The captain grinned. “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear.”
Bahmad laughed. It was so ridiculously easy, he thought. “I’m going to freshen up now. When I get back I want something very good to eat, and I’ll want some champagne. Cristal, I should think. Can we manage that?”
“With pleasure,” the head chef said.
“Afterwards I’ll want a tour of the ship, and then I’ll be going into the city for a few hours, so I’ll need a car.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” Captain Walker said. “In the meantime should we be preparing to sail?”
“Not for a while. It’s time for a little R and R.” He gave Cheryl a smile. “Pass the word to Terry that we’re having a party tomorrow evening. He should know who to invite.”
“I’ll talk to him right away.”
“Lighten up, okay?” Bahmad told them, getting his attaché case. “You’d think that this was a bloody funeral.” He gave them another warm, reassuring look. “Now, if someone could show me where I’m bunking I’ll take a shower.”
Cheryl took him up to the owner’s suite, which was just aft of the bridge. Like the rest of the yacht, the three rooms were spacious and extremely well appointed. Large windows looked out across the yacht basin toward the National War College with its pretty grounds on Greenleaf Point.
“This is just lovely,” Bahmad said.
“Yes, sir. She’s a nice ship,” Cheryl said earnestly. “Would you like some help unpacking?”
“Thanks, but I can manage.”
“Yes, sir. And welcome aboard. If there’s anything you need just ask.”
When she was gone Bahmad took off his jacket and hung it in one of the closets, then splashed some cold water on his face in the bathroom.
He’d had a lot of time to contemplate exactly how he was going to accomplish the two tasks bin Laden had sent him here for. Killing Elizabeth McGarvey would have to be done in such a way that it would have the minimum affect on the second phase—that of providing a diversion so that the nuclear weapon could be moved into position beneath the Golden Gate Bridge at the moment the Special Olympics runners were there, and then exploding it. If the authorities suspected that McGarvey’s daughter had been killed as an act of revenge by bin Laden then the mission would be made all the more difficult as he had tried to explain to Osama. Her death would have to look like a random act of violence.
A drive-by shooting, a botched robbery while she was stopped at a 7-Eleven, a burglar caught in the act in her apartment. But that would take surveillance. Being at the right place at the right time, with a plan to get away when it was done. He had to know her movements, her habits. McGarvey’s daughter was not much older than Sarah had been, but she was a trained CIA field officer who already had experienced some difficult situations. The worst thing he could do would be to underestimate her.
He dried his hands and face, checked to make sure that the door was locked, then opened his attaché case and went through the material he’d been given in London. There were a dozen photographs of McGarvey’s daughter, some of them straight head shots, others in settings ranging from the CIA’s main gate, to her in spandex running shorts and a sweatshirt in some park. Also contained in the intelligence briefing files were the locations of her usual hangouts, starting with her apartment in Georgetown, to her mother’s house in Chevy Chase, and several restaurants she frequented in and around Washington. She was an active young woman, with a circle of friends from the Company. From time to time she made the drive down to the CIA’s training facility in Williamsburg, and until very recently she had been posted to Paris. All that had come from bin Laden’s contacts.
Bahmad looked out the window for a moment. She’d obviously been recalled because of the murders of Trumble and his family, and because her father was going to Afghanistan. It meant that McGarvey already had some concern for his daughter’s safety. And presumably the safety of his ex-wife as well.
The file also contained photographs of her, some with her daughter, and some on the country club golf course where she belonged. She was a striking woman, self-assured, even haughty looking. Nothing at all like Bin Laden’s wives, or most other Muslim women for that matter. She epitomized, in Bahmad’s mind, the arrogant American woman. Too bad, he thought, that she wasn’t a target as well.
The equipment he had requested had been sent down from New Jersey packed in a large aluminum case of the sort often used by professional photographers. Included in his package from London were the keys.
He hefted the case onto the bed and opened it. It was heavy, about sixty pounds, and contained what appeared to be a camera, lenses, light meters and canisters of film all fitted into shapes cut into the foam rubber tray. Lifting the tray out and setting it aside revealed a lower compartment that held the things he had requested, secured in bubble wrap. One by one he unwrapped each item and inspected it. Included were a Glock 17 pistol, two spare magazines of 10mm ammunition and a silencer. The weapon was in perfect working order. Next he took the other items out of the case. A thin, nine-inch stiletto, a case-hardened steel lock pick set, a small but powerful penlight, an electronic hotel lock card decoder, a thick envelope containing ten thousand dollars in cash, a half-dozen valid but untraceable credit cards, three complete sets of identification and a satellite phone complete with an extra battery pack. Finally he withdrew a small leather case that contained what looked like the remote control for a television set.
Bahmad handled the controller with great care. At the proper time and place, a dozen keystrokes would arm and fire the nuclear weapon. So much power, he thought with a sensuous pleasure.
Killing McGarvey’s daughter had never been a part of his preliminary planning. But the rest was, and it had taken all of three months to have the equipment gathered and waiting for him should bin Laden give the order.
