Allah's Scorpion

by David Hagberg

  Nor had he been able to get a read on Dillon or the other two. They had pulled together as a unit, them against everyone else, including McGarvey.

  “Well, you’d better keep them isolated for now,” Adkins said. “The Coast Guard has taken over just downriver from you, and they’re stonewalling the media. Won’t be long before some wise guy realizes that the Farm is less than five miles away, and they come knocking at our door.”

  “I’ll give Todd and Liz the heads-up, but any minute now the navy is going to get real interested in talking to Jackson and Dillon.”

  “I’ll talk to Puckett right away,” Adkins said. “In the meantime, the Bureau has put out an APB on Graham, but I have a feeling it’s already too late.”

  “If it was Graham, and I’m betting it was, he had his escape worked out before he ever set foot on that submarine,” McGarvey said, but then stopped. The last word had caught in his throat. Suddenly he had it. He knew how Graham meant to escape and where he was going. “We might get lucky this time, as long as nobody gets in his way,” McGarvey added, not really believing it, or wanting it.

  He needed Graham to escape. It was the only way now to get to bin Laden. The Brit was going to trade his life for the al-Quaida leader’s.

  “How about you?” Adkins asked, apparently not catching the change in McGarvey’s voice. “The president sends his thanks.”

  “And he wants to know if I’m going back to Pakistan to finish the job.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’m coming up to the Building this afternoon,” McGarvey said. “Have Gloria Ibenez meet me in Otto’s office, and we’ll work it out.”

  “It?” Adkins asked.

  “I’m going after bin Laden again,” McGarvey said.

  “I see,” Adkins had said, and he’d sounded like a man caught up in the middle of something that terrified him. “Do you know where he’s hiding?”

  “No, but I know how to find out.”

  Dillon was alone, nursing a cup of coffee in the break room, when McGarvey went in and sat down across from him.

  “How’s FX?”

  Dillon shook his head. “I thought I knew him pretty well, but I just don’t know. At any minute I expect him to blow sky-high. I would. But there’s nothing.”

  “I don’t think I’d care to be around any of them when it hits home,” McGarvey said.

  “I know what you mean,” Dillon said.

  “The boat was found downriver near Newport News, apparently in good shape, but there was no sign of Graham,” McGarvey said.

  “He won’t get far on foot, will he?”

  “He had it all planned ahead of time. By now I expect he’s either out of the country or on his way out.”

  “The FBI will at least cover the airports, for God’s sake,” Dillon said. He was having a hard time believing what he was hearing. “They know what he looks like, don’t they? A man like that can’t just waltz onto an airplane and fly away. That’s one of the reasons Homeland Security was created.”

  McGarvey shook his head. It never ceased to amaze him just how naïve most Americans really were. Even after 9/11. “You can’t imagine how easy it is for a pro,” he said.

  Dillon looked away.

  “Anyway, I have to get back to Washington, but I want you guys to lay low here for the time being. Admiral Puckett will send for you when the time is right.”

  Dillon turned back. “We’re all sorry about Terri, but no one thinks it was your fault.”

  “Thanks,” McGarvey replied, but he didn’t know what else to say. Her death was, in his mind, his fault. He should have been better at covering her back.

  WASHINGTON DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  A tall man with longish blond hair, a crumpled but stylish linen suit, and thick glasses presented his British diplomatic passport and the return portion of his first-class ticket on Lufthansa’s noon flight to Berlin to one of the security officers at the international departures lounge.

  The airport was busy this morning. Arriving by cab from the city, Graham had spotted the extra security measures that had obviously been only recently put into place. A dozen Virginia Highway Patrol and Loudon County radio cars were stationed along the departing passengers unloading area, and the deputies were scrutinizing the faces of every white male who entered the terminal.

  Maintaining a neutral expression, Graham got out of the cab and marched directly past one of the cops, who gave him a once-over with no sign of recognition.

  Inside, there were more police, and several National Guard troops with bomb-sniffing dogs where passengers were checking their bags.

  Walking down the corridor to the international lounge, Graham was able to see that airliners pulled up to jetways were being guarded by other National Guard and law enforcement officers.

  Yet he’d been allowed to walk past them all without a question. Homeland Security was an even bigger joke than he thought it would be. America’s borders had always been even more porous than those of Canada and Great Britain. Security had always been one of the more serious faults of a free and open democracy. But it amazed him how little had actually changed in the United States after 9/11.

  They still didn’t get it. Only one man did, and thinking about McGarvey gave him almost as terrible an empty feeling in his chest as missing Jillian did.

  The day of reckoning would come. He had twice underestimated McGarvey, and there would not be a third time, because for Graham there was no longer a jihad. The next time they met, Graham would kill him.

  And arranging such a meeting would be as simple as offering the former DCI exactly what he wanted.

  “Good morning, Sir Thomas,” the security officer said, looking up from the passport photograph into Graham’s eyes that were now blue. “Do you have any other baggage?”

