Desert Falcons. Don Pendleton
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are you doing out here?” the policeman asked.
“Just meeting some friends. Did I do something wrong?”
“Let me see some identification.”
“Don’t think I have any with me,” Strogoff said, sounding gregarious. “Wallet’s back at the ranch. We usually don’t drive this vehicle on the road. Just came to see if these folks needed help, is all.”
“You’re from Camp Freedom, aren’t you?” the man on the passenger side asked. “What are you doing out here this time of night?”
That was the wrong question, Androkovich thought as he ignored the three glowing tritium dots of the sights and switched instead to the laser light snapped on the laser sight. The circular bulk of the suppressor that rose over the end of the barrel rendered the standard night sights of the SIG Sauer useless. He centered the red dot on the back of the closer man’s neck. Of course, any question at this point was the wrong one. And the last, as well.
He squeezed the trigger and felt the reduced recoil of the round, and its accompanying ripping sound.
The man on the passenger side of the Jeep emitted a husking groan as his upper body jerked momentarily before he slumped forward.
“Jeff?” the officer on the other side said. “What’s wrong?”
Strogoff reached out the window and pushed the other officer, causing the man to take two wobbly steps backward as he began reaching for his weapon. Androkovich moved to the side, his SIG Sauer still held in the firing position. The small, circular red dot danced on the man’s face.
The Russian squeezed the trigger a millisecond later, the subdued crack of the round piercing the stillness of the desert night once again. The officer crumpled to the road.
Strogoff jumped out of the Jeep and straddled the man, while his companion ran to the unmarked squad car, finding it empty. A radio was mounted under the dashboard, but it was silent. Had they called in their location? Perhaps not. A mobile data computer sat on a metal shelf. He checked the screen and saw some sort of format for obtaining data, but the cursor blinked over an empty space. He wondered again if they had been in communication with their support base. Better to move quickly. The car and the bodies would have to be disposed of with cautious but immediate expedience. He glanced to his right and saw Strogoff going through the dead man’s pockets.
“See if they have handheld radios,” Androkovich called. His ears were buzzing slightly from the subdued reverberation of the rounds going off, but he knew this would subside shortly. He retraced his steps to the place from which he’d fired, shone his flashlight on the ground and looked for the expended shell casings. He found one, but the second one eluded him in the dust and darkness, despite the flashlight. The clock was ticking, and he felt like abandoning his search, thinking perhaps that the desert sand would sweep over the casing. But he also knew the devil, as they said, was in the details. Now was not the time to be careless. Shining the light again, sweeping it over the ground, he located and retrieved the second shell casing.
He went to the other dead man and began going through his pockets. The policeman had a Glock 19 in a nylon holster and two extra magazines. A cell phone was clipped to his belt. Androkovich immediately removed it, took out the battery and placed the items in his pants pocket. He found the dead man’s ID case and flipped it open. A Bureau of Land Management Park Ranger ID card was under a clear plastic flap opposite a small, gold-colored badge. He pocketed that also.
From the other side of the Jeep, Strogoff stood and said, “This guy’s a BLM park ranger. No radio that I can find.”
“Get his cell phone and deactivate it,” his companion said, rising. “Take their weapons and wallets and load them into the trunk of their car.”
Strogoff nodded and picked up the supine figure.
Androkovich considered their options. “We’ll leave them somewhere in the desert. They won’t be found for a few days, at least.”
Strogoff cocked his head toward the other vehicles. “And them?”
“I’ll get our money from the Arab. Duncan can take the ambulance to the barn. I’ll drive their car. You follow me in the Jeep.”
His partner nodded and began dragging the dead man back toward the unmarked squad car.
Androkovich strode to the side of the ambulance. Duncan had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, and his face was covered with sweat.
“Did you kill them?” he asked.
“I had no choice.”
“Shit, I hope it doesn’t bring more heat down on us.”
“I don’t pay you to think. Just follow orders. Take this vehicle to the farthest barn on the compound and lock it up. Then you’re done for this evening.”
Duncan nodded and shifted the ambulance into Drive. Androkovich watched him ride out and around the limo toward the back road entrance and turn on to it. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Strogoff dragging the second dead BLM ranger toward the vehicle. He exhaled slowly as he walked toward the limousine.
The complicated plan had just become a little bit more complicated.
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Mustapha Rahman sat on the soft cushions on the floor of his well-appointed apartment and watched as his second son, Mamum, poured some of the sweet mint tea into a cup for their three guests.
Mamum, the trustworthy. It had been he who had driven the three Shi’ites to Bahrain to conduct the attack on the nightclub, which had allowed Mahfuj, the protector, to perform the heroic rescue. That act had, in turn, ensured the trust and confidence of both the prince and the king.
Mustapha’s three guests were all high-ranking military men, and each had committed himself to the plan. Mustapha had no doubt as to their loyalty. With the assassination attempt the previous night, and the first part of the plan successfully initiated, they were well beyond the point of no return.
It was like a Bedouin pilgrim crossing the desert on his holy hajj, Mustapha thought. To stop at any point in the seemingly endless sands was to embrace death.
Colonel Tariq Matayyib, the weakest link in the chain, Mustapha knew, was perspiring heavily. He accepted the tea from Mamum and sipped at it.
Mustapha reached out and laid a hand on Matayyib’s thigh in reassurance.
“Do not worry, my brother,” Mustapha said. “All is well. It will work as I have foretold.”
Matayyib nodded, accompanied by a very nervous smile. “I have placed my faith and my life in your hands, but still I see the knife being drawn across my throat in my dreams, should we fail.”
Mustapha squeezed Matayyib’s leg again in reassurance. “I have just received a message from my youngest son, Masoud. All is going according to plan.”
This was not entirely true. Masoud had risked using his satellite phone to inform Mustapha about the near catastrophe of the previous evening. It was already morning here in Arabia.
Yes, Arabia, Mustapha thought. He would no longer use the name of the house of traitors to designate his country, the only one in the modern world named after a specific family. As if it were their personal possession.
He glanced at the chess board that the other two colonels had set up. The pieces were configured piecemeal around the board, without any clear strategy or plan of action on the part of either player. Thinking two or three moves ahead was something Mustapha prided himself in being able to do. Even as a boy he’d had the knack for strategy and planning. Perhaps it was a result of his grandfather’s careful instruction in the art of repairing the timepieces. It had taught Mustapha