Kolesnik straightened up. “Until you fire me, Mr. President, I’ll do my job the best way I know how even if it means disagreeing with you.”
The President handed the list back. “Is there any evidence that bin Laden is planning to hit us in San Francisco?”
“No, sir.” Kolesnik replaced the list in his file folder. “But the bomb is already here in the States.” “Anything on that from the FBI or CIA that I haven’t seen?”
“No, sir.”
“They tried to get McGarvey’s wife and daughter and they failed. Maybe that’s it,” the President said. “Bring me some hard information and I’ll cancel the entire ISO. Until then do what you can.” Haynes softened. “I want you to know, Henry, that I’m not trying to be a bastard here. I appreciate the extraordinary efforts that your people take every day to keep me and my family safe. But you have to understand what I’m faced with. Whoever sits in this chair still has to go out and press the flesh on occasion, even if it means putting his life on the line. And that’s just the way it is.”
“Yes, Mr. President, we do understand,” Kolesnik replied. “We’ll do the best we can.”
“That’s all I can ask from anybody.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
M/V Margo Off Cabo San Lazaro, Baja California
“There’s something damned funny going on, if you ask me,” Captain Panagiotopolous told his deck officer. It was after breakfast and they were steaming north at seventeen knots about two hundred miles off the Baja California peninsula. They were slightly ahead of schedule and if the weather held they’d be in San Francisco at least eight hours early.
The entire trip starting in Karachi three months ago had been a cocked-up affair, in the captain’s estimation, although nothing terribly untoward had happened to them other than the brief but intense storm in the Arabian Sea. But there’d been an odd flavor to the home office communiques from Paris, a vagueness that the captain had never noticed before in his twenty-five years at sea. It was the new executives probably; kids who’d never been to sea themselves and yet felt competent to run a shipping company with a fleet of thirty-eight vessels that stopped at just about every port in the world. But the snot noses did know computers.
For two months while the Margo was in dry dock at the Tampa Marine Yards in Florida, Panagiotopolous had gone home to visit his family in Athens. But after just a few days he remembered why he had left in the first place. He took a small boat out to Delos where he worked up a sweat helping prune olive trees. Honest labor. Appreciated labor. When he got back to his ship he was refreshed, ready to go. But after a brief inspection he saw that none of the repairs done to the ship had been necessary. Some painting, a new reefer in the galley, a few new pieces of navigation equipment on the bridge; nothing essential.
He got to wondering what the hell was really going on. For instance, why had the Margo been yanked from service at that particular moment for unnecessary repairs. Instead of earning money, the company had lost a bundle. And, why had the deck cargo bound for San Francisco been unloaded and stored at the shipyard instead of being transferred to another ship?
Or what the hell were they doing with a helicopter tied down on the rear deck?
Panagiotopolous wasn’t surprised by taking on last minute cargo. It happened all the time. But it was the way in which it had been handled in Colon at the eastern terminus of the Panama Canal that was odd. They were ordered to drop anchor in the holding basin, and within the hour the self-loading cargo vessel Antilles Trader out of Havana came alongside. A company representative came aboard with a bill of lading. The helicopter was to be loaded on the Margo’s afterdeck for delivery to M. L. Murty, Ltd.” in San Francisco. The documents were in order, but since it was Cuban equipment bound for a U.S. port a special clearance was needed, something the representative didn’t have. When the captain called the company on SSB he was told in no uncertain terms that the Margo was his ship and his responsibility. He would either have to sail without the papers, or a new captain would be found to replace him. The clearance papers, he was promised, would be delivered to the ship with the harbor pilot in San Francisco Bay. If he was stopped in U.S. waters by the Coast Guard he would have to talk his way out of his problem.
“It makes no sense,” he said.
“I agree,” Schumatz replied. They stood on the port wing looking aft. “I could fray the cables and let the sonofabitch fall overboard. Nobody would be any the wiser. The insurance company would bitch, that’s if the company even made a claim. Without the proper papers we shouldn’t be carrying it, so if it simply disappeared they might say nothing.”
