some of the CIA’s field officers out here. It was a reasonable assumption. But McGarvey had found nothing in the record about any meetings; no contact sheets, no incident reports, not even a fleeting mention. It was almost as if the records had been erased or had been altered. Or as if bin Laden himself had purposely avoided contact with the CIA.
Whatever had happened out here during the war was a complete mystery that only bin Laden knew.
Though he denied it, bin Laden had been implicated in dozens of bloody incidents against Americans; the embassies in Kenya and Tanzania, the Khobar Barracks attack, the slaughter of fifty-eight tourists at the Valley of the Kings near Luxor and the bombing of the American-run National Guard training center in Riyadh, the capital city of his own country.
And now this. The biggest one of all. The attack everyone in the West had been holding their breath waiting for. And still McGarvey could not understand why. Where was the sonofabitch coming from?
McGarvey took a closer look at the way bin Laden was kneeling, the way he leaned forward to touch his forehead to the rug. There was something wrong with him. He moved like he was in pain. Was that it, McGarvey wondered. Was it that simple after all? Was bin Laden sick, maybe even dying?
Bin Laden got slowly to his feet with the aid of his cane, a satisfied, almost happy look on his face that was in total contrast to just a few minutes ago. His eyes looked distant, almost as if he was on drugs, and he moved very carefully. He came over and sat down on the cushions, the rifle between him and McGarvey. “It had to have been a long and dangerous trip for you,” he slurred.
“Like I said, we got your messages.” He could see that there was a pallor to bin Laden’s skin, and a slight tremble in his right hand as he picked up his tea.
“I did not order the killings of Mr. Trumble and his family. I don’t work on such a small scale.” His matter-of- fact tone was chilling, almost irrational.
“We identified one of the killers. He worked for you.”
Bin Laden dismissed it with a slight hand gesture, as if it was nothing of importance. “Trumble was a fool, and perhaps some people who believe in the jihad took it into their own hands to silence him.”
McGarvey stiffened. “I could silence you before your guards had a chance to stop me.”
Bin Laden smiled sadly. “You are not a martyr. That’s not why you came here.”
“Lives, even so few as four of them, are very precious to us.”
“Do you think that life is any less precious to me?” bin Laden replied mildly. “Do you think that I don’t weep each time blood is shed?”
“Soldiers are one thing, innocent women and children are something different.”
Bin Laden shook his head. “In this world there are no innocents,” he said blandly.
“Your daughter included?” McGarvey shot back, and he waited for a reaction. He wanted to get to the man where he lived.
Bin Laden’s face darkened, and McGarvey could see the obvious struggle he was going through to regain control. By degrees the same look of peace and contentment as before settled back into his eyes. His face relaxed, and the line of his mouth softened. “Women have a special place in our culture.”
“They do in ours too,” McGarvey said. “But I don’t think the Taliban are in complete agreement with you.”
Bin Laden seemed to think about that for a moment. “This has never been anything more than a temporary arrangement.”
His daughter was his weak point. Maybe he felt a little guilt because in a secret part of his soul he wished that Sarah was a man. And maybe even more guilt because he couldn’t provide a normal life for his family so long as he remained in hiding here in the rough mountains.
“Your daughter is a very special woman,” McGarvey said. “It took great courage for her to come for me in Kabul.”
Bin Laden shrugged, but McGarvey could see the pride in his eyes. “She is a foolish girl at times.”
“I worry about my own daughter. Sometimes she takes unnecessary chances. She’s headstrong.”
“But then you taught her to be that way. You are a headstrong man.”
“I wonder if we would worry less if they were men instead of women.”
“The worry would be no less, merely different,” bin Laden said. “This is a difficult world in which we live, difficult times. Dangerous.”
“Which is why I am here,” McGarvey replied.
Bin Laden looked at him like a snake might look at its dinner. “Perhaps it was a mistake, this meeting.”
“We’re here to avert a disaster,” McGarvey said, careful to keep his tone and manner neutral. He felt as if he was teetering on the edge of a deep abyss, the slightest misstep or wrong word would send him over the edge. “It’s time to stop the killing.”
“What then? What if we come to an agreement?”
“Your family could go home.”
“Saudi Arabia?”
“Yes.”
Bin Laden’s reaction was masked, but it was there: despair. “Not until American forces leave the Peninsula,” he said mildly.
“We’re talking about that in Washington. You know about it.”
Bin Laden became serious. “If the kingdom returned to its Islamic roots it might jeopardize your precious oil resources.” He was testing.
“We get oil from Iran, and will from Iraq once they agree to let us take a look at their weapons production facilities.” McGarvey put his tea down. “We don’t have a problem with your religion, except when you hide behind it to kill people.”
“Bay of Pigs, Vietnam, Grenada, Panama Canal.” Bin Laden watched McGarvey for a reaction. “We have our faith, Mr. McGarvey. What has driven you to ethnically cleanse your native population? Deny your blacks their rights?” He smiled disparagingly. “Ruby Ridge, Waco. The list is nearly endless. Tell me what fine principle you follow.” His eyes narrowed. “Christianity?”
“The terrorist’s litany,” McGarvey said. “Okay, do you want to take them one-by-one? Are we going to compare what we did as a nation a hundred fifty years ago, knowing what we knew then, to what you’re doing now, with what you know now? The Bay of Pigs and Vietnam were colossal mistakes on our part, but putting aside your cynicism about the West, we truly believed that the Cubans and the South Vietnamese wanted their freedom from oppressive government. We lost, and look at the systems they have now.”
Bin Laden was finally beginning to come out of his stupor, and he was getting agitated. “Are you trying to bait me?” he asked. “Freedom?”
“That’s right,” McGarvey retorted. “Why else do you think I would have come up here like this? But while we’re at it let’s check out the immigration numbers to countries like the U.S.” England, France and Canada compared with Iran, Iraq and Libya — all fine religious nations.” McGarvey measured distances between himself and the guards, and between himself and bin Laden’s rifle. “The Qoran is a wonderful holy book, but nobody is beating down the doors to Dar-al-Islam, especially after guys like Khomenni twisted it so out of all recognition.”
“Blasphemer,” bin Laden shouted. His guards brought their weapons up in alarm, not sure what was happening except that their boss was mad.
McGarvey girded himself to make a try for the rifle. “That’s your title,” he said. “And you earned it. Your hands are bloody with it.”
Before McGarvey could make a move bin Laden grabbed the rifle, his movements suddenly very precise, very crisp. He switched the safety off and pointed it at McGarvey’s chest, the muzzle only a few inches away. His face was filled with an insane light now. Either his lethargy had been a sham or he’d suddenly snapped out of it. There was no way of telling.
His guards jumped to their feet and pointed their rifles at McGarvey.
“Did you bring me here to kill me? Is that what all this is about? Or do you want to let your family go home? Get out of these mountains. Stop the jihad before it gets totally out of hand.” McGarvey sat forward. “Once you cross the line — the nuclear line — there’ll be no way home. Not for you, not for anyone connected with you. But we have a chance to stop the madness once and for all.”
Bin Laden regained control by degrees. But his face remained a mask of hate. “Killing you would give me
