Viktor moved into the Churchill Hotel suite without incident. Frau Leibowitz had been expected to arrive at noon but she called ahead and informed the front desk that she would not be there until eight that evening. They had no problem with that and assured the woman with the German accent that she would be welcome at any time.

It seemed best to arrive in early evening after the sun had gone down. Despite the makeup and clothing there was no sense in appearing until the lobby was bathed in overhead lighting which would hide the details of his face. But the desk clerk hardly gave Viktor a glance when he checked in and handed back the passport with a smile.

The real Frau Leibowitz back in Halensee would not miss the identification Viktor had stolen because she was spending the summer with her sister in the Bavarian Alps. In all the time he had known her she had left the country on only one trip, and even that didn't require a passport. Her Berliner Morgenpost identification card was just a bonus but might prove useful. Substituting his female image for hers had been a mere technicality that worked so well even American customs would have allowed him to pass.

The sniper rifle fit nicely in one of his two suitcases. Minus the suppressor, scope, bipod and magazine it weighed less than ten pounds and was only forty inches long. The accessories were carried in suitcase number two along with the other pieces of clothing Viktor would need.

With an effective range of eight hundred meters the shot he would have to make was well within the rifle's capability. He had ten rounds in the magazine in case he needed them. With the suppressor he could probably squeeze off half that many before anyone began searching for the source. One bullet is all I need, Viktor thought, because after one he would abandon his position on the roof and return to his room to change.

He was not planning to leave the hotel that day or the next. No, the good Frau would be mildly indisposed the day of the event and remain that way. She would ask for room service to deliver medicine and light broth for her queasy stomach. The front desk would attest to her illness should the police investigate the residents ... which of course they would.

Snipers always ran away, didn't they? Viktor was hoping the authorities believed that, but his real concern was Michael. With all the after action reports Terrance had given him to read Viktor believed he had an insight to his opponent's thinking.

The bellman led Viktor to his room on the seventh floor and deposited the suitcases on the luggage racks at the foot of his bed. The man bowed slightly, accepted his tip, and quietly made an exit. Viktor walked across the sitting area to the windows facing Connecticut Avenue, and there across the street was the Hilton all lit up like a Christmas tree.

Washington was an interesting city at night and he was tempted to go out and sample the nightlife. But although surveillance cameras may not function well in darkness there was always the off chance someone would spot him. The curse of pretending to be a middle aged German frau was that he could not appear at any of the places he might go as a man.

Forget it, he told himself. He could drink from the mini-bar and order food from room service, although he was not hungry at the moment. Viktor sighed and pulled off the wig, resigning himself to watching a movie on the room's television. He removed the small wind up alarm clock and the satellite phone from his suitcase and set them beside the couch.

The alarm was set for two in the morning ... he would begin his reconnaissance of the rooftop at that time. But he was also expecting a call which had not come and that was not like Terrance at all. Somewhere on the other side of the world things were not going as planned.

Michael awoke at two in the morning and stared at the ceiling of Robert's guest room. He had a feeling that Viktor was nearby, probably on the prowl. The rooftop of that hotel he had spotted earlier last evening would make a fine sniper's nest, but there were other places overlooking the Hilton's entrance that would do just as well.

If Bishara was really in charge of security then they would have to get him to change the plans for the Prince's arrival at the conference. But Michael knew this would be a media event and the Prince was, if nothing else, a politico who wanted to be seen by the cameras. And a fine show it would be if he was shot while making his entrance.

Viktor obviously didn't know Terrance, and perhaps other members of the Kingpins, had been taken by Saudi intelligence. They wouldn't get them all but perhaps enough of them to severely damage the group. Saunders had seemed pretty sure that Interpol would find the rest.

How could they capture Viktor? Robert had assured him that surveillance was all over the hotel and the surrounding buildings ... small comfort when dealing with a sniper of Viktor's caliber. Bishara would arrive the following day and the Prince the morning after. They had just two days to kill or capture Viktor.

