Joshua's Hammer

by David Hagberg

  Four armed guards immediately surrounded the car as the wooden gates were closed and barred by another two men. Bahmad got his leather bags and got out of the car. Nafir Osman Nafeh, the NIF party’s chief of intelligence, came across the compound, his robes flowing behind him, and gave Bahmad a warm embrace.

  “Did you have a safe trip?” he asked.

  “A confused trip. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  One of the guards took Bahmad’s luggage, and his driver got out and frisked him. He wasn’t armed, but if he had been he would not have allowed such an affront to the dignity of bin Laden’s chief of staff.

  Nafeh watched with a tolerant smile, and when the driver stepped back and gave him a nod, he took Bahmad’s arm and together they walked across the central courtyard which was crowded with a half-dozen cars and three American Humvees.

  “It is good to have you back my old friend,” Nafeh said in hushed tones. “There is much work to be done before we can begin the next phase of our struggle.”

  The man was an ass, Bahmad thought. He talked like a mujahedeen recruiter trying to drum up enthusiasm among young boys. But the real reason for the recall suddenly became clear to Bahmad. Dr. Turabi and the NIF had somehow found out about the bomb, and for some reason they were pressuring bin Laden into calling off the attack.

  “There is always much work to be done, because the struggle is ongoing,” Bahmad said, using Nafeh’s own words on him.

  The intelligence chief beamed. “I was saying the very same thing to Osama at our meeting with Dr. Turabi this morning. And he agreed wholeheartedly.” Nafeh rubbed his nose.

  Quitting was a thing that bin Laden would resist with everything in his soul because of the death of his daughter at the hands of the Americans. It was why Turabi had come here in person to give the order, and why Nafeh had stayed behind to act as Bahmad’s personal escort.

  They entered the main building and took the stairs up to the second floor. There were armed guards in the corridor. But overall there was an aura of a hospital or a mosque. The atmosphere was heavy, the silence deep.

  The meeting had been held in the receiving chamber and bin Laden was still there, looking out the windows. He turned when Bahmad and Nafeh came in, smiled and walked across the room to embrace Bahmad as a long-lost brother. He looked well, as if he had somehow regained his health, and the worry lines in his face, his downcast eyes, were gone.

  “I am sorry to have pulled you away from your vacation in the lap of luxury,” bin Laden said.

  “I am sorry that I failed you in the first phase of our mission.”

  Bin Laden inclined his head slightly. “He is quite a remarkable man. But I was wrong to send you to kill his daughter. I can see that now.” He motioned for them to have a seat on the cushions. When they were settled he poured them tea.

  “Now perhaps we can resolve our differences so that we can get on with our legitimate business,” Nafeh said pompously.

  There were no armed guards in here, and the significance was not lost on Bahmad. Here, at this time and place, bin Laden was nothing more than an ordinary soldier in the jihad. He was being punished.

  Bahmad spread his hands. “I’m sorry, but I am at a loss.”

  “Don’t play the fool with me, it’s not convincing,” Nafeh said sharply. “We’re searching for a spectacular operation in the United States, but killing innocent Muslim children—handicapped children—will not be sanctioned.”

  Bahmad let his voice go cold. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Tajikistan bomb. We know all about it. We know that it’s already in the United States, and we know that you plan on blowing up the Golden Gate Bridge at the moment President Haynes’ daughter is crossing it in a footrace. But two thousand other crippled children from two dozen countries will also be on that bridge. Many of them Muslims. Such an action against our own people could never be condoned. It is forbidden.”

  “I agree,” bin Laden said. “I can now see the error in my thinking.”

  He was lying, Bahmad was sure of it. “What do you want me to do, Osama? Everything is in place.”

  “The bomb is in storage at the shipyard in New Jersey and it will remain there until the NIF comes up with another plan,” bin Laden said. He looked to Nafeh for confirmation, and the intelligence chief nodded sagely.

  “It will not be wasted,” he said. “When the correct moment comes it will be used.”

  “Then the plan to get the bomb to California is to be abandoned?” Bahmad asked, testing. Perhaps the plans had changed. Perhaps the bomb wasn’t aboard the Margo already en route up the American West Coast.

  “Yes, it is to be abandoned. Our contract with the trucking firm that was to drive it across country will be canceled. Do you understand what you have to do?”

  Bahmad smiled inwardly. The bomb had never been in New Jersey and there had never been any kind of a contract with a trucking firm. So the plans were not changed after all. “Perfectly.”

  “Then you know what your orders are,” Nafeh said.

  Bahmad turned to him and arched an eyebrow. “From you, never,” he spat. “I take my orders only from Osama.”

  “It will be as the party wishes,” bin Laden assured the intelligence chief. “But Ali will have to return to the United States immediately to make sure that everything is dismantled properly. If we mean to make use of the bomb at some future date it will have to be protected. The people already in place, secured.”

  “Perhaps it is a job too difficult for him. I can arrange for several of my Afghans to accompany him.”

  Bahmad’s eyes flashed. “I know the men you’re talking about. They’re idiots.”

