A long streak of flame shot out from the side door of the van, and a second later the police car exploded in a ball of flame, its roof flying fifty feet into the sky.
Elizabeth emerged from the line of trees separating the fifteenth and sixteenth fairways, her mother right behind her, when there was an explosion behind them. RPG or LAWs rocket, something came to her from her training. She turned as a fireball rose into the pale blue sky.
“My God,” Kathleen said.
“That wasn’t meant for us,” Elizabeth told her mother. “Maybe the bastards had an accident.” They ran for the broad, sloping green. About seventy-five yards ahead the fairway narrowed to a cart path that crossed a small wooden bridge over a narrow creek. On the other side they could angle over to the seventeenth fairway, which folded back on the eighteenth and first, and directly to the clubhouse. Once they crossed the creek they would be home free because she didn’t think that the van could make it across on the bridge.
She didn’t like running away though. If she had her gun she could send her mother on ahead, and wait here to ambush them. They were screwing with the McGarveys now. Of course if her father and Todd were also here nothing would get past them. At the moment, however, running was their only option.
They were nearly at the bridge when the van crashed out of the woods, skidded sideways out of control, almost tipping over on the fairway, then straightened out and headed directly toward them.
Elizabeth could see that there was no time now to make the bridge. Their only hope was the creek itself, whose banks were five feet high. If they could make it that far they might be able to reach the safety of the woods on the opposite side of the fairway.
“Mother, the creek,” she shouted.
“Right behind you, dear,” Kathleen said.
Bahmad saw what they were trying to do, and he knew with satisfaction that they would not make it that far by the time he ran them down. A super calmness came over him. He could see everything that had to be done, and the order in which it had to be accomplished. Once the daughter and her mother were taken care of, he would drive the van to a service road on the far side of the eighteenth fairway. Aggad and Ibrahim would take it back to their rendezvous point and he would meet them tonight when he would kill them. There would be no loose ends.
A gray SUV of some kind burst out of the woods on his right, and headed directly toward them. Bahmad could do nothing except swerve to the left, directly across the fairway and into the dense trees and underbrush.
It was McGarvey. He got just a brief glimpse, but it was enough to recognize the man behind the wheel, and suddenly Bahmad wasn’t so sure about anything. The tide might have turned. Now it was he who was running for his life.
McGarvey saw Katy and Liz off to his right by the edge of the creek. He had only an instant to see that they were okay, and no time to be relieved, before he had to turn his attention back to the van. He was right on top of it. As it plunged into the woods he crashed into its rear left quarter, sending it skidding out of control to the right through some thick underbrush, finally slamming to a halt against a large tree.
He hauled the Nissan left, as he jammed on the brakes sliding to a halt finally twenty yards behind the van. He whipped off his seat belt and pulled out his pistol. But there was something wrong with his fingers, he couldn’t quite seem to switch the safety catch lever to the off position.
A man climbed out of the van, and although the day had somehow gotten very dark, McGarvey could see that he was raising what looked like a LAWs rocket tube to his shoulder.
It was hard to keep on track, hard to think straight. It was all he could do to relate what the man beside the van was trying to accomplish with the simple concept of danger.
McGarvey fumbled with the door latch, his fingers like sausages at the end of his impossibly long arm. When the door swung open suddenly, he half-slipped, half-fell out of the Nissan, banging his head on the door frame as he went down.
He was on all fours, the world spinning around him, but he still had his pistol. He had to get away. He didn’t know why, just that he had to get away from here right now! He started to crawl on all fours directly away from the Nissan and into some deeper underbrush.
The day lit up with a tremendous flash and bang, followed by a searing hot blast of wind that picked McGarvey up and sent him crashing into the brush.
There were shots, he could understand that, but his world was reduced to a series of brightly colored lights and images from a kaleidoscope, sliding and moving all over the place.
“Daddy!
Someone was holding him up, brushing dirt and debris from his face. He thought it was Elizabeth, but then Kathleen was there too, holding him in her arms, her eyes wide and frightened.
He heard shooting, and he understood that Liz had picked up his gun, but it didn’t matter so much this time because he was with Katy. He managed to smile up at her, before he slipped away into a dark, swirling haze.
Bahmad walked into the clubhouse, went directly to the bar and ordered a Bombay martini, up, very dry and very cold. Most of the other members were out by the first tee trying to figure out what all the commotion was about. Explosions, gunfire, sirens; it sounded as if someone was making a movie.
“What’s happening out there, sir?” the bartender asked as he fixed the drink.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Bahmad said. His nerves were jumping all over the place, but by dint of an iron will he gave the appearance of bored indifference. “I was late for my tee time, I was supposed to catch up with my foursome on the second hole, and now this.” He shook his head. “But then we’re too close to D.C.” what can you expect?”
His martini came, full to the rim, and even though he was boiling over with an almost out-of-control blinding anger, he lifted his glass, took a delicate sip and replaced the glass on the bar napkin without spilling a drop.
