Allah's Scorpion

by David Hagberg

  “You’ll be gambling with five million of Uncle’s money, and if you lose it there’ll be some people seriously pissed off at you,” Rencke had offered.

  “Won’t be the first time,” McGarvey said.

  “We could give them counterfeit money,” Gloria suggested.

  “None of our people would take the deal seriously,” McGarvey told her. “The word would get out.”

  “You’re talking about leaks,” Gloria said. “In Karachi? I know Coddington, he’s a good guy.”

  “I’m sure he is,” McGarvey said. “But are you willing to bet your life that his shop is airtight? We’re talking about five million cash. A lot of people are going to want a piece of the action.”

  “What if we do lose the money?” she asked.

  McGarvey had shrugged. “The Company can afford it.”

  Bernstein glanced over his shoulder. “From what I heard, Coddington had a hell of a time coming up with that much cash in such a short time. And the word is already out on the street. It’s like somebody tossed a big boulder into a small pond.”

  “Any takers yet?” McGarvey asked.

  “No, but our guys are in place and ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

  “It’ll happen tonight,” McGarvey said.

  “How can you be so sure?” Bernstein asked.

  “Because I’m here. And as soon as they find out that I am, they’ll move.”

  Once they were checked in at the Pearl Continental and their bags were brought up to their tenth-floor executive suite, Gloria ordered lunch from room service while McGarvey used his sat phone to call Rencke.

  The number rang once in Rencke’s office before it was automatically rolled over to his sat phone. “You’re in place?”

  “We just checked in,” McGarvey said. “Where are you?”

  “On the move,” Rencke said. “The opposition knows you’re there. A half hour ago just about every al-Quaida Web site went quiet. Not so much as a symbol. The sites are all blank, and I haven’t been able to get into any of them, which means their computers were disconnected.”

  “They knew that we would be looking. That’s good.”

  “That’s very good, kimo sabe. Now we just have to wait until they take the bait.”

  “How about you?” McGarvey asked.

  “No matter what happens, I’ll be at this number until it’s over.”

  SEVENTY-ONE

  DOWNTOWN KARACHI

  The entire twenty-fifth floor of the M. A. Jinnah commercial tower was in darkness. Osama bin Laden walked to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out at the city. Below, the streets were alive with activity. And out there somewhere Kirk McGarvey was coming.

  Bin Laden had no fear, although he did have a great deal of respect for the American’s abilities. They had first come face-to-face in Afghanistan before 9/11, and every day since then he regretted with everything in his soul that he’d not killed the man when he’d had the chance. McGarvey had thwarted nearly every al-Quaida initiative, except for the attacks of 9/11, and now the assassin was here.

  But this time McGarvey would surely die, because an al-Quaida traitor would accept the reward money that the Americans were offering and a trap so exquisitely believable for them would be set.

  Kamal Tayyhib, bin Laden’s chief bodyguard, knocked softly at the open door. “Contact has been made, Imam.”

  “Have the Americans agreed to the meeting?” bin Laden asked, without turning away from the window.

  “Yes, and our people are in place.”

  Bin Laden nodded. “Very well. But under no circumstances must the American deliverymen come to any harm.”

  “It will be as you have ordered,” Tayyhib promised. “But what of the money? It would be of inestimable assistance to the jihad.”

  Bin Laden smiled inwardly. In the early days of the struggle, money had been of no concern, because he was a rich man. And later, after most of his personal fortune was gone, some of the very Saudi princes he vowed to depose had supported him and the cause. “Destroy it,” he said softly.

  “But surely that’s not necessary, Imam.”

  Bin Laden turned around, an infinite patience welling up in his chest. “Has my double arrived at the compound?”

  Tayyhib wanted to press the point. Five million dollars was a great deal of money. At the very least it could be used to finance the continuing struggle in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Syria. Or it could be sent to the West Bank to help support the families impoverished by the Jews. But he lowered his eyes. “He arrived two hours ago.”

