“Who’re you calling?” Rencke asked.
“Joe Bernstein. I’m going to need a few things.”
SEVENTY-FOUR
M. A. JINNAH COMMERCIAL CENTRE
It was one in the morning. Osama bin Laden sat alone in his sanctuary, a well-worn copy of the Qur’an open to Al-Nisa in chapter four to his right, and the Kalashnikov rifle he’d taken from the hands of a dead Russian soldier in Afghanistan to his left.
If they turn away from Allah, then seize them and kill them wherever you find them.
He was weary from the long struggle, especially after the attacks on Manhattan and Washington, which hadn’t really worked the way they’d hoped. The American people had not risen up against their government as they had to end the war in Vietnam.
His engineering advisers had been correct about bringing down the World Trade Center towers, but his political advisers had been wrong about everything else.
He had been wrong then about the aftermath of the attacks, as he was now about Rupert Graham, his infidel sword, his Allah’s scorpion. His man at the Pearl Continental had telephoned him an hour ago with the disturbing news that Graham had met with Kirk McGarvey and a woman presumed either to be his wife or perhaps a mistress. The meeting in the tenth-floor lounge had been brief, and what had been said was unknown, but immediately after Graham walked off, McGarvey and the woman had returned to their hotel room.
Possibly the most disturbing news was an event that occurred in front of the hotel when a man, apparently intoxicated, had an encounter with Graham’s driver. An hour later, the same man showed up at the hotel and had gone directly to McGarvey’s suite.
The CIA had some devilishly clever people working for it, and some of the technology they were able to come up with was truly frightening, making secure cell phone use impossible, and even the Internet unsafe.
It was only a matter of time before the infidels found him. Even with the help of a number of key ministers in the Pakistani government and its intelligence service, the ISI, that he been getting all along, the U.S. government’s financial and military aid packages to Musharraf were siren songs, impossible to resist.
So far McGarvey had not taken the Fish Harbor bait, even though he had approached the compound on his earlier visit, but the CIA had already contacted Colonel Obaid Sarwar, who was chief of ISI operations in the Karachi region, with the information it had purchased for five million dollars.
His time here in Karachi was running out. But before he left he hoped to solve the most vexing problem he’d ever faced. McGarvey.
Someone knocked softly at the door.
“Come,” he said, and he looked up as Graham’s driver, Tony Sampson, came in. The man was extremely ill at ease, nevertheless he rudely looked bin Laden in the eye.
“You were right, sir, it’s there where you said it might be.”
Bin Laden nodded. So it would begin and end tonight. “You did not disturb it?”
“No, sir, I left it under the bumper where the bugger must have put it.” Sampson looked away for just a moment. “I swear to God I’m sorry. I should have known …”
There was no doubt which god the infidel was swearing to, but before this night was over, he too would be joining his maker, though on which hand he would be seated would certainly come as a horrible shock.
“Where is Captain Graham at this moment?”
“I don’t know, sir. But he asked me to be ready to leave by one thirty.”
“Find him, please, and tell him that I wish to speak to him.”
“Yes, sir,” Sampson said and he turned to leave, but bin Laden stopped him.
“Sergeant, are you armed?”
“Not at the moment, sir. Not up here.”
“Get your pistol. You may be needing it this evening.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was a few minutes after one when the blue and white Toyota van that Joe Bernstein was driving pulled up and parked on A. R. Kayani Road, directly in front of the main entrance to the soaring M. A. Jinnah Commercial Centre front plaza. There was very little traffic at this hour, only the occasional truck or cab; in fact the entire sprawling city seemed to be asleep, or at the very least holding its breath in anticipation of something happening.
McGarvey and Rencke sat in the back, waiting for Bernstein to give them the all-clear. They’d agreed that they wouldn’t go in until the street was totally free of innocent bystanders. Too many Pakistani civilians had already been killed by the U.S. military trying to run down and wipe out al-Quaida leaders. McGarvey did not want to add more bodies to the carnage.