  “No, just this one,” Graham said. His passport identified him as Sir Thomas Means, the third assistant to the British ambassador to Germany. “Just popped over for a day and a wake-up. Have to get back into the fray, you know.”

  The security officer handed back the passport, while a second officer passed Graham’s overnight bag through a hazardous materials scanner. Since he was traveling under diplomatic papers his luggage could not be searched unless something showed up on the scanner.

  It did not. Nor did anything on his body set off the security arch when he walked through it.

  “Have a good flight, sir,” the officer said, as Graham collected his bag.

  “Thank you, I will,” Graham said, smiling, and he sauntered across to the bar to have a glass of wine, despite the hour, and wait for his flight to be called.

  SIXTY-NINE

  CIA HEADQUARTERS

  Just after lunch Gloria Ibenez took the elevator up to Rencke’s office across the corridor from the Watch. He’d phoned her around eleven to tell her that McGarvey would be coming to the Building in a few hours and wanted to talk to her. Since then her stomach had been aflutter with anticipation.

  Despite his repeated denials of her and despite the obvious fact that he was happily married, she was in love with him. And for the past few days she had been miserable because, although he had protected her from Howard McCann, he’d been avoiding her.

  Until now.

  The pass around her neck did not authorize entry into Rencke’s inner sanctum, so she had to be buzzed in. He was seated in front of one of the several wide-screen monitors that were arrayed in a broad U formation. Some of them displayed satellite images of what looked like a large city, a seaport, which Gloria recognized as Karachi, and the slum section of Fish Harbor where bin Laden was supposedly hiding in the compound. A series of figures and mathematical equations crossed the screen directly in front of Rencke, his fingers racing over the keyboard. The background was lavender.

  “Oh, wow, Mac just came through the gate,” he said without looking up.

  His office was a mess; classified files, photographs, and maps covered the small conference table in the middle of the
room and were stacked on chairs and in piles on the floor along with empty plastic Twinkie packages and empty cartons of cream. Despite his marriage to Louise Horn, who’d tried to change his horrible eating habits, he reverted to his old ways whenever he had the bit in his teeth, as he apparently had now.

  “What does he want with me?” Gloria asked, perching on the edge of the conference table to Rencke’s left.

  “Unless I’m way off base, I think he’s going back to badland to finish the job, and I think he’s going to ask you to tag along again.”

  Gloria lost her breath for a moment. She could almost feel Kirk’s arms around her, smell his scent. It was a good, safe feeling. Comfortable, but exciting. “Will Mr. McCann sign off on the assignment?”

  Rencke chuckled. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” he said without missing a keystroke or looking away from the monitor.

  “I meant that I want to have a career here after this assignment,” she said. She couldn’t think of any other job she’d rather have.

  “I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem either,” Rencke said. He suddenly stopped typing, but it took several seconds for the equations and diagrams to catch up. When they did, the background color deepened sharply.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Rencke turned to her. “It’s a threat assessment. They failed again because of Mac, and now they’re going to drop everything to find him and kill him.”

  “Did he find the submarine?”

  Rencke nodded. “Last night. Actually early this morning. That part’s a nonissue now, except that Graham managed to escape.”

  As irrational as it was, being left out of anything McGarvey was involved with stung. “Why didn’t someone tell me? Maybe I could have helped.”

  “It was Mac’s call,” Rencke said. His bemused genius persona was gone, replaced now by someone who seemed genuinely concerned about her. “Look, you’re in love with Mac. Well, so are a lot of us. You’re not the first, and I suspect you won’t be the last.”

  Gloria lowered her eyes, but she refused to cry. “It hurts.”

  “I know,” Rencke replied gently. “But Mrs. M is the sun and the moon to him, and you’d better come to terms with it or you’re going to be miserable for the rest of your life.” He smiled. “You’re a pretty girl. You could probably get just about any guy you wanted.”

  “I want him.”

  “I know,” Rencke said. He glanced up at a small black-and-white closed-circuit monitor that showed a half-dozen pictures-in-picture from various cameras in the building. McGarvey was just getting on an elevator in the executive parking garage. “He’s on his way up, so you’re going to have to make up your mind now. You’re going to love him and try to seduce him away from his wife, or you’re going to love him and help him.”

  There was no real choice, of course, but it hurt all the more knowing she could never have him. She nodded. “Whatever he wants.”

  A couple of minutes later, Rencke buzzed McGarvey in.

  “I’m going after bin Laden again, and I’m going to need your help.”

  “Me too?” Gloria asked.

  McGarvey nodded. “Especially you.”

  CHEVY CHASE

  On the way back to the safe house McGarvey played over in his mind the instructions he had given to Rencke and Gloria, which were going to put them in harm’s way no matter if he were right or wrong. Otto had agreed that his plan gave them the best shot at finding bin Laden and eliminating him. Gloria, on the other hand, would have agreed to anything.

  They both were relying on his judgment, and he had based his plan on one very narrow—and on the surface, unlikely—possibility, which depended on Graham making his escape from the United States.