  “Has Colonel Sarwar been notified?” Obaid Sarwar was the chief liaison among Pakistani intelligence, the U.S. Embassy in Islamabad, and the U.S.Consul General here in Karachi. He was also a strong supporter of al-Quaida and the jihad. Pakistan was walking a narrow line between appearing to be hunting the jihadists while all the while secretly supporting them.

  “Yes. He promises to give us forty-eight hours. If McGarvey hasn’t made his move by then, the ISI will ask the Americans to help raid the compound. But of course by then no one will be there.”

  “McGarvey will take the bait,” bin Laden said.

  “If he’s as smart as you say he is, won’t he suspect a trap?”

  Bin Laden smiled. “He’ll be certain that it’s a trap. But that won’t stop him. He’ll do it tonight. I’m sure of it. And then he will be dead.”

  Tayyhib nodded respectfully. “As you say, Imam.”

  “Now leave me,” bin Laden ordered, his voice as soft as a breeze in a field of grass. “But do not go far, I want to know the moment the handover takes place.”

  “Yes, Sayyid,” Tayyhib said. It was a term of deep religious respect, most often used for descendants of Mohammed himself.

  “Not Sayyid,” bin Laden corrected, although he was secretly pleased. “Imam will do.”

  He turned back to the window as his chief bodyguard withdrew, and turned his mind to a second problem, that of Rupert Graham and what had to be done with the man who’d become a serious liability to the jihad.

  CHAKIWARL ROAD

  “You should let me make the handover,” Joe Bernstein insisted.

  He was at the wheel of a consulate red Mercedes 300 diesel sedan, parked in the rear of a tall concrete apartment building on the outskirts of the city across the Lyarl River. It was after nine in the evening, and it had started to rain a half hour ago. Before it had been hot and muggy. Now it was hot and steamy, and Bernstein’s filthy white shirt was plastered to his back.

  “This is my money and my operation,” David Coddington said from the backseat.

  It came down to a matter of trust, Bernstein thought. Five million dollars was a lot of money to let walk out the door. But it rankled, because he had given four dangerous years of his life to Company operations here and up in Islamabad. More than once he could have sold his services to Indian intelligence. Word on the street was that they paid twice as much as the CIA for items of interest. But he’d been loyal the entire time.

  “We could run into some serious shit. It wasn’t such a good idea to drive out here all alone.”

  “They’ll want the money,” Coddington replied in his maddeningly calm voice. “But if they get a decent look at your face you’ll be worthless to us on the street.” The COS patted Bernstein on the shoulder. “This could be the big one. If we can bag bin Laden we’ll all go home heroes.”

  There were lights on in some of the apartments, and the parking lot was more than half-filled with decent-looking cars, most of them Fiats, VWs, and a few small Mercedes, plus a plain white windowless van, but Bernstein had parked in darkness near the trash Dumpsters. Their instructions, which they had received at the consulate’s primary contact telephone, had been very specific. No more than two people would be used to deliver the money. They would not be armed. And they would park directly beneath the one inoperable light stanchion in this lot no later than 9:10 P.M. It was that time now.

  Headlights flashed aroun
d the corner of the building, and moments later a battered green Toyota pickup truck came into view and parked twenty meters away to the right of the white van.

  “I can only see the driver,” Bernstein said.

  The pickup’s headlights went out.

  “Maybe it’s not our man,” Coddington suggested, and Bernstein could hear the first hint of tension in his voice.

  “He’s just sitting there.”

  “Can you tell if his engine is running?”

  “No,” Bernstein replied. Suddenly he didn’t like the setup. They were boxed in back here. The only way out took them directly past the Toyota. He looked over his shoulder. A broad ditch, half-filled with water, separated the rear of the parking lot from the access road to another apartment block a couple hundred meters away. From there they could probably reach Chakiwarl Road. But if they got stuck in the ditch, they would be out of luck.

  “I think we should get out of here,” he said.