Working backwards, Michael wondered how Viktor planned to make his escape. They would need the architectural plans of all the major buildings in the area, and even the underground utility layout for the streets in the immediate vicinity. They could not allow a repeat of what had happened at Glen Echo.

So he shoots and runs, Michael thought. A suppressor on the rifle would muffle the shot and confuse the source giving Viktor time. Unlike what most people thought of as a silencer on a weapon it was not completely silent. Suppressing the rush of gasses down the barrel masked the sharp report of a rifle, but not completely.

The FBI must have drones ... they needed one for surveillance of the rooftops around the Hilton. He would ask in the morning, or perhaps Rebecca had already anticipated the need. Robert's team seemed like a competent bunch, at least on the technical side. Michael could not fault them for Viktor's escape since he had been standing there when it happened. The assassination plans had been well thought out and so far the other team was winning, but not for long. These guys must have a plan B ... there was always a plan B.

The field office was humming with activity at eight in the morning when they walked in, and Michael figured that some of these people had been here all night long. The clacking of computer keyboards and the murmur of voices on the phone defined how busy they were, but now it was time to see if all this work had paid off.

"Good Morning, Rebecca," Michael said while Robert headed for the canteen to bring them coffee.

"Overnight ... I guess we made some administrative progress, and your Saudi contact is heading our way."

"Administrative?"

Rebecca smiled. "We can't just fly a drone without FAA approval ... D.C. is closed airspace."

"Drone ... I was going to ask," Michael said.

"I figured you would. I just wish we could keep one aloft for the next two days. But these are small civilian drones, not the big bad boys that the military use. Not going to take a chance of the enemy spotting our surveillance. You want to see?"

"It's up?"

"Been flying since dawn and we've downloaded a whole slew of video."

Michael rolled a chair over to the large monitor on the wall beside her desk and Rebecca started to roll the images.

"We started at five thousand feet to orient the feed ... any lower and we might get spotted, but the camera has a zoom lens." Rebecca clicked her mouse on several of the icons along the edge of the screen. "Here's the Hilton's roof." Another click and a new image. "This is your Churchill Hotel across the street."

A flat industrial rooftop, massive amounts of open space, and the normal roof mounted HVAC units. Michael could see insulated piping running into a raised portion of the building which would be the mechanical spaces on the top floor. But there in the middle of the building was something else.

"What is that?" Michael said, and pointed.

"The hotel is really two separate buildings joined in the middle. That center section contains the restaurant, kitchens and service area for each floor. I think what you see are the vents for the kitchen equipment and assorted ductwork."

"Notice the HVAC units sit flush with the roof surface so they vent downward into the interior ductwork," Michael said. "The piping you see must run to the compressors in the mechanical room to circulate coolant ... no ductwork on the roof. That kitchen however ... "

Rebecca zoomed the image a little closer. "The ductwork is important?"

"This part is ... see how close it is to the edge of the roof? There seems to be a coping all around both buildings to keep the runoff from rain going over the edge and channel it back to the drains. But even though this kitchen section is set back from the front maybe a hundred feet that would be of little consequence to a sniper."

"He could lie between the ducts and out of sight," Rebecca said. "Looks like he would still have a clear opening to the front lobby of the Hilton." She looked over at Michael. "Is that what you would do?"

Michael smiled. "Now why would you think that?"

"You are no ordinary Army intelligence officer. Sorry ... I know I'm not supposed to ask."

"I didn't hear a thing," Michael said. "Now let's start from the hotel lobby and work our way out from there. The Saudi entourage will arrive by limo, armored I'm sure."

"Check. We know the embassy has two of them," Rebecca said.

"Who is performing crowd control for the media?"

"D.C. Police, some Saudi embassy officials, but of course we will be there as well."

"Journalists and people with cameras will have to be vetted for identification. Television crews ... do we know how many media people will be there?"