Gloria was parked at the end of the block across from the building’s underground parking entrance in a Fiat she had rented from the hotel. She wasn’t going inside with them, despite her best arguments. In the end she understood that she would be more valuable helping Bernstein as a backup in case they had to get out in a hurry, or if for some reason they got stuck inside.
It had taken Bernstein the better part of two hours to gather the uniforms and equipment McGarvey had requested, and make it back to the Pearl, and now they were on the verge of running out of time. Graham had promised to return to the hotel at two, which meant he would probably be leaving the building within the next half hour or forty-five minutes. If he got to the hotel and found that McGarvey and Gloria had gone, he might guess something had gone wrong and warn bin Laden.
But bin Laden almost certainly knew that McGarvey was here in the city, so he would be on his guard in any event.
A garbage truck lumbered by, and moments later Bernstein turned back to them. “Okay, it’s clear now,” he said.
Rencke’s eyes were round, but he was determined. He wasn’t a field officer, but over the past few days he’d learned enough Urdu, which was Pakistan’s major language, to give them a slight edge when they first entered the building. He had darkened his face and hands, and wore a cap to hide his long, out-of-control frizzy hair. The slight disguise wouldn’t hold up much beyond a first impression, but hopefully it would be enough, combined with a few phrases in Urdu, to give them the time to take control of the building’s security people before an alarm was sounded.
“Ready?” McGarvey asked him.
Rencke nodded. “Let’s do it.”
“If everything goes okay we should be out of there in fifteen minutes,” McGarvey told Bernstein. “If it’s much longer than that, it’ll mean we ran into trouble. Get word to Coddington.”
“Good luck,” Bernstein said.
McGarvey slid the side door open, grabbed the black nylon bag with the equipment Bernstein had brought, and jumped out of the van, Rencke right behind him. They were both dressed in dark slacks and windbreakers with the ISI logo across the back.
Rencke closed the door and together he and McGarvey crossed the broad plaza in front of the tower. The automatic glass doors were locked, but the night service door was equipped with a card reader.
Two guards in uniform were stationed behind a counter in the middle of the atrium lobby. They stood up and watched nervously as McGarvey held up a red ISI identification booklet while Rencke swiped a universal keycard through the reader and the door buzzed open.
Rencke slipped inside first, and held up his ISI booklet as he walked to the security desk. “Good evening,” he said in Urdu.
One of the security officers had a hand on a telephone, the other had unsnapped the restraining strap on the pistol holstered at his side. They both were suspicious.
One of them said something in Urdu, and Rencke laughed.
“Of course I will explain,” he replied.
McGarvey pulled out his pistol, stepped to the side, and pointed it at the guards.
“You will surely reach Paradise this very evening unless you cooperate fully with us,” Rencke told them.
The one guard started to pick up the telephone, but McGarvey gestured at him with the pistol, and the man backed off.
“We mean you no harm, brothers,” Rencke said. “I promise this
in Allah’s name.”
The one guard carefully moved his gun hand away from his pistol.
Rencke pocketed his ISI booklet and went around behind the counter. “Get down on the floor, please,” he said. When they complied, he bound their hands and feet with plastic wire ties, and duct-taped their mouths and eyes.
McGarvey holstered his pistol and came around the counter with Rencke, who took just a moment to figure out the control panel for the building’s monitoring system. A bank of six television screens plus a flat panel monitor for the computer were laid out just beneath the lip of the countertop.
Rencke brought up the directory to see if there were any closed-circuit television cameras on the twenty-fifth floor, but if there were any they did not show up in the file.
“Try the parking garage,” McGarvey said. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that no one was coming.
Rencke brought up the five underground levels one at a time. Most of them were free of parked cars, but a half-dozen were parked on the lowest level, including Graham’s Mercedes. “Bingo.”