  The driver got out of the pickup truck.

  “Hold on,” Coddington said. “This is it.”

  The driver made no move to come across the parking lot, but he was staring at them. He was dressed in baggy dark trousers, a light shirt, and baseball cap. He was holding something about the size of a book in his hand. It did not look like a weapon.

  “I’m going over,” Coddington said. “If this falls apart call for backup right away.”

  “If it falls apart you’ll be dead,” Bernstein said. “Let him come to us.”

  “No,” Coddington said. He got out of the car with the big aluminum case containing the five million and headed across the parking lot.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Bernstein swore. The hair at the nape of his neck was standing on end. He reached under the seat, brought out his 9mm Beretta, and switched the safety to the off position.

  Coddington reached the pickup truck and for a minute or two nothing seemed to be happening. But then the informant handed the book, or whatever it was, to Coddington, who gave the man the aluminum case.

  “Come on,” Bernstein murmured.

  Coddington waited until the driver laid the aluminum case on the pavement and opened it, then turned around and headed back.

  Bernstein tightened his grip on the pistol. If it went bad, it would be right now. He kept his eye on the informant, watching for the man to pull out a weapon, but it didn’t happen.

  Coddington reached the car and climbed in the backseat. “Fish Harbor,” he said triumphantly. “Bin Laden’s at Fish Harbor in a compound. Now get us the hell out of here.”

  Bernstein dropped the car in gear and started toward the exit, when four men armed with Kalashnikov rifles leaped out of the white van, and opened fire on the informant.

  “Son of a bitch,” Coddington swore.

  Bernstein floored it, spun the car around, and headed for the ditch. “Hang on!” he shouted.

  A big explosion lit up the night behind them, and then the car, still accelerating, slammed into the ditch, the shocks bottoming out, the rear end fishtailing wildly, water and mud flying everywhere.

  For just a moment it seemed as if they were going to be bogged down, but then they were rocketing up the other side and Bernstein hauled the heavy car down the access road toward the next apartment building.

  “Are they coming after us?” he demanded.

  “No!” Coddington shouted. “Christ, they shot him, and then tossed a bomb or something right on top of his body.”

  The access road crossed behind the apartment block, and opened two hundred meters later back on Chakiwarl Road. There was no traffic and speeding away Bernstein checked his rearview mirror to make sure that they were not being followed.

  “What about the money?” he asked.

  “Gone,” Coddington said. “It proves that he wasn’t lying.”

  “Yeah, doesn’t it now,” Bernstein replied. “But why didn’t they stop us?”

  “Because you were too goddamned fast for them,” Coddington said. He was hyper. “And now we’ve got the bastard.”

  “When are you going to let McGarvey know?”

  “Right now,” Coddington said, pulling out his cell phone.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  PEARL CONTINENTAL

  It was 9:15 P.M. The afternoon had dragged for McGarvey and Gloria after Coddington’s initial call that contact had been made and the handover would take place sometime after nine o’clock. The bait had been taken, and now a major portion of the puzzle would be solved by al-Quaida’s reaction.

  McGarvey had tried to warn the chief of station to bring plenty of backup in case he found himself in the middle of a firefight, or at the very least to insist on a rendezvous site somewhere very public. But he’d been told that this part of the mission would be strictly a local CIA operation.

  He was in the bathroom, splashing water on his face, when his cell phone rang. He dried off and walked back into the bedroom to answer the phone on the third ring. Gloria stood at the window, an expectant look on her face.

  “Yes?”

  “We made the handover,” Coddington said. He was excited, all out of breath as if he had just run up a flight of stairs. “He’s at a compound in Fish Harbor. We’ve got the bastard now. This time we’ve really got him.”

  “Listen to me, David. He’s not there, but the CIA is going to act as if they believe he is—”

  “No, goddammit, you listen to me!” Coddington shouted. “They gave me a videotape. And that’s not all. Right after the handover we came under attack. The informant was killed and the money destroyed.”