He put everything back in the aluminum case, locked it and set it down. Then he got undressed and went to take a shower. A bullet in the head during an interrupted burglary, he thought. It would be the simplest and easiest method. But first dinner and drinks. He began to sing a song that he’d learned in London about a young woman who sold shellfish in Dublin’s fair city.
Chevy Chase
It had been a very stressful few days for Kathleen McGarvey. Kirk’s leaving so suddenly on what even Rencke thought could turn out to be a dangerous fool’s mission had obliged her to think long and hard about their upcoming marriage, and how she was going to hold up under what could never be a normal relationship. Having a daughter in the business didn’t help much either. There were times when she wasn’t sure of anything, especially her own resolve. Looking objectively at herself she knew that there were other times when she was incredibly self-centered, even selfish to the point she didn’t want to hear what anyone else had to say. But she loved Kirk, she had never stopped loving him, and that was one constant embedded so deeply in her heart that nothing could ever tear it loose.
The problem was within herself. In the old days, when she was threatened, she became a bitch. It was a defense mechanism that she used to shield herself from getting hurt. But that was just as stupid, she had come to feel, as Kirk’s penchant for running off to be alone when he was hurt. She insulated herself emotionally; he did so with distance. They both would have to change if they were going to make their marriage work this time. And that was something, Kathleen decided, that she wanted more than anything.
She looked out the window of the front bedroom. A dark blue van was parked down the block. One of Dick Yemm’s people. The Company was keeping a watch on her twenty-four hours a day. Instead of comforting her, however, she felt a dull, gnawing fear in her stomach. People who needed bodyguards were people in harm’s way, and she didn’t know if that was the part of Kirk’s job that she hated the most, or if it was his frequent absences. But already it was beginning to get to her; everything about the CIA and what it stood for, what its mission was, and the people who worked over there and around the world, gave her the willys
whenever she thought about it.
No place was safe for any of them. Allen Trumble and his family had learned that terrible lesson at Disney World, for God’s sake.
The telephone rang. She crossed the hall to her bedroom and picked it up. “Yes,” she said sharply.
“He’s out,” Rencke said.
Kathleen closed her eyes, and released the pent up breath. “Thank God,” she said. “Is he all right, Otto?”
“He was pretty banged up, Mrs. M. Dehydrated, fatigued, some cuts and bruises, but nothing life-threatening. He’ll be okay.”
“When does he get home?”
“He’s at the military hospital in Riyadh for now, but they’re planning on moving him to Ramstein sometime in the next twelve to twenty-four hours.”
Kathleen gripped the phone tightly. “You said he was okay. Just cuts and bruises. What’s going on, Otto? I want the truth, goddammit.”
“Bin Laden’s people found out that he was carrying the GPS chip, and they operated on him to remove it. The stitches came out somehow and he lost a lot of blood.”
Kathleen closed her eyes again and mentally counted to ten. “The dirty bastards,” she said softly. She opened her eyes. “What else is wrong with him?”
“Nothing serious, Mrs. M, I swear to you. He’s been sedated and they’re pumping fluids into him. He wanted to get on the first plane for home, but they wouldn’t let him. Right now he’s getting exactly what he needs—sleep.”
“I’ll fly to Frankfurt tonight. I can drive down to Ramstein and be there by noon.”
“Bzzz. Wrong answer, Mrs. M.”
“Then the Company can arrange to fly me over there direct.”
“You wouldn’t do him any good by being there,” Rencke said miserably. “You’d only be compounding the security problems.” Rencke sounded frightened. “I’d do anything for you. Lie down in front of a train, fight a pack of alligators, but not this. Please just stay there. As soon as we can get Mac out of there we will. I promise you. Please Mrs. M. Please.”
“I’m frightened,” she said softly.
“So am I,” Rencke replied. “But you gotta stick it out here and let us do our jobs.”
She nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Just keep me informed, will you?”
“Count on it.”
When Kathleen put down the phone it struck her as ominous that Otto had admitted that he was frightened too. According to him Kirk was going to be all right. So what else was coming their way?
Georgetown
It was after 11:00 P.M. by the time the pleasant neighborhood of three-story brownstone apartment buildings finally began to settle down. Bahmad had a slight headache from the wine, and from the effects of jet lag. He turned the block at Dumbarton and Thirtieth Street, and passed Elizabeth McGarvey’s building for the fourth time in as many hours. The windows of her third-floor apartment were still dark, and her car, a bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle, was still nowhere to be seen.
He drove a dark blue Mercedes that the boat crew had arranged for his use. This quality of car was nearly invisible in this neighborhood. It blended with the other Mercedes and Jaguars. His entry into the United States had been without incident, and he couldn’t imagine that anyone was looking for him, let alone knew his face. Here and now he was completely anonymous, exactly as he wanted it, and exactly as he meant to keep it. If anyone took notice of him he would kill them.
At the end of the block he turned the corner and found a parking spot. Switching off the headlights and engine, he checked the rearview mirror. No one was following him. Just ordinary traffic.
