Juba tasted the sharp, dark Remy Martin and welcomed its warmth. He looked out at the passing men. “Hardly more than a handful of rebels in the streets of a major city that should have been blowing apart at the seams by now,” he observed.
“I agree totally,” Nesch replied, settling into a chair beside a small table with a lamp, an ashtray carved from stone, and a humidor of dark Spanish cedar. “The question I now put before you is whether we can push things forward at all, perhaps on a new track entirely? I trust that tactical brain of yours, Juba. Find me an answer.”
Juba sat on the low windowsill and put his drink beside him. Hands on knees, thoughts racing. “No. The few remaining rebel groups will be crushed. Too many elements changed from the original plan and the time-line has been destroyed. By now, all of my contacts will have gone to ground. I doubt if any of them would even answer my call. The pressure needed to cause the volcanic eruption of a revolution has drained away. Ebara was weak and stupid.”
“Ah, Ebara? Yes. All of my sources had promised that he could deliver what he promised. We needed him in power.” Nesch rubbed the flat box. “Unfortunate. How about a cigar to accompany this swish of cognac? Let me tell you first that there is a 9 mm pistol in the box.”
Juba waved the offer away. “I don’t smoke, and I removed the bullets.”
Nesch was unperturbed. He asked, “Would you mind if I have one? They come from Costa Rica. The gun was one of my bodyguard’s little toys. Didn’t do him much good, did it? Did you also find the one on the top bookshelf?” Dieter removed a cigar, clipped the end, and took his time to light it.
“Yes. I did.”
“Amir was unprofessional. I could only have reached that one if I stood on a stool.” Nesch laughed and got a wry smile from Juba. Good. “So does this all come down now to, um, shall we call it, ‘the nuclear option?’”
“Since Saudi Arabia is not going to turn into some radical Islamic state, that is all that is left of interest,” said Juba. “Whoever has the missile holds some power. I want it.”
Nesch exhaled and a cloud of fragrant smoke rolled around his chair. “Juba, I respectfully have to disagree. As a banker, I simply look at it all as numbers on a balance sheet. Our man in Moscow is going to be very nervous about the death of Ebara, and I will have to recommend that he forget about this particular enterprise. Doing this on the quiet was one thing, but Russia cannot afford to be seen as openly involved in the coup. At least, that’s my opinion.”
“You want to back off of everything? Give up the nuke, too?”
Nesch tapped the cigar ash into the stone receptacle. “Yes. With your approval, that would be my recommendation. I will be honest about Ebara’s mistake in calling you to come here. I will also stipulate that both of us have done everything possible to carry out our assignments and, therefore, I keep my entire commission and you receive a nice bonus. Say, another million euros. How does that sound? You return home to Indonesia while I return to Germany and lay low for a while. Maybe next year, I will start shopping for another lucrative mission. Give up the nuclear missile idea, Juba. Trying to take it now would be suicide.”
“Dieter, I simply don’t care.” Juba tilted his cognac snifter and emptied it, then placed the fragile glass on another small table.
Nesch kept a steady gaze on the battered man. “You don’t care?”
“I’ll take a cigar after all.” It took a moment for it to respond to the lighter. “Have you asked yourself why I have not killed you today?”
“Yes. The thought crossed my mind.”
“There are three reasons, perhaps chief among them was that you did not try to use that gun in the humidor. That would have forced my hand.”
“What else?” The banker’s throat was dry. The only noise in the room seeped in from the outside, where the rowdy demonstration was still in the street.
“Second, I still need your help.”
Nesch smiled broadly and his eyes closed as relief flooded through him. “Anything. Name it.”
Juba absently rubbed the patch that covered his destroyed eye. He exhaled loudly. “You probably will not understand this. I don’t really care about that missile at all, but it has created an opportunity that I had worried might never come. You will recall when I told you about Kyle Swanson, the American sniper?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“I know in my bones that Swanson made that shot. No evidence, but every wound in my body, the wounds he gave me when he left me for dead, is itching madly, screaming his name at me. If I can get that nuclear warhead, he will come after it. Revenge, Dieter. I have to do this. When he comes snooping after the missile, I will kill him. Your contacts, money, and influence are needed to help set this up.”
“Whatever I can do, Juba, I will.” Nesch had never made a more sincere promise. “You mentioned three reasons. What is the last one?”
“Dieter, I don’t need to kill you. We are both already dead men. Once you make that telephone call, the Russian president will have SVR hit squads coming to eliminate both of us. My professional advice is that you get out of Saudi Arabia tonight when we finish making our new arrangements. Then run fast and run far.”
46
AL-TAIF
JAMAL AND KYLE SHOWED their credentials at a bunkered entrance gate and were allowed to park inside the perimeter of the big base to await an escort. Swanson had heard of this place, but this was his first visit. He let out a low whistle. “Look at all the fuckin’ Americans,” he said. “How could the Saudis keep a nuke here without some homeboy from Los Angeles tripping over it?”
Jamal removed his dark aviator sunglasses. Although he had been driving away from the sun, his eyes were feeling the strain of the glare after the long drive into the mountains. “They’re smarter than the average bears,” he said. “A missile from here could easily protect the port and Jeddah. Lots of places for something to be stashed on a huge facility like this. If the L.A. homeboy wasn’t looking for it, he probably wouldn’t even see it. He wouldn’t recognize what it was.”
“Busy day,” Swanson agreed, looking at his watch. “This should go quickly if Prince Mishaal is already on deck. The C-130 is only about a hundred miles out. Afterward, we can grab some chow.”
“Look at all the fuckin’ Americans,” Jamal said, moving his seat back to be more comfortable.
A U.S. Army military policeman wearing an arm brassard and a shiny helmet approached, accompanied by a Saudi counterpart. They also checked the credentials. “Prince Mishaal is expecting you. Please follow our Humvee and we’ll take you over to the flight line.”
“Got it,” said Jamal. “Lead on.” When the two MPs walked away to get into their vehicle, he said to Kyle, “Look behind us.”
Swanson adjusted the side mirror on the Mercedes. An armored Humvee with a soldier in the turret behind a.50 caliber machine gun had swung into position on the rear bumper. “Gunship,” he said. The MP sedan moved out, with red and blue lights flashing on its roof. “Nothing like a subtle arrival.”
Al-Taif was crowded. It was home to the four light infantry battalions of the Saudi National Guard Omar bin Kattab Brigade, and also hundreds of Americans who were part of an ongoing U.S. Military Training Mission. This was the base through which American senior advisors were funneled into the Saudi armed forces’ command structure, which meant there was a large U.S. support staff and all the trimmings. The curiosity factor about the handover was going to be high.