The first phase of the operation, attempting for absolutely no valid reason to assassinate McGarvey’s daughter, was bin Laden’s idea. Because of unforseen circumstances and because the Taliban had provided him with misinformation about McGarvey, the mission had failed. Bahmad considered himself lucky to have been able to shed his coveralls and simply walk away in the confusion, just another man dressed for golf out on the course. Aggad and Ibrahim shot dead by the young woman.
The second phase of the operation, however, was his and his alone. He would not fail. He smiled, the first glimmers of contentment and anticipation for a project coming to him.
“Is the drink to your liking, Mr. Guthrie?” the barman asked.
Yes, indeed,” Bahmad replied. “It couldn’t be better.”
DEBORAH HAYNES
TWO MONTHS LATER
Babylon is fallen, is fallen; and all the graven images of her gods he hath broken into the ground.
ISAIAH 21:9
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Khartoum, Sudan Riding in the back of a battered Mercedes sedan from the airport, Bahmad willed himself to remain calm. This soon before an operation there was only one reason for his sudden recall; for some reason bin Laden wanted to call it off.
In ninety-six hours Deborah Haynes and more than one thousand other handicapped runners would cross the Golden Gate Bridge at the same moment the cargo ship Margo sailed beneath the bridge with Joshua’s Hammer. The two events were coming together as surely as the sun rose and set. But if no one was there to detonate the bomb at the correct time all would be lost.
He looked out the windows at the passing scenery as he battled his impatience. He was still nearly overwhelmed with anger and bitterness from his failure in Chevy Chase. Yet he could see with a critical eye the wild disrepair everywhere in the city; sandbagged street corners, armed patrols, some of the boys wearing uniforms others wearing the ragtag clothing of the rebel factions, and overall the atmosphere of mad confusion and extreme danger.
It was nothing at all like what he had left in Bermuda where he’d taken Papa’s Fancy after the debac
le. And certainly nothing like New York where he’d dismissed the crew ten days ago and left the yacht.
He’d had a lot of time to think about the war he’d been waging for most of his life, and he had come to the conclusion that when this project was finished he was getting out for good.
Bin Laden’s compound was off Sharia al-Barlaman a few blocks from the People’s Palace and about the same distance from the Blue Nile. The afternoon was very hot. A reddish-yellow haze swirled through the city, whipping around the corners of buildings and up narrow alleys, causing flags and banners to stream and snap. This was the time of year for fierce desert sandstorms. If they were big enough they even encroached into the cities themselves, like now.
In fact little if anything of any significance had changed here in nearly one thousand years, Bahmad thought morosely. Bin Laden and the others in the various organizations in the jihad such as the Armed Islamic Movement (AIM), the Islamic Arab People’s Conference (IAPC), the Sunni’s Popular International Organization (PIO), the Islamic Action Front (LAP), the Hisb’Allah, the Islamic Liberation Party and dozens more were fighting mostly with words and the occasional terrorist bomb. Even Joshua’s Hammer, though it was a nuclear weapon and would cause a convulsive wave of fear across the United States, was only a gnat’s bite on a giant.
The real education that every terrorist should be required to have was a complete tour of America’s industrial cities, the electronics assembly plants, the military bases, the nuclear processing facilities, assembly plants and storage depots, the electrical generating stations, the ports, the highways, the sprawling medical centers and pharmaceutical research and manufacturing conglomerates, rather than the slums and storefront mosques of a few cities in New York, New Jersey and California. Even bin Laden had no real idea what he was up against. None of them did.
Time to get out, Bahmad told himself. Especially after Chevy Chase. That had been too close a call for him. At the end something had happened to McGarvey. He had been wounded or he had hit his head, but he was out of it, and Bahmad had started to turn back until the daughter had come to her father’s side. She had picked up his pistol and killed Aggad and Ibrahim. Against two-to-one odds she had prevailed.
The car arrived in the anonymous neighborhood of tall stuccoed walls with red-tiled roofs behind them a few minutes after 4:00 p.m. Two solid wooden gates sprung open, and they were admitted into bin Laden’s compound just as a sleeker, newer black Mercedes S500 pulled out. Bahmad caught a brief glimpse of the lone passenger in the back seat. It was Dr. Hassan Abdullah al-Turabi, head of the National Islamic Front party, and Sudan’s attorney general. He was also bin Laden’s longtime friend and mentor, and possibly the most powerful and important man in the entire armed Islamic movement.
The fact that he had come to bin Laden and not the other way around was significant. Something definitely big was in the wind, which was probably the reason Bahmad had been contacted through intermediaries to drop everything and come here to bin Laden’s side. It would also explain why bin Laden had not telephoned him directly by encrypted satellite phone; he hadn’t wanted to take the risk that somehow the call would be intercepted.
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 NEF 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 halfdozen 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 enroute 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 h
ad never been his 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.”
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