He waited for a bus to lumber by then got out, locked the car and headed back to the corner and then down Thirtieth Street to Elizabeth’s building. He let himself in, finding himself in a tiny alcove, stairs to the right, apartment 1 to the left. Three mailboxes were set in the wall straight ahead. Elizabeth McGarvey’s was apartment 3 on the top floor. Unlike similar buildings in New York City there was no security here except for the apartment doors themselves. He had a feeling that after tonight that would change.
There was no elevator, so he took the stairs two at a time, moving quickly and silently on the balls of his feet. He wore light brown slacks, a striped button-down shirt and a light jacket against the evening damp. Like everything else about him, the clothes were unremarkable.
The door to the second-floor apartment opened and he heard a woman say something, her words indistinct. A man answered angrily. Bahmad held up on the stairs, contemplating turning around and leaving the building, or remaining here and killing the couple should they discover him. The voices were cut off when the door was slammed. He slipped out his knife and listened for footsteps in the corridor, but the building was silent. Whoever it was had gone back into their apartment.
He moved cautiously up the last few stairs and peered around the corner. The landing was empty, the apartment door closed. He sheathed his knife and went the rest of the way to the top floor.
At the door to Elizabeth’s apartment he knocked softly, and waited. But after a minute when no one came, he took out his lock pick set and had the door open in under thirty seconds. He took out his pistol, screwed the silencer on the end of the barrel, then after checking the stairs behind him, slipped inside, sweeping the gun left to right, looking for a target. But Elizabeth was not at home.
He closed and locked the door, and silently went back to the bedroom to make sure that the woman wasn’t here, asleep in her bed after all. But the apartment was empty. It was pleasant if inexpensively furnished, with a lot of books, a stereo system and a lot of CDs. But something was wrong.
Stuffing the gun in his belt he went into the bathroom, closed the door and turned on the light. It was reasonably clean, but something nagged at the back of his head. Something was out of place. Or, rather, something was not in its place. Something was missing.
There were towels on the racks, but no pantyhose or bras hanging over the shower rod. On the sink counter were several bottles of perfume and lotions, but there were water marks where two bottles were missing. There was no toothbrush or toothpaste in the medicine cabinet, and a quick search of the shelves and other cabinets revealed no birth control pills or diaphragm, no douches or feminine deo-. dorant sprays. He knew enough about Western women to understand that these were all common items in most bathrooms. But they were missing.
Elizabeth McGarvey had moved out. The questions were how long would she be gone, and where had she gotten herself to.
He switched off the bathroom light, waited for a minute for his eyes to adjust, then went back into the bedroom. The bed had been hastily made, which meant she wasn’t a neat housekeeper or she’d been in a hurry to get out of here. But most of the clothes were still in her closet, only a few empty spaces indicated that she had taken something, but not everything. It was the same in the chest of drawers. Some undergarments and tee shirts were obviously missing, but most had been left behind.
Bahmad retraced his steps through the apartment, wiping down the few spots where he might have left fingerprints despite his care not to do so. He checked the street from the living room window. There were several empty parking spots out front, as before, but no yellow VW.
He let himself out of the apartment, relocked the door, crept silently downstairs and left the building. Now he needed to find out where she had gone. If it was back to Paris, this mission would become complicated. But the Special Olympics weren’t for another two and a half months, so he had time to spare, though each time he crossed an international border there was the risk of discovery.
But then another thought struck him all at once. When he got back to the car he took out his satellite phone and placed a call to a special number in the Taliban Military Intelligence Headquarters in Kabul.
Colonel Hisham bin Idris answered on the second ring. “Hello.”
“Is the situation resolved?” Bahmad asked.
“I had sincerely hoped so,” the colonel replied cautiously. “You
are not telephoning from nearby, are you?”
“No, but I wanted to thank you on behalf of … everybody.”
“You cannot return here.”
“I understand that,” Bahmad said, reassuringly. “We have every intention of respecting your wishes. You have done so much for us—”
“Yes, yes, but what do you want?” Colonel bin Idris demanded impatiently.
“There is that other matter I asked you to help me with.”
The colonel hesitated for just a second, as if he’d been distracted. “He’s dead.”
“Are you certain? Did you see the body?”
“What was left of it. He got caught in the mob and they tore him apart. There wasn’t much left.”
“How sure are you that it was him?”
“Very sure,” Colonel bin Idris said.
“Then thank you again. It is a debt we shall never be able to repay—” Bahmad said, but he was talking to an open line. The colonel had broken the connection.
Bahmad switched off the phone. When a young woman’s father was brutally murdered in a faraway land there was only one logical place for her to go. Sooner or later Elizabeth McGarvey would show up at her mother’s home, if she wasn’t already there, to grieve. He smiled. He would get to kill McGarvey’s wife after all.
Falls Church, Virginia
At that moment Elizabeth McGarvey was taking her overnight case and hanging bag from her car parked beside Todd Van Buren’s old Porsche. His apartment had once been the carriage house for the family estate. His parents lived in the mansion a quarter-mile up the curving driveway through some woods. They didn’t approve of the fact that he worked for the CIA, but he had been raised to be independent, and they tried not to interfere too much in his life. His independence was one of the things she most admired about him. In some ways he reminded her of her father.
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