Rebecca accessed a list on her computer. "Three national outlets and one local ... each will have their own broadcast trucks parked out on T Street. Do you see a threat there?"

Michael sighed. "I suppose if I were a sniper I would have a plan B in case a long shot was not possible. In Viktor's case we know the man so he would be taking a big risk if he tried to breach the security surrounding the Prince and shoot from close up."

"That would be crazy," Rebecca said.

"What's crazy?" Robert said, setting a cup of coffee down in front of Michael.

"Just supposing a plan B option where Viktor shoots from close up," Rebecca said.

Robert looked at Michael. "Would he do that? It would be suicidal."

"He's a hired gun not a fanatic ... no, I don't think he would risk getting too close. He has to assume the worst and that means we'll be covering the site to prevent the shot. What time does Bishara arrive?"

"Four-forty this afternoon," Rebecca said. "We can assume he'll be staying at the embassy."

"We need to see the roof of that hotel," Robert said. "How do you think Viktor would gain entrance?"

"I would bet he's already there," Michael said.

"Arriving in fifteen minutes, Colonel," the steward said.

Bishara pulled his head away from the window and glanced up at the man with a nod. His mind had been far away, thinking back to a time when the CIA had misread his intentions on the threshold of the Iraq War.

The Saudis had provided the American military every courtesy, allowing them to stage their buildup within sight of the Kuwaiti border. The Iraq military had fired missiles at them with only minor damage, but it was enough to threaten the King.

"Go and find the snake ... cut off its head," King Abdullah had told the security staff in a private meeting.

Abdullah had been presented with several opportunities to do just that over the years but he had always seen Iran as a larger threat. Now with the American buildup he thought that killing Saddam would accomplish much in the lull before the storm of war.

Bishara had just achieved the rank of lieutenant when his team of spies infiltrated Iraq. Saddam would be hard to approach and so they spent months penetrating the environment in which this dictator lived and worked, gathering information and developing a plan. Then the Americans invaded and ruined everything.

In mere weeks Iraq was on its knees and Saddam was in hiding. The search for the Ba'athist leadership uncovered all sorts of people, and among them were the Saudi intelligence members who were expelled from the country ... .all except Bishara.

American military intelligence and the CIA figured he was a spy, but for which side. The scene at Camp Cropper got ugly, the Americans desperate to grab Saddam and make headlines around the world. Bishara had given them name, rank, and serial number and the names of his Saudi military contacts. They threw him in a cell for weeks as the summer of 2003 slowly progressed into fall ... and then he met Terrance Bolton.

Bishara's assessment was that this man was out to gain favor with his bosses and in doing so evidenced the deep lack of feeling he had for the prisoners. He spoke what he thought was impeccable Farsi and that made him feel superior, but he had a short fuse like most sociopathic individuals. Terrance talked, and beat ... and even killed several prisoners with his methods of torture. It didn't matter, they were only ragheads.

The only hope for any of them was that the Americans would catch Saddam, and in December they did. Terrance was pulled out of Camp Cropper and Bishara was released to the custody of the Saudi military. The report he wrote was scathing, naming Bolton as a psychopath who had killed several prisoners.

The report was unfortunately squashed by his superiors since the Americans were allies. But Bishara was elevated to the rank of captain and sent after Al Qaeda who had fled Iraq and huddled on the border with Syria. Their leadership was decimated and they didn't know what to do with themselves with the Americans all over Iraq.

Bishara was sitting in a tribal village speaking to the remnants of that leadership when the bullet came out of nowhere. He was knocked unconscious and left for dead as the tribal members scattered. He might have bled to death if not for the women who came to rob him of his possessions and discovered that he was still alive.

They nursed his wound as best they could and then loaded him on a truck for a long painful drive to Mosul and an American military hospital. They respected his Saudi papers and a week later he was in Riyadh under the care of the King's own doctors.