“Why are they taking the risk? That’s what I don’t get. The ship and our cargo could be impounded.”
“Obviously the company thinks it’s worth it. Hell, even if we deliver the chopper the new owners will never get it registered with the FAA. Not without the proper documents. Does that make any sense to you?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Panagiotopolous said. He stared at the machine. It was a small helicopter, capable of carrying only the pilot and three passengers. But it was apparently in serviceable condition. According to Schumatz, who had supervised its loading, there was even fuel in the tank. Another thought struck him. “There’s plenty of clearance for the rotors. Someone could pull the lines free and take off, couldn’t they?”
Schumatz’s eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”
“Does anybody aboard know how to fly one of those things?”
“I don’t. Do you?”
Panagiotopolous shook his head thoughtfully. Something wasn’t right. It wasn’t adding up. There was some element that he was missing.
First Officer Green came from the bridge with a message flimsy. “We just received this,” he said, handing it to the captain.
“Thank you,” Panagiotopolous said. “Do you know how to fly a helicopter, by any chance, Mr. Green?”
Green’s face brightened. “As a matter of fact I do, sir. The company has a couple of Bell Rangers, which I’ve used.”
“Could you fly that one?” the captain asked, indicating the Cuban helicopter on the aft deck.
“They all fly pretty much the same, so I suppose so. But I took a look at it when it came aboard, and it’s a piece of junk. Doesn’t have much of a range, either, so I wouldn’t get very far.”
“Anyone else aboard know how to fly one of those things?”
Green shook his head. “I don’t think so, Captain. They cost a ton of money to maintain, let alone fly, and I don’t think we have any millionaires in disguise on our crew list. Why did you ask?”
“We were just wondering why the company ordered us to take it to San Francisco at the last minute.”
“I haven’t a clue. I could call my dad and ask him, I suppose. But like I said, it’s a piece of junk. I don’t know anybody who’d want it except as a museum piece.”
“That’s probably it,” Pangiotopolous said. “Thank you.”
“Yes, sir.” Green started to leave, but then turned back. “Oh, that’s a U.S. Coast Guard traffic advisory that we just got There’s going to be a shipping restriction under the Golden Gate Bridge Saturday morning from ten hundred hours until fourteen hundred. I’ve already done the navigation. If we can keep our present SOG we’ll be under the bridge at least six hours early.” SOG was the actual speed over the ground that the ship made good, which included the effects of ship’s speed through the water, the ocean currents, the wave action and the effect of the wind on the bulk of the vessel.
“Thank you, good work,” the captain said, and Green went back inside.
“What’s that all about?” Schumatz asked.
Panagiotopolous quickly read the brief USCG. advisory. “Something’s going on, probably bridge repairs, so they’re closing down all shipping traffic inbound as well as outbound.” He pocketed the message. “It won’t effect us though.” He glanced again at the helicopter. “Ask around, would you Lazlo? Find out if anyone else can fly
one of those things.”
Schumatz nodded. “What about Green?”
“I’ll keep an eye on him.”
CIA Headquarters
It was coming up on noon at the headquarters gym. McGarvey had had a particularly bad bout of depression this morning, so intense that he’d had difficulty concentrating on getting through the morning, let alone doing any real work. He’d fought depression most of his adult life and extreme physical exercise not only kept him in shape for field work, but it somehow combated his dark moods. If he could get through one or two hours of hard work, anything for him was possible afterward.
Murphy had ordered him to take an extra week off, but that was impossible. He’d had the operation to fix the bleeder in his head and relieve the pressure on his brain, and he’d recovered fully. But bin Laden and Ali’ Bahmad were still at large, and the bomb was still out there somewhere. His wife and daughter had almost been assassinated. The President, who steadfastly refused to back down, was putting his own daughter in harm’s way. And the Arabic languages expert Otto had found had translated the rest of the one and only phone conversation between bin Laden and Bahmad that they’d managed to record.