  Traffic was heavy on the Beltway as he got off at Connecticut Avenue and headed south. But the summer afternoon was warm and beautiful, and Washington was in its quiet mode. Yet McGarvey couldn’t shake the feeling of impending disaster.

  Some rough beast was slinking its way toward us, and would strike again unless it could be stopped soon.

  It was exactly what he had to explain to Katy. He needed to make her understand that it would be impossible for them to go to Florida until this challenge was met once and for all. Even though he had promised time and again to finally get out of the business, he couldn’t walk away now even if his marriage depended on it.

  He was going to kill bin Laden and nothing on earth was going to stop him.

  He parked in the driveway and Katy came from the kitchen as he walked through the front door. He’d called early this morning to tell her that he was okay, but she pulled up short the moment she saw his face. She raised a hand to her mouth.

  “It’s still not finished, is it?” she said, her voice small.

  “One last thing, sweetheart.”

  She turned away and made to go back into the kitchen, but he caught up with her and took her in his arms.

  “One last thing, I promise,” he told her. “But it has to be done.”

  She looked into his eyes. “Bin Laden?”

  He nodded.

  “When?”

  “In the morning,” McGarvey said. Katy wanted to pull away in anger, but he held her all the tighter until she calmed down a little. “I can’t walk away from it, no matter how much I’d like to.”

  She considered what he was telling her, but then shook her head. “You like it. You always have.”

  “It’s my job—”

  “No, goddammit, you love it!” she screeched. “You did when you went to Chile, that time just before you walked out, and nothing has changed.” She slapped his chest with the flat of her hand. “You love it, goddammit.”

  “It’s something that needs doing, and I’ve always been the one to do it,” McGarvey told his wife. “But I’ve never loved it.”

  “Yes—”

  “I’ve killed people, Katy.”

  “I’ve seen you in action,” she said bitterly.

  He released his hold on her and let her step back, a heavy bitterness descending upon him like a death shroud. “I’m sorry, Katy. But you’re wrong, I’ve never enjoyed it.” He turned to go, but this time it was she who stopped him, and she fell weeping into his arms.

  “Oh, Kirk, I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  He held her, his heart still impossibly heavy for this and for all the other times he had driven her half-crazy with fear and anger. It had never been her fault, it had always been his.

  “You should never have married her in the first place,” his sister had told him years ago after he’d sold their parents’ ranch in Kansas. She’d despised him for doing it, and every chance she had of hurting him, she took it. “You’ll end up destroying the poor girl.”

  There’d been no answer to his sister’s charge then, nor was there one now. Except that he loved his wife with every fiber of his being, and he always had.

  “I know, Katy,” he said softly. “It’ll turn out okay. Promise.”

  SEVENTY

  KARACHI

  It was nearly noon by the time McGarvey and Gloria cleared customs and walked out of the terminal to find a cab. This time they had flown commercial, Delta from Washington and Emirates from Dubai, and with layovers it had taken the better part of two days to get here.

  Rencke had assured them that neither Karachi police nor Pakistani ISI had warrants for their arrests following their last trip here, even though both Mac and Gloria had been involved in incidents in which blood had been shed.

  McGarvey wanted their arrival to be as transparent as possible. He wanted anyone who was the least bit interested in his movements to know he was here.

  And the two-day travel delay getting here had given Rencke extra time to make all the necessary arrangements.

  There would be only one very narrow window of opportunity between the time that Graham made contact and when the Pakistani government sat up and took notice that something was going down. They wouldn’t have a seco
nd chance.

  Joe Bernstein, the CIA’s contract cabbie, was waiting for them. He took their bags without a word and hustled them back to his taxi. Five minutes later, they had cleared the airport and were heading into the city on Shahrah-e-Faisal Road, the weekday traffic very heavy.

  “I did not expect to see you back so soon,” he said, glancing at them in the rearview mirror. “I don’t think this is a very safe place for you right now.”

  “It won’t be safe for anyone seen with me,” McGarvey said. “Maybe you shouldn’t have picked us up.”

  “Your son-in-law is a friend,” Bernstein replied. He chuckled. “Anyway you’re an open secret now. Best show in town. I wouldn’t miss it for all the poppies in Afghanistan.”

  “Did you talk to Todd?”

  “No, but Otto and I had a long and fruitful conversation,” Bernstein said. “I’m to be the bagman.” He chuckled again. “I’ll admit that all that money will be a real temptation.”

  “That’s what we’re hoping,” McGarvey said.

  On the long flight over, McGarvey had gone over all the details of the operation with Gloria, so that she knew exactly what she would have to do.

  The details had also been worked out with a reluctant Dave Coddington, who was the Company’s Karachi chief of station. There was a lot at stake this time, not the least of which was five million U.S. in cash, as a down payment on the twenty-five-million-dollar reward for the capture or killing of Osama bin Laden. In the five years the reward had been offered, there’d been no authentic takers.

  This time, however, McGarvey was betting that someone would finally come forward with information that would lead to bin Laden. It would be a trap, of course, to lure McGarvey to a place where he could be killed. Bin Laden would be nowhere near, but his mujahideen would be.