  “They follow their orders, and get the job done,” Nafeh shot back. “Even simple tasks such as killing young women.” Bahmad could have killed him, but he willed an outward calmness and even smiled. “I was given faulty intelligence from the Taliban that Kirk McGarvey was dead when in fact he was not. And at the moment of our attack we were surrounded by the police. Something went wrong, and there wasn’t much we could do.”

  “You left your Afghanis behind.” The term was now being used all over the Islamic militant movement to mean soldiers of courage.

  “They were expendable.”

  Nafeh glared at him. “See that you do a better job dismantling the operation. We won’t accept another excuse. Perhaps you will find that you’re expendable too.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Now leave us. Your business here is finished, and I have other matters to discuss with Osama.”

  Bahmad got to his feet, his eyes locking with bit Laden’s.

  “Do you understand everything that you must do?” bin Laden asked.

  “Completely.”

  Bin Laden nodded. “My faith goes with you. Insha’Allah.”

  New York City

  Bahmad’s flight from Paris touched down at Kennedy about 11:00 P.M., and by the time he had retrieved his bags, cleared customs and caught a cab to the Hudson River boat-yard it was midnight. There were lights on in the forward cabins and in the main saloon of Papa’s Fancy, and he saw a shadow pass a window. He stood in the darkness just beyond the end of the dock to watch.

  There was no one around this late, and had there been he would have avoided them. He’d come back only to pick up the things he’d left aboard before heading out to California.

  Now this.

  He hadn’t spent enough time at this boatyard to recognize the few cars that were parked in the lot, but none of them was obviously a government vehicle. Nor did he think that whoever was aboard the yacht was a burglar. No, it was probably one of the crew who’d returned to check on the yacht, or to pick up something that they might have left behind.

  On the surface of it, that was just fine, except for one detail. If whoever was aboard at this moment had returned because they were suspicious of Bahmad and were going through his things it could mean trouble.

  He had portrayed himself as an
independently wealthy international businessman and playboy. But the aluminum case in his stateroom contained weapons and other devices; not things that an ordinary businessman would carry.

  He considered turning around and leaving without his things. There was very little in his stateroom, except for the remote control detonating device, that he could not easily replace. Yet most of it was illegal under American law. And the nature of the equipment would raise some red flags with the FBI and CIA, because much of it could be traced to similar sources of the equipment in the van.

  He had to weigh that possibility against the fact that the yacht’s owner had secret business dealings with bin Laden and with the Islamic jihad. He had given up the boat for Bahmad’s use without hesitation and without so much as a single question. Perhaps the crew had been briefed to ask no questions either, and to do nothing except what they were told to do. Even if they found the case and opened it they might do nothing.

  Bahmad decided that he could not afford to take that risk. For all practical purposes he was now working on his own, independent not only of the movement, but of bin Laden, whose hands were completely tied. If Bahmad ran into trouble he would have to deal with the problem himself. Whatever resources he needed would have to come from his own connections, as would the extra manpower if and when he needed it.

  Which meant he could not make any more mistakes like he had in Chevy Chase, nor could he leave any clues. Or witnesses.

  For a moment he was back in Beirut as a child with his parents; happy and safe, feelings that he’d not experienced since their deaths at the hands of the Israelis. From that moment he had, in effect, become a loner. He believed in no one, trusted in no one, and most importantly, depended on no one for help.

  This was nothing new to him.

  Hefting his bags he walked out onto the dock, making no effort at stealth. The gate at the head of the yacht’s boarding ladder was open, and when he stood on the deck he stopped to listen. There were no sounds from within the boat. They were connected to shore power, so the generators to power the lights weren’t running, but neither was the air conditioner. The night was warm. Whoever was aboard was not planning on staying for long, yet they weren’t afraid of showing lights.

  Bahmad went aft and entered the warm, stuffy saloon from the party deck as Captain Web Walker came from the forward part of the yacht. He wore civilian clothes; deck shoes, khaki trousers and a short-sleeved white Polo shirt with Papa’s Fancy embroidered on the pocket. He seemed nervous about something.

  “You’re back,” he said. “I thought I heard someone come aboard.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” Bahmad said pleasantly.

  “I came down for the week, so I thought that I’d check on things. Are you going to need the yacht? Shall I recall the crew?”

  “Not for ten days, maybe a little longer,” Bahmad told him. He put down his bags and went behind the bar where he poured a cognac. “Care for a drink?”

  “No, thanks,” Walker said. “Everything’s fine here, so I’ll be going.”

  “A moment, if you would, Captain,” Bahmad said mildly. It was obvious that Walker was lying. “Did the owner tell you why he wanted you to check on the yacht tonight?”

  The captain was a distinguished man, but he looked like a deer caught in headlights. He wanted to bolt, but he was rooted to the spot. “As I said, I happened to be in the city.”

  “Yes, yes, I know all of that, but the owner did ask you to check on things, didn’t he?” Bahmad kept his tone friendly. A couple of yachtsmen discussing a simple fact.

  “He gets nervous when no one is aboard to watch over things.”

  “I don’t blame him.” Bahmad put his glass down and came around the bar. “Did he tell you what you were supposed to be looking for?”

  The captain tried to smile. “Primarily that the vessel hadn’t sunk at the dock,” he said. “It’s happened to other boats.”

