The president turned back to Adkins, hesitated for just a moment, but then nodded. “I don’t see that I have any other choice.”
“No, sir,” Adkins said, relieved. He gathered up his attaché case.
“Will he go for it?” Berndt asked.
Adkins shook his head. “I honestly don’t know, Dennis. One part of me thinks that he’ll tell me to go to hell when I ask him, while another part of me thinks nothing I say or do would stop him from doing it.” He smiled. “You know Mac well enough to know that when he has the bit in his teeth nothing can stop him.”
“He’s a one-man killing machine,” Beckett said.
“That he is,” Adkins agreed.
“Dick,” the president said.
“Sir?”
“Tell him Godspeed for me.”
TWENTY-THREE
SAN JOSÉ, COSTA RICA
Graham stood at the ninth-floor window of his suite in the downtown Tryp Corobici Hotel, waiting for his satellite phone call to go through. It was night, and the lights of the city spread out below him were beautiful. But he was seething with barely controlled rage because he had failed.
He could not get rid of the image of the U.S. Navy helicopter suddenly appearing as if out of nowhere at the bow of his ship, gunning down two of his crewmen. For the first time in his career he’d given serious thought to his own mortality.
The encrypted connection was made, and bin Laden came on the line. “There was nothing in this morning’s news broadcasts.”
“That’s because it never happened,” Graham said. It took every ounce of his resolve to keep from screaming obscenities at the stupid son of a bitch. Obviously there’d been a leak somewhere between Panama and Karachi.
“Where are you calling from?”
“The hotel in San José. I was the only one left alive, a Navy SEAL team was waiting for us at the locks.” Graham closed his eyes. He had to calm down. Taking a crewman’s sidearm and forcing the Seahawk pilot to set down in an industrial park in the opposite direction from the beach had been easy. They weren’t prepared for the hijacking or for their deaths when he shot them at point-blank range.
He’d radioed the Nueva Cruz from the helicopter, and before dawn had hitched a ride in a farmer’s truck back to Limón Bay, while overhead several aircraft, among them two helicopters, crisscrossed the night sky, presumably looking for the missing chopper and wounded canal pilot.
“You must have attracted some attention in Maracaibo,” bin Laden said, his tone maddeningly reasonable. “Or one of the ship’s crew may have suspected something and radioed a warning.”
The image of the whore screeching at him flashed through his head. “It wasn’t me,” he said. “There is a leak somewhere in your organization. It cost the lives of fourteen of my crewmen, and nearly got me killed.”
The sat phone was silent for several beats. Graham opened his eyes and looked out at the city. He could imagine bin Laden sitting on a prayer rug in his dayroom. It was a few minutes after seven in the morning in Pakistan, and the man was an early riser.
“Why didn’t you blow up the ship when you had the chance?” Graham laughed. “I’m a mercenary for the cause, not a martyr, I thought we’d already got that straight, chum.”
“I want to know everything, beginning with your arrival in Caracas,” bin Laden said. “It’s certainly not out of the realm of possibility that you were spotted and identified for who you are at the airport. The CIA has a presence there.”
“If I had been made, they would never have allowed me to board the ship. Vensport Security controls all the ferry operators on the lake.”
If he had sown the seeds of his own failure it would have been with the Russian steward who had spotted him as an imposter and reported her suspicion to the first officer. But they had only gotten to the point of searching his room when he’d walked in on them. They wouldn’t have had the time to make a call.
“Very well,” bin Laden said. “You got aboard and sailed out of there. What happened next?”
“I killed the crew, made the rendezvous, and picked up my people without a hitch. Then in Limón Bay we picked up the canal pilot and headed into the Gatun lock.”
The pilot had come to the realization that Graham was an imposter, but he’d not had a chance to radio for help.
“The explosives were set?” bin Laden asked.
“Yes, and we even made it to the middle lock, but before I could get ashore and press the button the U.S. SEAL team was on top of us.”
Bin Laden said something in Arabic that Graham didn’t catch. “How did you know that it was a U.S. strike team? Perhaps they were Panamanian.”
“They came in a Seahawk helicopter with U.S. Navy markings, and they spoke English,” Graham said. “The point is, what’s next? This operation is dead—”
“Only this operation,” bin Laden interrupted. “How was it you escaped, if as you say, your ship was taken over by the American military?”
Graham told him everything, including the parts about hijacking the helicopter, killing the crew, and making his rendezvous with the Nueva Cruz.
“That was inventive,” bin Laden said. “But then you are a clever man.”
“Only the civilian seemed to be suspicious. I have a hunch he was CIA, which is what’s bothering me the most. How did they get involved unless your organization has an informer?”
“What about the civilian?” bin Laden demanded sharply. “What made you think he was a CIA officer?”
“He was in charge, he was armed, and he knew what he was doing,” Graham said. It was the expression in the man’s gray-green eyes. He’d seen things, done things. “He was a pro.”
“What did this professional look like? Describe him.”
“Taller than me, husky, athletic-looking. Green eyes—”
“What?” bin Laden demanded sharply.
“Green eyes.”
“Did he speak with an accent?”
