The President ignored his NSA, his eyes locked on McGarvey. “You have our attention, Mr. McGarvey. What do you think we should do?”
“Bin Laden wants to talk, so that’s exactly what we do.”
“Your man in Riyadh tried it, and it got him killed,” Berndt pointed out.
“Alien was probably killed on the orders of one of bin Laden’s followers. A fanatic. Someone who wants to use the bomb against us.”
“But bin Laden doesn’t necessarily agree,” the President said. “Are you saying that he got it as a bargaining chip?”
“I think that’s a possibility we have to consider, Mr. President.”
“Okay, who do we send?”
“Me,” McGarvey said. It was a bombshell around the table, even to Murphy who saw it coming. As DDO McGarvey was the third most powerful man in U.S. intelligence, bagging him would not only be a major coup for a terrorist such as bin Laden, but it had the potential of harming the U.S. even worse than Aldrich Ames had done. Ames had spied for the Russians in the eighties and early nineties. Because of him nearly all of our deep cover assets in the Soviet Union were blown, most of them assassinated. The CIA still was not fully recovered. “He wants to talk, so I’ll go talk to him.”
“It’s a suicide mission,” Admiral Halverson said. “If you’re wrong, and bin Laden did order Trumble’s assassination, you’d be walking into a hornet’s nest.” He shook his head. “Hell, even if you’re right, and it was one of bin Laden’s followers, what would stop him from ordering your death the moment you set foot in Afghanistan?”
“Considering what we’re faced with, it’s a risk I’m willing to take, Admiral,” McGarvey said. “The same risk your people signed on for when they put on a uniform.”
The comment stung, and the admiral sat back, chastised.
“I don’t think we have any other choice now,” Secretary of State Carpenter said in his studied way. “But what would you say to the monster that would make any sort of difference?”
“I’ll tell him that we got his message about the bomb, and ask him to turn it over to us,” McGarvey said. “I can’t think of any other reason he gave the serial number to
Trumble. He wants to make a deal with us. We’ll give him back his assets, lift the bounty and try to get the Saudi government to let his family come home. At least that’d be a start.”
“We’ve been over that,” Berndt said.
“There’s something else he wants. I don’t know what it is, but it’s something he wants badly enough to agree to talk to us.”
“Kill him,” Berndt said flatly.
“Another failed missile attack could drive him into using the bomb,” McGarvey said. “None of us want that.”
“I mean if you actually get close to him, kill the man.”
McGarvey went eye-to-eye with the President’s national security adviser. “Are you giving me that order, Mr. Berndt?” The room was quiet. “Because if you are, I would like it in writing.”
“Dennis, we’re a long ways from ordering a suicide mission assassination,” the President said. “If we strike his camps with cruise missiles the mission will be to deny him the capability to wage a war of terrorism. We will not specifically target the man.”
It was a very fine point, barely within American law, and no one missed it, nor did anyone offer comment. Assassination as a political weapon was not an option, although if bin Laden were to be killed in a missile raid, then so be it.
“How sure are you that he’s not simply setting a trap?” the President asked. “It comes down to that.”
“If he is, he wouldn’t have killed Alien. He would have waited for someone like me to show up. He wants something, and I have to meet with him.”
“How soon could you set it up?”
“We’ll put the word out, and if he responds it’ll be within the week, maybe two,” McGarvey said.
“Safeguards?” the President asked.
“We have some limited resources in Kabul.”
“Assuming he’s still in Afghanistan, how would you get there? Government transport is out.”
“Ariana Airlines, through Dubai,” McGarvey said. “For
the moment it’s the only reliable carrier to Kabul. From there I would expect he’d send someone for me.”
The President shook his head. “I don’t like this, but I don’t see any other alternative under the circumstances.”
“No, sir,” McGarvey said.
“General?” The President turned to Murphy.
Murphy gave McGarvey an odd, almost pensive look. “He’ll have to go in clean. If we try to set something up for him, some kind of a backup, and bin Laden finds out about it, Mac will be a dead man.”
The President looked around the table. “Have there been any leaks yet?” To this point the media was accepting the FBI’s story that the shooting in Orlando was a case of mistaken identity in a drug cartel war. The eye witnesses said that the shooters were slightly built and dark-skinned, which was a close enough fit to generalize that they were Colombians. Bari Yousef’s identity and Alien Trumble’s real employer were being kept secret.
“No, sir,” Berndt assured him.
“Then we’ll keep it that way,” the President said. He looked again at McGarvey. “Do it,” he said softly.
“Yes, sir,” McGarvey said. A whisp of something from Voltaire came to him: I am very fond of truth, but not at all of martyrdom. Before he put himself into the lion’s den he would try to even the odds as much as possible. He wanted to stop bin Laden, but he also wanted to make it up to Trumble’s family.
Berndt and Admiral Halverson remained behind as the others filed out of the room. When everyone was gone they followed the President upstairs. On the way in he told his chief of staff to push everything back for another ten minutes, then he went to his desk.
“We can monitor McGarvey’s movements into the Afghan mountains, am I correct in this?”
“To within a few meters,” Berndt confirmed.
“Okay, if he actually comes face-to-face with the bastard, and if bin Laden so much as farts, I will order the immediate missile attack on his camp once McGarvey is clear.”
“Or dead,” Berndt said darkly.
The President nodded. “But I’ll need an ironclad confirmation of that before we go. Clear?” Berndt nodded. “Admiral, I want the Carl Vinson and her battle group moved into position as soon as possible. And we’re keeping the lid on this.”
“I’ll see to it immediately,” the admiral said, happy to go into action.
“It’s a trap,” Berndt predicted. “All he’s going to accomplish is get himself killed.”
“McGarvey is a capable man. We will give him the chance before we do anything.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Berndt said. “Now, what about the funeral for Alien Trumble and his family? We’re going to have to stay out of it, officially, if we want the cover story to hold.”
The President’s eyes went to the photograph on the desk of his wife and daughter. He was doing this for them, he thought. For all Americans, but especially for them. “The CIA will handle it. Whatever they want.”
“But, Mr. President—”
The President looked up, an angry set to his jaw. “Alien Trumble was an American hero, Dennis. He will be treated as such.” His eyes narrowed. “Let’s keep focused. We’re facing a madman in possession of a nuclear bomb who has shown a willingness in the past to kill innocent men, women and children. Don’t forget it.” The President shook his head. “God knows, I won’t.”
SARAH BIN LADEN
