That this might not have been fair to the Islamics, either, bothered the major not at all. He really didn't like, rather he utterly loathed, the religion and all its followers. Only solid self-discipline let him work with them at all. And he avoided that where possible. He hadn't, for example, taken the Arabic speaker Stauer had offered him.
Konstantin took one hand away from the handlebars and checked his wrist-mounted GPS. Yes, the old man had thoughtfully sent them receivers for GLONASS, the Russian system. No, thank you, Chief. I'll use the Americans' system. They seem able to keep more than a dozen satellites operational at any one time, something we have signally failed at doing.
Putting his hand back on the handlebars, Konstantin slowed, then slowed some more. He spotted the palace-and this was a real palace, large, imposing, and decorated to the point of tackiness and beyond-through the dust, some five kilometers distant. It was brightly lit. If the old man's reports were to be believed, and Konstantin had reasons to trust the old man's reports going back decades, it was quite well guarded.
Too brightly lit for them to be using night vision, Konstantin thought. Not that they'd be likely to see us at this range, or even quite a bit closer, with the best night vision and no lights around the place. We continue.
With that, he cut left, followed by the other five men in the team. One by one they entered a wadi that ran generally south, toward the sea, then followed it to where it ran rather close to the palace.
The Arabs had known for many centuries something that western optical science had only keyed into but recently; at night the human eye had a hell of a time making out pixels of a certain size and the colors didn't make all that much difference. In short, the checked keffiyehs worn by Konstantin and his men made superb camouflage.
This was all to the good as it was a five-hundred-meter belly crawl from the point of the wadi nearest the wall around Yusuf's palace to that wall. Outside the wall was little but sand and rocks and the very occasional bit of scrub . . . those, and a heavy layer of dust still floating on the air, courtesy of the late northeast wind blowing out of the Rub al Khali.
Konstantin lifted his head up and swept his gaze along the crenellated walls, both on the palace roof and the surrounding grounds wall, with his NVGs. The old man had provided Dutch manufacture for these, which was both more thoughtful and more practical than the GLONASS receivers that sat unused back with the helicopters. The palace was bright enough that he thought it better to leave the lens caps on, to gather light only through the peep holes in those caps. This worked surprisingly well. They'd already lain there through one changing of the guard. Ideally, they'd have waited through another to establish how long the shifts were, hence how long they'd have to operate before discovery. But there just wasn't enough time for that.
Besides, two hour shifts are the universal norm. And where did they go?
Guards? Guards?. . . Ah, there's one, the major observed, in both senses of the word. That guard, off by the right corner of the curtain wall, as Konstantin faced, held his rifle at the slope and tucked into the crook of one arm. He smoked a cigarette but, otherwise diligent, faced outward. And if there's one there . . . Konstantin looked left. Uh, huh. There at the left corner. That one was not particularly diligent, facing inward with his back against the wall. Of his rifle the Russian could see no sign. Of guards on the roof, likewise there was no sign.
And so we'll make our entrance where the guard is a slob. Konstantin used two fingers to beckon up Litvinov and Kravchenko. But take care of the diligent one, first.
"Yes, Comrade Major?" Kravchenko whispered.
Konstantin pointed at the more alert guard, to the right. "He's your job," he said. "On my signal."
Without another word, Kravchenko and Litvinov headed on their bellies in that direction. Baluyev was next up.
"Stay here and watch, Praporschik. Report. On my command, turn on the cellular jammer."
"Yes, Comrade Major."
Then, leading the remaining two, the major shifted the direction of his crawl about twenty degrees to the left.
There are at least nine different ways to kill a sentry, in theory, more or less quietly, and without the use of firearms. It's that "in theory" part, coupled with the "more or less" part, that so often prove problematic. People fight back, gouge, bite, scream . . . even the gushing of blood from a severed artery makes its quotient of sound. Moreover, no army really teaches even its special operations personnel to knife or strangle or bludgeon an enemy standing ten feet above them. It just doesn't work that way.
For those cases, there are quiet firearms. In this case, those firearms were a brace of PSS pistols, firing silent, subsonic, piston-driven SP-4 ammunition. Galkin, with Konstantin, held one. Kravchenko, with Litvinov, held another. All five men stood now, backs against the wall, waiting for a report from Praporschik Baluyev.
"Problem, Comrade Major," Baluyev said. All heard it in their earpieces. "I saw someone else walking the parapet. And the one above you is now facing out while the one at the other end is facing in."
"He's being blown, Comrade Major," Kravchenko whispered in the softest imaginable voice, though he couldn't quite hide the tremor of amusement contained therein. "We can hear him . . . err . . . them."
The major hadn't quite been expecting this. He thought frantically for a minute. Shit. A third person and one we can't take out the same time as the others. No, this just can't be done. "Can't." Shit, shit, shit.
I wish I knew more about our contact. But the old man's always been cagey as hell about such things. "What you don't know you can't divulge."
But it has to be done; the old man wants it. But how? Kill two guards at the same time? Okay; that we could do. Kill a third person, probably a woman-no, wait a minute. This is the Arabian Peninsula; there is no reason to assume the third person is female. In any case, kill someone that we can't see, before she-or he-screams? Not going to happen.
Kill one and mount the wall, then go for the couple? Oh, God that doesn't exist, that's not going to . . .
Baluyev interrupted. "Comrade Major, the guard above you is turned away, watching the blow job. The pervert."
Maybe there is a God. And maybe we have to take a risk.
Konstantin squatted and pointed a single finger at Timer Musin. Once he was certain he had the sergeant's undivided attention, he made a throat cutting gesture, a quick flick of his index finger in the general direction of his own throat. Then the major directed both thumbs toward his own shoulders, at the same time sticking both index fingers up to indicate the direction of travel.
Musin raised an eyebrow, momentarily, then took half a step on padded feet to place one foot on the major's shoulder, then both hands against the wall. He briefly took one hand away to loosen the restraining strap on his knife, then replaced it on the wall.
I am so glad you're not the huge sort, Sergeant Musin, Konstantin thought, because I am frankly too old for this shit.
Then Konstantin stood up, his back shrieking in protest.
Tim padded his hands lightly up the wall as the major raised him. As he felt himself nearing the summit of Konstantin's ability to propel him, he took his right hand off the wall and grasped his knife. His eyes cleared the edge of the wall and saw the distracted guard. His chin cleared, then his shoulders. He let his chest fall to the wall as he reached out with both hands.
Rather than a helmet, the guard was wearing a keffiyeh not dissimilar to the one adorning Musin's head. Strong fingers drove through the cloth to grip hair. An arm stronger still yanked backwards, even while the hand on the other, gripping its knife, took advantage of the exposed neck to drive the blade in to the hilt and then rip it all the way across the throat.