Graham was confused. “I’m not a bloody expert on American accents,” he said. “Southern, maybe. I don’t know. Oklahoma?”
Bin Laden was silent again for several seconds. When he came back his tone of voice was different, as if he’d received some bad news. “If the civilian is who I think he is, you may consider yourself lucky to be alive. How good a look did he get of you?”
“Very good, but I was in disguise,” Graham said. He decided not to tell bin Laden about the cell phone detonator. “Who is he?”
“A man I know very well,” bin Laden replied. “Now it will be necessary to kill him, no matter the cost, because he’ll not stop hunting until he finds you.”
“He’s just another CIA operator. They’re a penny a pound.”
“Not this one,” bin Laden said. “I want you back here as soon as possible, I have a new mission for you. Something much better, something more suitable to your training.”
“What mission?” Graham asked, his interest piqued and his rage subsiding for the moment.
“It’s called Allah’s Scorpion,” bin Laden said. “Come here and I’ll explain everything to you.”
TWENTY-FOUR
CHEVY CHASE
McGarvey stopped for a moment at the head of the stairs, as his six-month-old granddaughter, Audrey, giggled in the kitchen. It was nine thirty, well past her normal bedtime, but Elizabeth and Todd hadn’t been able to come over until past seven, and Katy wouldn’t have allowed them through the front door if they hadn’t brought the baby.
When he’d gotten home a little before one this afternoon, Katy had searched his face to find out if he was done. What she’d seen hadn’t pleased her. She knew without asking that her husband’s return from the field was temporary; he was on the hunt. He had the old look: lean, hungry, determined.
But they’d made the best of the afternoon because the kids were coming for a late dinner and they were bringing the baby, and she was the joy in their lives that they’d all desperately needed for a long time.
Adkins had
called around four, wanting McGarvey to come to the Building first thing in the morning. He hadn’t pressed for any details, but he’d broadly hinted that the operation was far from over.
“Someone will have to go after Graham,” McGarvey had agreed. “I don’t think he’s a man who quits easily.”
“There’s more,” Adkins had said.
McGarvey had chuckled. “There always is.”
The house was in complete disarray. Boxes were stacked everywhere, waiting for the movers who were supposed to come on Thursday. Furniture was tagged, paintings, pictures, and mirrors were off the walls and crated, and his study had been completely disassembled.
They’d bought this house ten years ago for $350,000, just before he and Katy had split up and he’d run to Switzerland. They’d put it on the market two months ago, and it had sold in two days for $l.9 million—$200,000 more than they were asking.
Coming downstairs, he was suddenly struck by his history here. It was from this place that he and Katy had ended their marriage, and it had been here that they’d reunited.
But there had also been bad things. His wife and daughter had been placed in harm’s way, more than once. And just outside across the street his bodyguard and friend, Dick Yemm, had been assassinated.
Time to head for sunnier climes. Time to get back to teaching, and back to the book on Voltaire that he’d been writing for several years.
But first there was one remaining task, other than Graham. Something he should have done in 2000 when he’d had the opportunity. In many respects the failure to stop 9/11 was as much his fault as it was anyone else’s.
This time he would not stop until he had personally put a bullet in Osama bin Laden’s brain.
He went down the stair hall and into the kitchen, where Audrey in her high chair had been pulled up to the counter and was eating her dinner. She had strained beets in her hair, her ears, her eyes, and in the creases of her neck.
Katy looked up. “Did you find the camera?”
McGarvey shook his head. “It’s in one of the boxes. I couldn’t find it.”
“Don’t worry, Mother, Audie does this with every meal,” Elizabeth said. “We’ll send pictures.”
“Your granddaughter is a slob, Mrs. M,” Todd said.
Katy smiled. “So was your wife.”
“She still is,” Todd added.
Liz shot a playful slap at him when the telephone rang.
Katy answered it, and her smile faded. “Of course,” she said, and hung up. She looked at Mac. “Otto’s just pulling into our driveway. Says it’s urgent.”
It had to be about Graham. Rencke had been working the problem around the clock ever since he’d come down to Sarasota to ask Mac to take the job.
“I’ll try to make it short,” McGarvey told his wife, then went to the front door to let the CIA’s director of Special Projects in.
Rencke had brought a young, good-looking woman with him. “Gloria Ibenez,” he introduced her. “She’s one of our field officers working the bin Laden search. And, oh boy, you just gotta hear what she came up with.”
She shook hands with McGarvey. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir.” She glanced at the boxes stacked in the stair hall. “You’re leaving?”
“In a few days,” McGarvey said. He ushered them into his study, where the walls and shelves had been stripped bare, and shut the door. All the chairs had been boxed, so there was nowhere to sit.
“It’s not over, Mac,” Otto gushed. He hopped from one foot to the other, his face animated. “It fact it’s just starting. The canal gig was bonus time; it wasn’t the real Allah’s Scorpion.”
“What are you talking about?” McGarvey asked. He’d had the feeling from the moment he knew Graham’s target was the canal and not someplace in the United States that there would be more.