Bishara glanced out the plane's window once again and saw the distant American capital. A beautiful city with some very ugly people in it. Governments across the globe contained corrupt officials and the United States was no exception. But here they had more money to play with and that made them dangerous.

It had taken some years and a lot of effort to discover that Terrance Bolton had set him up with the American sniper unit to be killed. All these years and he had not known why until four days ago. He did not blame the soldier who had pulled the trigger and was only grateful that the bullet had missed ... well almost.

The seatbelt sign flashed on as the Saudi Air Force business jet jumped into the landing pattern and followed the Potomac River. Bishara fingered the scar on the side of his head and smiled. It would be interesting to meet the man who had almost taken his life, and he reached for the Fedora which sat on the seat beside him.

Michael and Robert had driven to the Delta cargo terminal in an FBI vehicle and waited on a corner of the tarmac as the Saudi jet made its way towards them. Bishara did not want to be seen and Michael could understand why ... that face did not exist anywhere in the world's databases. If only that were true for me, Michael thought.

Anonymity was a coveted prize in the intelligence game and he had felt privileged to view Bishara during their phone conversation. From that Michael had gone on to view Rebecca's gallery of the current Saudi royalty so that he might identify the Prince when the time came.

He looked for the Colonel's uniform but it was nowhere to be seen. To be fair, if Bishara had been in traditional Saudi garb it would have been impossible to spot him. Men wearing a throbe and the traditional tribal headgear all seemed to look alike, except for the royals. There was just something about the way they dressed ... they looked so perfect, so rich. Perhaps Bishara would clue him in to their secret.

The man in the Fedora hat was the third off the plane, but the first two reached the bottom of the steps and turned to look around with respect. Bodyguards ... Bishara didn't leave home without them it seems. The large smile, the extended arms, and Bishara embraced Michael, kissing him on both cheeks.

"Do I shock you?" Bishara laughed. "I owe you my life."

Michael couldn't help but smile. "I suppose that's one way to look at it, Colonel."

"Please, let us not be formal ... I am Omar, you must call me this and I shall call you Michael ... .if that is your real name."

"It is, thank you ... Omar."

"Do you believe in fate, Michael?"

"On occasion I do."

"Ah, a wise decision. Michael is the first named angel in the Hebrew scripture and is the answer to the question 'who is like God?' While Omar is a name that speaks of long life ... an irony in my case I am sure you can appreciate."

"Look, you know the circumstances ... " Michael began.

Bishara held up a hand. "We have no need to speak of these things in front of strangers. That is in the past and I have no anger from that incident. In fact I am in a much better situation because of it ... but who is this gentleman beside you?"

"I'm sorry ... this is Robert Edwards with the FBI. It's his team that is tracking Victor."

"Excellent, I am pleased to meet you."

"The same here. From what Michael says you can give us new insight about the Prince," Robert said.

"Yes, all will be explained," Bishara said.

"It's almost dinner time," Michael said. "After such a long flight you must be tired, would you like the chance to freshen up?"

Bishara nodded. "That would be nice, but if I go to the embassy I will have to meet with the ambassador and brief him which could take hours. My body will rest when the time comes for such things. We have much to talk about."

The two bodyguards had fetched a briefcase from inside the plane as the crew opened the cargo compartment at the back. A black limousine pulled up by the tail of the plane and a man dressed in native Saudi garb got out.

"The embassy sent a driver who will take my men and possessions there until we are finished," Bishara said. "I will trust my safety in your hands."

Michael nodded. "We'll have you home before midnight."

Bishara sighed. "If only that were true. I despise the formalities of an embassy but then anyone in my position must play a political role as well. Fortunately the Prince will be here tomorrow and then they can ignore me. Shall we go?"

The FBI office was fairly deserted except for the team working to find Viktor. Rebecca had arranged refreshments on a side table, juice and water for the eight attendees.

"This looks delightful," Bishara said, reaching for a bottle of orange juice.