  McGarvey glanced at Gloria, who was staring at him, trying to gauge what was going on.

  “Christ, they figured out someone was coming for the money, and where the handover was going to take place, and they were waiting for us,” Coddington said.

  “Did they fire at your car?” McGarvey asked.

  “No,” Coddington said. “We got out of there too fast.”

  It never ceased to amaze McGarvey how people could believe what they wanted to believe, tossing out any fact that didn’t fit. The problem was especially bad in the intelligence community that was tasked with trying to come up with the right facts to fit whatever the current administration’s position was.

  These were bright people, many of them even brilliant. But they were very often blinded by their own set of preconceived notions, and by a general bureaucratic malaise that seemed to affect nearly everyone the moment they got anywhere near Washington, D.C. Every single agency had its own unique culture, the primary driving force of which was nothing more than the survival of the agency.

  In any given situation, if a piece of intelligence information promoted the agency’s survival, then it was branded as fact, whether it was true or not.

  “That’s good news,” McGarvey said. “You might want to contact the ISI right away. If bin Laden is actually at the compound, he’ll probably try to get out of there tonight, so you’ll have to move fast.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Coddington said. “But what about you?”

  “We’ll backstop you in case you’re too late,” McGarvey said.

  The COS was silent for a moment. It wasn’t the answer he’d expected. “That’s a good idea,” he said.

  “Yeah, good luck.”

  McGarvey broke the connection. “Bin Laden is not at the Fish Harbor compound. It’s a setup.”

  “It’s just what you figured,” Gloria said. “So what’s next?”

  “Get dressed. We’re going to the lounge for a drink.”

  Pakistan was a Muslim nation, and alcohol was forbidden except in special circumstances. In most hotels, guests could order beer, wine, and liquor, night or day, but only to drink in their rooms. And major hotels usually provided a concierge floor of executive suites, generally reserved for foreign, non-Muslim visitors. A cocktail lounge was one of the perks.

  A half-dozen businessmen and two women were seated at the bar and at tables in the small, tastefully modern lounge wh
en McGarvey and Gloria walked in. Tall windows on two sides looked out on the city, and at the governor’s palatial mansion next door. A man in a tuxedo was playing American standards on a piano. The lighting was subdued.

  They took a table in a corner from where they could watch the door and the bar. A cocktail waiter came and took their order, a cognac neat for McGarvey and a dark rum neat for Gloria, and when he left, Rupert Graham walked in the door and went to the bar.

  McGarvey stiffened imperceptibly. He had suspected that Graham was the one who’d escaped from the sub and made off with the SOC, just as he suspected that Graham was here in Karachi and knew that McGarvey had come here too.

  He’d even suspected that sooner or later the Brit would make contact to suggest a trade; bin Laden’s whereabouts, something McGarvey wanted to know, for a head start so that Graham could lose himself somewhere not only away from Western authorities, but from al-Quaida. He’d almost lost his life twice in the past weeks; first in Panama and second five miles downriver from the Farm. He would want some breathing room.

  Or at least that’s what he wanted everyone to believe.

  But McGarvey hadn’t counted on the man actually showing up in person. He’d expected a telephone call or perhaps a messenger to suggest a meeting somewhere safe for both of them, though he’d known that Graham had the balls to come here like this.

  It would be so easy to get up as if he and Gloria were leaving, pull out his pistol, and as they passed behind Graham, put a bullet into the man’s head. In the confusion he and Gloria could make their way out of the hotel, and depend again on Otto to get them out of the country.

  McGarvey smiled. Graham would be dead, but it would leave bin Laden’s whereabouts still a mystery.

  “What’s so funny?” Gloria asked.

  McGarvey nodded toward Graham at the bar. “It’s him.”

  Gloria nearly came out of her seat, but McGarvey reached out and laid a hand on her arm. “Easy. He’s here to talk, not shoot. So we’ll talk to him.”