are the most likely ones who could have pulled it off. Low-key, effective, and spectacular.”
“So?” Dieter’s round eyes were almost in slits as he took off his glasses and polished them. “The world is full of snipers for hire. You can buy one off the shelf whenever you need one.”
“Not for this kind of job,” Juba replied. He poured another splash from the bottle. “Maybe four snipers in the world could have made that hit. It took a totally experienced specialist. Since it was probably an American show, my money would be that it was a Marine named Kyle Swanson. He sometimes does work for the CIA.”
Nesch looked curiously at his friend. “Why? Do you know this man?”
Juba pointed to the blind eye covered by the black patch. “He’s the one who almost killed me in Iraq. I can smell his fucking stench on this hit!”
The banker shrugged. “Well, my friend, it makes no difference. We have bigger problems than him.”
“It makes a difference to me,” said Juba. “I want to kill him.”
“Fine. Then kill him. Let’s finish this job first so we can get out of here.”
“The job? You mean this silly rebellion? Dieter, the coup is over.”
“I think so, too, but we don’t want to make any rash decisions in the heat of the moment. There is too much still in play and we need to do some serious thinking when our emotions cool. So, I’m going to take a shower and a nap. Look, some spots of blood are on my suit pants. Damn. You should get some rest, too. We’ll get up in a few hours, be refreshed, have a nice meal, and I will call our Russian employer. Then we will decide what to do next, if anything.” The banker walked toward his bedroom.
Juba just nodded his head. He did not need to let his emotions cool because he was dead calm inside his head. He stood by the broad window, looking out at the sunlit Red Sea and thinking about the possibility of taking down Swanson.
ANOTHER MERCEDES SEDAN, A white one with heavily tinted windows, was still on the road. Jamal and Kyle had ditched the van for the luxury car and were heading southeast from Jeddah toward the holy city of Mecca and into the Hada mountains.
Their destination was the city of al-Taif, about a two-hour drive from Jeddah on a remarkable highway that lifted motorists from the seaside and desert up through a series of tunnels to the green and cool summer resort some 2,000 feet above sea level. The Mercedes hardly drew a glance, since it was a favored style among the wealthy Saudis who frequented the long highway. Jamal kept the accelerator down as they climbed.
With periodic checks by his sat phone, Kyle had finished arranging events at the huge military base outside of the small city. Everything would be in place for the arrival of the handover team. Any luck at all, and things would be done before darkness fell.
Events were moving faster and faster, and Kyle believed they were entering the critical period in which things were not going to be happening in weeks and days, but in hours. Maybe minutes. He thought: Do the fourth nuke in Taif this afternoon, then yank out the final one tomorrow. Get it done. He hardly gave any thought at all to shooting Ebara. That was truly in the rearview mirror and fading with every kilometer the Mercedes put them farther away from Jeddah.
Jamal worked the car through Mecca carefully. “Check it, dude. Things are stable here. They have to know about Ebara’s death by now because we can’t outrun the radio and TV broadcasts. I expected this place to be in an uproar.”
“Maybe they haven’t figured out which way to jump yet,” Kyle replied, his eyes sweeping the area for danger signs. No roadblocks. No rioting. “Keep going. Sooner we get to the base, the better off we will be.”