"Thank you, Rebecca," Robert said.

"All in a day's work," she replied.

"I hope you will be joining us," Bishara said.

"Rebecca is our team coordinator, so yes, she will be joining us," Robert said.

Michael, Robert, Bishara, and Rebecca were joined by the team specialists. Robert introduced their man for communications, the chief of street operations who specialized in security, and the liaison with the D.C. police. The final place was taken by a lady who looked familiar to Michael.

"Janet Brooks ... State Department," she said.

"Have we met before?" Michael asked.

"You have a good memory, and yes, we met once before. Bagram Air Base, you were busy chewing the CIA head of station a new asshole. I didn't think you noticed me."

Michael smiled. "It was a rather distracting moment ... forgive me."

"No regrets, I enjoyed the show. He deserved it."

Bishara had listened to the exchange and raised his eyebrows. "You seem to have many talents, Michael."

"Not all of them have served me well ... shall we sit?"

"Riyadh has become a very international city," he told them. "The world's nations come to seek the wealth beneath our sands and engage in trade, not too different than it was a thousand years ago. We have always depended upon trade with the outside world since my country had little to offer in the way of agriculture, but that is changing.

"My Prince is perhaps as avid about the wealth of our oil as he is about the spread of good agricultural habits. It is for the benefit of the people he tells me, we need to become more self-sufficient."

"What kind of man is he?" Robert asked.

"A family man, a man of great learning ... but a stubborn man."

"If his arrival at this conference puts him at great risk will he allow us to change his plans?" Michael asked.

"Probably not," Bishara said. "The image of the Saudi royal family is utmost in his mind. His personal safety he leaves to others which is my burden. What would you have him do? He must attend the conference."

"I agree, but does he have to walk through the front door?"

"I wish not, but that is what he wants. This trip puts him in danger ... and those members of his family as well. If there is no attempt on his life at the conference then I am faced with concern about the rest of their time here."

"Family? He's bringing his family?" Robert asked.

"Not all of them, just a wife, his teenage daughter and his youngest boy, neither of them has seen this country before. This wife is the mother of these children so she must be present. They will visit the city while the Prince is at the conference, but we will have heavy security for them in place."

Michael shook his head. "Viktor is after one target but anyone standing close to your Prince will be in danger ... we have to make him understand that."

Bishara nodded. "So bring me up to date. What have you discovered so far?"

Viktor remained in the hotel room and hidden from the prying eyes of the security sweep he knew was going on around him. The authorities would look at every vantage point overlooking the Hilton's entrance and would certainly tag the roof of the Churchill as a prime position for a sniper.

He'd made two forays in the middle of the night and one of them included the roof. Access to the roof was through a steel door on the top floor and up a steep stairway to the mechanical room. There were two cameras covering the hallways to that door which he temporarily disabled with the aid of a Freon spray across the lenses.

His reconnaissance lasted less than ten minutes which was the time it took for the lenses to thaw out and return to normal. But the roof was an open field of fire and Viktor was sure there would be a police guard up there during the Prince's arrival. He could cut into the ductwork and remain hidden for a day and a night, but then if they used dogs ... he knew they would use dogs.

The bedroom window of the suite was triple glazed although it did have the right angle to view the Hilton. He had a device that could cut through the layers of glass, but then even a novice with binoculars could spot the hole from the outside.

Michael knew he was here and in a place where a sniper could view the target without being seen. This would be one of the most difficult decisions Viktor had ever made, but isn't that what he enjoyed the most? The Prince was due to arrive at midday and it would be on the television news. If nothing else the Saudis were media savvy.

Viktor finished the transformation into his disguise and slid into the heavy bathrobe provided by the hotel, only then did he pick up the phone to dial room service. It was time to eliminate Frau Leibowitz as a suspect by putting her to bed.

"Hello, this is Room 712 ... I need to order some soup."

"Certainly, madam."

