Clean Kill by Jack Coughlin, Donald A. Davis Page A

scenario is heading, Steve,” said the president. “We will not throw our friends in Riyadh under the bus, let their government fall and then just move in ourselves to take over the Saudi oil operations, even as an honest broker.”
    “Sir, the hardest decision the Saudi government might have to face in this crisis would be deciding whether to allow thousands of American troops to enter the country if their own military proves insufficient or riddled with disloyalty. Just because we are willing to commit forces in there does not mean they will allow us to intervene.”
    The president crossed his arms and chewed at his thumbnail in silence for a few moments. Thoughts rushed through his mind. So much to do. A new secretary of state must be appointed right away and there will be a state funeral at Arlington tomorrow for my old friend Ken Waring. Saudi Arabia is coming to a fast boil. Perhaps a UN force to stabilize the oil fields? All that and a half-dozen other crisis points on completely different issues that have nothing to do with foreign relations. He rubbed his eyes.
    “Is the Saudi ambassador back yet?” President Tracy stood. The meeting was over.
    “He’s on the way. Our last word was that he was planning to leave the clinic in England today. Prince Abdullah will be a good guy for us to have around right now.”
    “Please let him know that I want to see him as soon as he gets in,” said the president. “There must be some way out of this problem.”
    Hanson looked at the others and gave a silent nod and they began to leave the room. “We’re on it, sir,” he said. “Look at it this way. Things could not be much worse.”
    “Steve, the one thing that I’ve learned in this job is that things can always get worse.”
    16
    ENGLAND
    WITH THE FIREFIGHT DONE, the British police again took control of the clinic. No medical personnel rushed to assist the downed gunmen. The assassins were no longer objects to be feared, just garbage to be carried away. Kyle handed his H&K MP5 to the first cop he saw, a burly youngster who came through the destroyed stairwell door and stopped abruptly at the sight of the dead man in the hallway.
    Swanson walked fast toward the makeshift barrier that blocked the doorway to Sir Jeff’s suite and helped tear it down. He brushed past Prince Abdullah with hardly a glance to get to Lady Pat, who threw her good arm around his neck and hugged him tightly. He bent over and kissed her on the cheek.
    “That took you long enough,” she said with a mocking smile.
    Delara Tabrizi also gave him another hug, and stood to the side, knowing that her own true welcome would be better delivered in private. She wanted more than a polite hospital room embrace.
    Kyle turned to the bed and fought to keep his face neutral. Jeff’s normally round and florid face was almost narrow and the hearty body seemed deflated. Tubes and the bandages and leg casts left no doubt of his grave injuries. The only thing unchanged were the bright gray eyes under the heavy brows, gray eyes that were focused on Kyle. He put his hand lightly on Jeff’s arm. “Hey, buddy. How about you get dressed so we can go have a few pints, chase women, and smoke cigars?” Almost nothing there. He took Jeff’s hand and held it.
    Jeff nodded recognition, fighting the sedation. “Not today, lad. Pat won’t allow it,” he whispered. The voice was hoarse from having a breathing tube down his throat for two days. “Glad you’re here.”
    The man’s eyes shifted momentarily. “Sybelle?”
    “Yes. I’m here, too.” She kissed him on the forehead.
    “I thought I heard gunfire. Just a dream?”
    “Nothing to worry about,” Sybelle said in a soothing tone. “Kyle and I sorted it out.”
    Kyle changed from the serious. “So what the hell happened to you?” Kyle slid a hip onto the bed, his tone remaining gentle.
    “You were right. The castle was vulnerable.”
    “No shit? Hard way to prove the point. How do you feel, old