The daughters of the infidels will die like the pigs they are.
Bin Laden had used the plural — daughters — not the singular. It meant that McGarvey’s and the President’s daughters were targets.
According to the timetable, Bahmad had told his master. The package is on its way.
But that was two months ago, and since then the only piece of information they knew with reasonable certainty was that bin Laden was holed up in his compound in Khartoum. Possibly even under a loose house arrest by Sudan’s National Islamic Front.
It was this last bit of information that was so puzzling. The analysts in the Directorate of Intelligence were telling him that if bin Laden were under house arrest it could mean that the bomb project was being delayed or canceled. McGarvey wasn’t so sure. Bin Laden was an independent man, and he was dying. He certainly wouldn’t delay the project, because he might not live long enough to see it done. Nor would he cancel it. No, Bahmad was still here in the U.S.” with the bomb, and he meant to use it. The question was where and when.
If you get close enough to bin Laden, kill him, Dennis Berndt had suggested. It wasn’t that easy, McGarvey thought. It never was. But he was finally beginning to realize that killing bin Laden might just be their only way out. But it was hard, when he was depressed, to keep his mind on track. Hard not to just walk away from the problem, something that he’d never done in his life.
He wiped his face with his sweat towel at the side of the fencing strip and took a drink of Gatorade as he tried to figure out a strategy. Todd Van Buren, his opponent, was not only twenty-five years younger, his reflexes were super sharp because he worked as a hand-to-hand combat instructor at the Farm. The fact that he was sleeping with the boss’s daughter didn’t seem to have any effect on his enthusiasm for the touch. But he did have one weakness. He was primarily a foil est and that’s how he was trying to fight epee this morning.
McGarvey walked back to the en garde line, his mask under his left arm. “One more touch?”
Van Buren nodded. “Getting a little tired, Mr. McGarvey?” he asked, grinning.
“We’ll see,” McGarvey said. Strong physical exercise had always helped him focus on the moment instead of his past, yet it was still hard to concentrate. As soon as he allowed his mind to drift, even a little, bin Laden’s face and that of his daughter’s swam into view.
He came to attention and brought the hilt of his weapon momentarily to his lips in a salute. Van Buren did the same. They donned their masks, brought their left arms up in a graceful arch over their rear shoulders, and raised their weapons to the en garde position.
On a silent signal between themselves they began. Van Buren came out first, testing for McGarvey’s response and speed of response. First a feint in four. McGarvey stepped back easily out of range and took Van Buren’s blade in a counter six, trying for the easy displacement and quick thrust for the touch. But Van Buren rode the pressure of McGarvey’s blade downward, aiming his own lightning quick thrust to McGarvey’s leading knee, barely missing before McGarvey nimbly retreated out of range.
They were at la Belle, a tie score, and neither of them wanted the double touch. They both wanted to win.
McGarvey momentarily lowered his blade in what might have been taken as an unintended invito.
Van Buren declined, retreating out of range himself. “It’s not going to be that easy this morning, Mr. M.,” he said.
Before Van Buren got the entire sentence out, McGarvey made an explosive ballestra and lunge feint to Van Buren’s sword arm just above the bell guard. Surprised, Van Buren retreated again, making what he thought would be the easy parry. But McGarvey disengaged, dropping his blade beneath Van Buren’s and coming up on the outside of his opponent’s bell guard.
Van Buren, quick as McGarvey knew he would be, parried the thrust as he retreated, but instead of coming on guard, Van Buren raised his arm slightly to start a flick.
There it was, the foil est mistake in epee.
A flick was nothing more than a deft snap of the wrist that caused the more flexible foil blade to snap like a bullwhip, the point arching gracefully over the opponent’s bell guard for the touch. An epee blade, however, was too thick and too stiff for a flick to be very effective unless the swordsman had an exceedingly strong wrist. Even so, in order to make it work the attacker sometimes cocked his sword hand slightly, leaving the under part of his wrist behind the bell guard open for just a split instant.