"I am not feeling well ... perhaps a summer cold," Frau Leibowitz said. "A bowl of chicken soup and perhaps some aspirin if you have them. I'm going to stay in bed today."

"Yes, madam, I can arrange that. Do you require a doctor? We have one on call at all times."

"No ... I don't think it is that serious."

"Please don't hesitate to call if you require medical help. I'll send the soup and aspirin right up."

"Thank you."

Viktor switched on the television and sat back to await his soup. The news on CNN was all about the Islamic State having routed the Iraqi military once again. This was a war about ideology and no amount of bombing was going to solve it. When the reporter mentioned that perhaps the rise of ISIL was due to the inequities of sectarian strife following the Iraq War and the fall of Saddam Viktor could only smile.

He had met members of the Ba'athist Party after the war's end. They had planned the inception of an Islamic State for years and were only awaiting the withdrawal of American troops. The Iraqi government was weak which any fool could see, and the situation in Syria gave them an opening.

But Viktor had cautioned that what they wanted was not sustainable, the world would be against them. Bombs would not kill the movement but attrition would. ISIL would be surrounded, cut off from much needed supplies, and their army would wither on the vine. It was only a matter of time.

"Tomorrow is the opening of the five day economic conference in Washington," the reporter said, and Viktor focused on the images being shown. "Members of the EU and Middle Eastern governments will meet with finance ministers to discuss the balance of trade, and the current depreciation in oil futures.

"At issue is the price of oil which has declined in recent months and the Saudi attempt to stabilize the market. America has been shifting away from energy produced from oil and more towards natural gas which it has in plentiful supply. This concerns the Middle Eastern oil producing nations because of the price drop in crude sales.

"So as the ministers gather, a prominent member of the Saudi Royal family is arriving at Dulles International Airport, where we go to John Pinkerman to catch the arrival of the Prince."

"Yes, Carolyn ... the Saudi Royal Air Force jet has landed, and since Prince Abdulaziz bin Salman al-Saud is a royal we will see a small delegation of American diplomats lined up to greet him. This is not a formal visit and it doesn't mean the Prince will meet with the President during his stay, but perhaps there will be an off the cuff meeting at some point.

"There you see the plane parked on the tarmac with the stairs in place and in just a few moments the members of the diplomatic corps will assemble at the bottom of the stairs. There are several limousines and security vehicles standing by ... and there you go, the door is opening."

Three men and a woman lined up to greet the Prince, and then a man appeared at the open doorway. He was wearing traditional Saudi garb, but so were several others who moved into the doorway behind him. Viktor immediately recognized the Prince from the file photos he had seen.

But as the man moved onto the stairs he looked back and a small boy rushed through the doorway and took his father's hand.

"No ... NO," Viktor screamed, and pounded his fist down on the coffee table just as there was a knock at the door.

"Room service," a voice said.

Viktor grasped the Glock pistol in the pocket of the robe and made his way to the door. Through the peephole he saw a young black man in a waiter's uniform holding a covered tray so he opened the door.

"Your soup and medicine," the young man said.

"Please," Viktor said, allowing the young man to enter.

The waiter set the tray down on the table beneath the windows and uncovered the dishes. A good sized bowl of chicken noodle soup and several foil packets of aspirin.

"Please call us if you desire anything else," the man said and made his exit.

Viktor tried not to look back at the television or the soup. He was no longer hungry after seeing his nightmare come true. This was Azad Mamishov all over again and Viktor felt absolutely sick.

The waiter walked down the hallway away from Room 712 until he reached the door to the stairwell. Once there he looked back and pulled out his cell phone.

"This is Johnson over at the Churchill ... I found him in Room 712. He's dressed like a woman and I'm sure he has a weapon in the pocket of the robe he's wearing."

"Good observation," Rebecca said, "now return to your station."

On to Chapter Twelve

Back to Chapter Ten

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"No Reason to Kill" Copyright © Chris James. All rights reserved.
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