“I finally got Graham’s navy file. The full file. His wife died while he was at sea on patrol, and his boss never notified him. Pissed him off and he went all to hell. Drinking, making really bad decisions that put his crew’s lives in jeopardy, that kinda shit.”
“We figured as much,” McGarvey said.
“But here’s the kicker, Mac, and, honest injun, this is the big one. Guess what Graham’s job was in the navy. Just guess.”
“What?”
“He was a Perisher graduate,” Otto gushed. “Top of his class.”
“Submarines,” McGarvey said in wonder.
“Bingo!” Otto cried. “He was a sub driver, and a damned good one from his early fitreps.” He glanced at Gloria. “But it’s even better than that.”
“I was in Guantanamo Bay last week, interrogating prisoners,” she said. “My partner and I stumbled into the middle of a prison break. We think it was al-Quaida trying to spring five guys. Iranians. When they were cornered they killed themselves rather than risk being recaptured.”
“Her partner was killed too,” Otto said gently.
“The five guys they were trying to grab were all ex-Iranian navy,” Gloria said. “And for some reason, which no one down there wanted to talk about, they weren’t in Camp Delta. They were in the minimum-security lockup for prisoners ready to be released back to their home countries.”
“Al-Quaida is planning to grab a sub somewhere, and hit us hard,” Otto said. “They’ve got the captain, and they’re searching for a crew.”
McGarvey had been watching Gloria’s eyes. There was a sadness there, and something else. “Sorry about your partner,” he said. “But are you trying to tell me that al-Quaida had help down there? Someone on our side?”
“I think so,” Gloria said. “It would mean that someone in the organization has a direct pipeline to the camp. I want to go back and find out. It could very well lead us to bin Laden himself.”
“I’m going with you,” McGarvey said. Gitmo would probably be difficult, he thought, but nowhere near as difficult as it was going to be when he told Katy.
“Yes, sir,” Gloria said, obviously impressed and pleased.
“I’ll come out to the Building first thing in the morning,” McGarvey told Otto. “See if you can come up with the names of any other of the prisoners who might have navy backgrounds.”
“Will do.”
“And put together everything you got not only on Graham, but on bin Laden.”
“Oh, boy,” Otto said, hopping from one foot to the other, and clapping his hands. “The bad guys are going down.”
PART TWO
TWENTY-FIVE
KARACHI, PAKISTAN
Rupert Graham reached Karachi’s Jinnah International Airport via Paris around eight in the evening aboard a battered Pakistan International Airlines 727 that had to have been thirty years old. As they came in for the landing, most of the Muslim passengers aboard took out their prayer beads and closed their eyes. A good many of them believed that their prayers were all that kept PIA’s aging fleet in the air.
Except for security concerns, Graham had been all but mindless of his surroundings since he’d left San José yesterday morning. He was seething inside because of his failure, and now arriving in Pakistan he was beginning to feel like a junior ensign being called before the skipper for a Captain’s Mast disciplinary action.
Yet something of what bin Laden had said during their brief telephone conversation kept repeating in his head, booming like a drum calling him to battle. Allah’s Scorpion. Something much better, something more suitable to your training.
Graham, dressed in a charcoal-gray business suit, his hair and eyebrows light again, the soft brown contacts gone, the lift shoes discarded, shuffled down the corridor with the other passengers to immigration, where he showed his Australian passport, which identified him as forty-one-year-old Talbot Barry, from Sydney, here to write a piece for a travel magazine.
He was passed through without question, but when he retrieved his single hanging bag and presented it at customs, two armed officers and a drug-sniffing dog conducted a thorough search not only of the bag, but of his bo
dy. Through it all he kept his composure, cooperating completely, and even smiling.
Pakistan had been granted the most favored nation status by the United States and was getting a lot of aid. As a result, Islamabad was doing everything in its power to keep up the illusion that it was actively seeking out terrorists, especially the remnants of the Taliban, as well as al-Quaida and specifically bin Laden, who was supposedly hiding out in the mountains of the far northwest.
When his bag was finally stamped and he was given an entry pass, he marched through the busy terminal and outside, where a dark Mercedes S500 with tinted windows pulled up to the curb. Graham got into the backseat and the driver, a bulky dark-complected man in a business suit, pulled smoothly out into traffic and without a word headed into the city.
“Were you followed?” the driver asked, in English, his voice low, menacing. He was one of bin Laden’s chief bodyguards and gofers.
It was an extremely rude question, but one that Graham could philosophically understand because of his failure in Panama. “I was not.”
It was a weekday and the traffic volume was heavy the nearer they got to downtown, especially in the broad band of slums they had to pass through. But Graham was again lost in thought, only subliminally noticing his surroundings.
He’d been born and raised in the Collyhurst slum of Manchester, his father a collier and his mother a laundress. Early on he’d learned to defend himself from the other boys, because he was small for his age.
There was never enough money, and yet he showed an early promise in grammar school, so on the advice of the schoolmaster, and a scholarship, they managed to scrape together enough money to let him finish through college prep.
Of course college was completely out of the question, financially, so Graham had joined the Royal Navy and was sent to Dounreay in Scotland to learn nuclear engineering, graduating number five in his class of fifty.
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