McGarvey brought his point in line, angulated at a deceptively slight upward angle and held his ground. Van Buren’s arm snapped forward in a powerful flick, but before his point could make the arc, his wrist made contact with McGarvey’s waiting epee tip.
Even as the green light came on, indicating McGarvey’s valid hit, and locking out the flick, Van Buren realized his mistake. He skipped backward, and immediately raised his left hand, acknowledging the hit.
McGarvey took off his mask and saluted Van Buren, who did the same. They switched their masks to the crooks of their weapon arms and shook with their bare left hands.
“You knew it was coming, didn’t you,” Van Buren said, grinning.
McGarvey nodded. “Yeah. You were concentrating so hard on the flick that you forgot about defense for just an instant.”
“I’ll remember that for the next time.”
They parted and walked to the ends of the strip where they unplugged themselves from the scoring reels, and it struck McGarvey all at once that bin Laden’s attention would be taken up with his own troubles right now. Not only his illness, but the apparent trouble he was having with the NIF. If the DI analysts were correct, bin Laden would be meeting on a daily basis with his Islamic fundamentalist pals. There would be a great deal of activity at his compound. He would be traveling again, trying to explain his position, consolidate his support, trying to get the green light to proceed.
Either that or he was busy stalling them. If that were the case he’d never leave the compound. He would stay put, letting the Islamic liberation fighters come to him. If he was stalling for time the traffic to his compound would be one-way.
“I said that I have to drive back to the Farm this afternoon,” Van Buren said next to him.
McGarvey turned around. “Sorry, I guess I was woolgathering. What’s happening down there?”
“Summer session. Liz is going with me for a few days, if you can spare her. She has some field experience that I’d like her to share with the class.” Van Buren grinned. “The screwups along with the good stuff.”
“If she thinks that she can spare the time, then go ahead,” McGarvey said. “She’s a handful, isn’t she?”
“That she is.”
“Don’t underestimate her, Todd.” McGarvey gave him a hard stare, playing his role as father now. “She’s my daughter, don’t forg
et it.”
Van Buren suddenly got very serious. “No, sir,” he said.
McGarvey clapped him on the shoulder. “Save the flick for foil, unless you want to use the preparation as an invito.”
“You would have found another weakness, wouldn’t you, sir?”
“I would have looked for one,” McGarvey agreed. He gathered up his equipment and went into the locker room to take a shower and change clothes while Van Buren put away the scoring machine. He was finished in ten minutes and on his way up to Rencke’s office on the third floor, no longer depressed. He had the bit in his teeth now.
“I want to see everything we’ve come up with on bin Laden’s Khartoum compound over the past two months,” he said, coming down the narrow aisle between computer equipment.
Rencke looked up from his monitor and broke out into a big smile. “Just what the docs ordered, beating the kids at something they do good. It’s that thing he does with the flick, isn’t it?” “How the hell did you know about that?”
Rencke scooted his chair to an adjacent monitor and brought up a series of stop action frames on a split screen; one side showing the bout that McGarvey and Van Buren had just finished, and the other showing stick figures fighting the same bout, their every action and reaction analyzed and tagged with vector diagrams. “When the boss is in the dumper everybody wants to know what to do. So I got elected.”
“Don’t ever take up fencing, Otto.”
“Have someone coming at me with sharp, pointy objects? Not a chance, Mac.” Rencke scooted back to his primary monitor, cleared the screen and brought up a satellite view of bin Laden’s Khartoum compound. There were several Mercedes and three Humvees parked inside the gates, but there was no sign of people. “Take a look at this. We just got our satellite back.”
“Is he still there?”
“There’s activity, so I suspect he’s there.” Rencke looked up. “Are we thinking about another cruise missile strike? There’s a children’s hospital right behind it, and a Catholic school next door. Great propaganda stuff.”
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