McGarvey moved closer as a man stepped out of the deeper shadows across from an elevator. He was dressed in loose trousers, a dark shirt, a light-colored long vest, and he was armed with the boxy Ingram MAC-10 submachine gun, fitted with a suppressor.
A moment later the elevator door opened and a man dressed in dark slacks and a dark pullover came out. A second armed guard stepped out from behind the Mercedes and said something.
“The guy from the elevator is Graham’s driver,” Rencke said. He looked up. “Could be they’re expecting trouble.”
“Can you find out what floor that elevator came from?”
Rencke brought up the building’s elevator panel. “Twenty-five,” he said triumphantly. “You were right.”
McGarvey keyed his lapel mike. “Gloria, set?”
“Set,” she said in his earpiece.
“Joe?”
“Set.”
“I’m going in,” McGarvey radioed. Their communications units were encrypted, so there was little chance that their transmissions had been monitored. Nevertheless he watched the guards in the subbasement for any sort of a reaction. But one of them laughed, and the other lit a cigarette.
They might have been planning for trouble, but they weren’t expecting anything immediate.
“Can you lock down just that elevator?” McGarvey asked.
“No problem,” Rencke said. He entered a few commands into the computer, and a small red tab popped up beneath the elevator command display. “If they want to get back to the twenty-fifth floor they’ll have to use the stairs.”
McGarvey hefted his nylon bag, and nodded toward the main elevators across the atrium. “Those still work?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going up to the twenty-sixth floor,” McGarvey said. “Once I’m there lock these elevators down too. I don’t want anyone sneaking up behind me.”
“You got it,” Rencke said. “And Mac? Good luck. Okay?”
“If anything goes wrong, call Gloria and get the hell out of here,” McGarvey said, and he stepped out from around the counter and sprinted across the atrium.
Graham hesitated for a moment at the end of the long corridor that led back to bin Laden’s prayer sanctuary and held his breath to listen. But the building was deathly still. The hair at the nape of his neck bristled, and his gut was tight, though he didn’t exactly know why.
Something was coming; something was about to happen. The air was pregnant with possibilities.
He had sent Sampson down to the garage to wait for him until it was time to meet with McGarvey, and he had delayed answering bin Laden’s summons for as long as possible. Something had been odd about his driver since shortly after they’d returned from the Pearl, and when the man had relayed bin Laden’s order ten minutes ago, Graham had been sure the bastard was hiding something.
In the meantime all but a handful of the mujahideen usually up here had been sent over to the Fish Harbor compound on a show of force guarding the bin Laden double. Depending upon how quickly ISI reacted, the imposter would either be allowed to get out and make a run for the mountains, or he and his freedom fighters and whoever managed to get inside the compound would all be destroyed in a series of powerful suicide bombs.
It was a ruse they had used before. The CIA was convinced that bin Laden and most of his key lieutenants were hiding in the mountains along the border with Afghanistan. It was a fiction that the Pakistani government was willing to maintain for the gullible Americans.
All but one American.
Around the corner, Graham used a house phone to call Sampson. “Get the car ready, we’re leaving in a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” Sampson said. “But there’s something wrong with the elevator. Do you have it locked?”
For just an instant it made no sense to Graham, but then all of a sudden he had it. McGarvey was already here. Somehow the son of a bitch had followed them from the hotel.
“Get the car ready, but send the others up here.”
“How?” Sampson demanded.
“The west stairwell, you idiot!” Graham bellowed. “McGarvey is here.” He slammed down the phone, checked the load on his Steyr, and started to the east stairwell.
Bin Laden came to the door of his prayer room. He was dressed now in his traditional Arab garb of headdress and flowing white robes. “Captain Graham,” he called.
Graham stopped in his tracks and turned back, the pistol hidden at his side behind his leg.
“I would like a word with you about Mr. McGarvey,” bin Laden said. He was flanked by his two mujahideen personal bodyguards, armed with Kalashnikov rifles.