  “For which the captain would take the blame.”

  “Naturally.”

  “As he would take the blame if there was contraband aboard.” Bahmad laid a hand on Walker’s shoulder. “Drugs, maybe booze. Something that we might have picked up in Bermuda and didn’t declare when we came back.”

  “No one is worried about anything like that.”

  “Weapons then. Guns with silencers and hollowpoint bullets.”

  The captain swallowed.

  “So, you came back on the owner’s orders to search my stateroom. You found the case and you opened it. The question is who did you call? The FBI?”

  The captain backed up. “I just got here, I haven’t called anyone—” He realized his mistake and clamped his mouth shut.

  Bahmad smiled again. “What did you take?” “Nothing, I swear to God.”

  Bahmad turned him around and roughly shoved him up against the bulkhead. “Hands on the wall, feet spread.”

  “What the hell is this all about?”

  “Do it.” Bahmad gave him a shot in the ribs, and the captain grunted as if he’d been struck by a sledgehammer, but he did as he was told.

  Bahmad quickly frisked him, but came up with nothing except the captain’s wallet, some money, keys, handkerchief, comb, glasses and penknife.”

  “What did you take?” he asked again.

  “Nothing—”

  Bahmad drove his fist into the same spot in Walker’s side. The man cried out in pain and his knees started to buckle. “What did you take?”

  “I tossed the case over the side. I swear to God it’s at the bottom of the slip.”

  Bahmad was surprised. It wasn’t what he had expected. “Why?”

  “I was told to do it before you got back.”

  There it was—the answer. Someone from Nafeh’s staff had called the yacht’s owner and asked that Bahmad’s weapons be found and destroyed. They were fools. He didn’t need the equipment. Not even the remote detonator because the weapon could be manually set to fire from the keypad with as long as a twenty-four-hour delay.

  “Then what?” Bahmad asked, though he didn’t care what the answer would be, he was merely distracting the captain for one necessary moment.

  He shoved Walker flat against the bulkhead with his left hip, then grabbed the man’s head with both hands and twisted it sharply backward and to the right. The captain’s neck broke with an audible pop.

  Bahmad let go and stepped back, allowing Walker to slump to the floor. The captain’s legs twitched, and his eyes blinked furiously as his face turned purple. Bahmad thought it was funny and he smiled. Killing a man this way was silent, but it took a good bit of time. Not only was his spinal cord severed, but his windpipe was crushed so that his airway was cut off at the same time his heart stopped.

  After a while the captain stopped twitching and Bahmad set about wiping down everything he had touched with his bare hands and searching the yacht for anything incriminating. He thought about finding the yacht’s diving gear and retrieving his equipment, but that would take too much time, not only to find it and bring it up, but to clean it and dry it all off. He decided to leave it at the bottom of the harbor. The captain’s body would be found sooner or later, but he didn’t think that anyone would go diving beneath the boat until it was too late to make a difference. He would get new weapons.

  He would get a hotel room tonight and in the morning he would fetch his things from storage and catch the early flight to Los Angeles. Just a few more days now and he would be free.

  He found that he was looking forward to his retirement with a great deal of relish.

  Aboard Air Force One

  “How are you doing, sweetheart?” President Haynes asked his daughter.

  She looked up, a sweet smile on her face. “Hi, Daddy,” she said. “The clouds look like castles this morning.”

  Haynes looked out the window. They were over Iowa en route to San Diego at about 30,000 feet, and the cloud formations did indeed look like castles. Like the one at Disneyland where they were going to
morrow. The International Special Olympics’ opening ceremony was three days from now, and Haynes was making a sweep through California in support of Governor S. Howard Thomas who was up for reelection in November. It was going to be a hot contest with a lot of major issues, not the least of which was abortion, which Haynes was against, but had to support publicly because of his party’s position; a ban on smoking in all public places including beaches, parks and even streets, something he thought made some sort of sense but was a ridiculous infringement of people’s freedoms by a heavy-handed government; and the elimination of the state income tax, even while Florida was grappling with the creation of a state income tax and Haynes himself was proposing the end of federal income taxes in favor of a flat-rate sales tax.

  Whatever position he took, there would be a hundred different voices opposing it, five dozen powerful lobbyist groups clamoring to get the attention of Congress and at least twenty talking heads on weekend morning television analyzing and dissecting every single move he and every other politician made. And it brought a smile to his face. This was what American politics was all about. The almost constant bickering, the dissentions, the name-calling and sometimes even mudslinging, the attempts at bribery and influence-peddling, the investigations and sometimes even impeachment proceedings; the give and take of compro-misre. All of it was working exactly the way the designers of the system had meant it to work. There was no dissolving of Congress or of the government, no tanks coming up Pennsylvania Avenue in another military coup, no President and his cabinet fleeing the country, no armed revolution pitting one people against another, leastways not since the Civil War.

  “The clouds do look like castles” Haynes said. He looked into his daughter’s eyes. She seemed very happy. “Are you looking forward to the Olympics this weekend, sweetheart?” She was always so open and straightforward that he could tell what she was thinking and how she was feeling.