“What about him?”
“There is a possibility that he traced you here after your meeting this evening,” bin Laden said, his voice soft as if he were talking to a schoolboy. He stepped aside. “Please join me. We’ll have tea and discuss how you will deal with this problem. And with your next assignment.”
“First let me fetch something from my room,” Graham said.
“If it’s your weapon you’re after, you will not be needing it. I have sent for help.”
“Okay,” Graham said, but he spun on his heel and ducked around the corner before bin Laden’s bodyguards could react.
At the end of the corridor, he tore open the stairwell door just as the first of the two mujahideen opened fire from the end of the corridor, but by then he was racing down the stairs, taking them three at a time.
He had no idea how McGarvey had found this place, but with a little bit of luck the bastard would be coming through the garage, that by now was unguarded except for Sampson, whose pistol’s firing pin was missing.
He wanted McGarvey dead, but first he wanted the American to kill bin Laden, because the worldwide repercussions would be so great that no one from the CIA or al-Quaida would bother looking for one British ex-pat.
SEVENTY-FIVE
M. A. JINNAH COMMERCIAL CENTRE
Stepping off the elevator on the twenty-sixth floor, McGarvey heard the brief burst of automatic weapons fire directly below. It was a single Kalashnikov and very close, no more than one or two floors down, which at least meant that Otto wasn’t involved.
He stopped in his tracks for just a moment, to wait for more gunfire, but the building fell silent again; no screams, no shouts, nothing.
He could think of any number of possibilities, not the least of which involved Graham, who might have outlived his usefulness to al-Quaida. He keyed his lapel mike as he crossed the corridor to a pair of highly polished oak doors. The brass plaque on the wall identified the offices as MI-RANI TRADING COMPANY: KARACHI, BERLIN, PARIS, LONDON.
“Otto, I’m on twenty-sixth, somebody’s shooting just below me.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Rencke radioed back. “But you’re going to have company. Two guys from the garage are on their way up the stairs. The only one left is Graham’s driver, and it looks as if he’s
getting set to get out of there. He found the tracker and destroyed it. What do you want me to do?”
“Graham’s probably on his way down. Make sure Gloria and Bernstein have the heads-up. But tell them to be careful.”
“I read you,” Bernstein radioed.
The channel was silent for a moment. “Gloria?” McGarvey radioed.
There was no answer.
“Check on her, Joe,” McGarvey ordered.
“You got it.”
“Otto, I want you to shut down the main elevators. If you don’t hear from me sooner, turn them back on in ten minutes and get the hell out of the building.” McGarvey set his bag down, and using the same universal card key Rencke had used downstairs, unlocked the door and let himself in.
“It’s done,” Rencke radioed.
“I’m in, shut down the alarm system for the entire floor.”
“Stand by,” Rencke said.
The anteroom was large and expensively decorated with ornately framed seascapes on the walls, several tall plants, and a tasteful grouping of dark wine leather furniture on an Oriental rug facing a receptionist’s desk.
“Done,” Rencke radioed.
“Start the clock now,” McGarvey said. He crossed to the door beyond the reception room, let himself into a plushly carpeted corridor, and hurried to the palatial office at the end. This one was at the rear of the building, opposite from the M. R. Kayani Road’s main entrance, and was furnished like the reception room with massive, dark leather and oak furniture, including a very large executive’s desk and credenza in front of tall glass windows.
He opened the nylon bag on the desk, took out a Kevlar vest and black jumpsuit, and quickly pulled them on. Next he donned a rappelling harness with caribiners, and stuffed his zippered pockets with several small blocks of Semtex plastic explosive and pencil fuses, three spare magazines of ammunition for his 9 mm Walther pistol and three for a Heckler & Koch M8 short-barrelled carbine, and several H & W E182 flash-bang grenades, plus an evidence kit.
Allah's Scorpion Page 48
