more pleasure than you can imagine.” He said it so softly that only McGarvey could hear it.
“I would be replaced.”
“Not in your daughter’s heart.”
McGarvey was momentarily taken aback by the intimacy of the statement. He slowly shook his head. “No, not in my daughter’s heart,” he admitted. “But she knows that I came here to broker a peace agreement with you. If I have to die at least it will have been for a good cause.”
“A noble sentiment for a CIA assassin.”
His movements very slow, very precise, McGarvey poured two glasses of tea. He picked up one and offered it to bin Laden. “We got your message. I’m here.”
Bin Laden hesitated, not wanting to give up his anger. But finally a look of conciliation, even a hint of defeat, crossed his face. He was tired again, wan, drawn out, as if the brief outburst had sapped his strength.
He switched the safety on, casually laid the rifle aside and took the tea. “All American forces would have to immediately leave the Arabian Peninsula.”
“That would take some time, and my government would want safeguards in place against further trouble from Iraq.”
“We would deal with that situation in our own fashion.”
“It would have to be a mutual agreement.”
“Oil,” bin Laden said.
“Yes, oil,” McGarvey replied. “Your family would be allowed to return home to Saudi Arabia.”
“But not me.”
McGarvey shook his head. “We can lift the bounty from your head, but the best that we could try for would be a trial in the World Court at the Hague.”
“On what charges?” bin Laden demanded. It struck McGarvey as bizarre, almost surreal that bin Laden could ask such a question.
“International terrorism.”
“It’s war.”
“Not to the people you killed,” McGarvey said.
Bin Laden stared at him, a complex play of emotions across his lined, expressive face. “There can never be peace between us so long as your government supports Tel Aviv.”
“That’s not likely to change anytime soon, and I think you know it,” McGarvey said. “But at least there can be an agreement between us. It’s as far as we’re willing to go-“
Bin Laden smiled faintly, and stroked his beard. “Your military is already in the process of leaving Saudi Arabia. The bounty on my head is of no real consequence because the Taliban protect my interests. And my family would never agree, to leave my side,” “But you would not have to remain in hiding,” McGarvey countered. He couldn’t tell if the man was toying with him, but it was possible. This was all some macabre game to him.
“What would I have to give you in return?”
“The bomb whose serial number you gave Alien Trumble.” Bin Laden sat calmly, not moving, waiting for McGarvey to continue.
“At first we didn’t know what the number meant, in fact it took us several days to figure out that it came from a weapon that’s missing from the Russian military depot at Dushanbe. Once we had that you had our complete attention.”
Bin Laden smiled again, almost coyly this time. “Does your President believe that I would use this device against Americans?”
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise. We would have done something else.”
“A serial number and the actual device are two different things. Having the one does not guarantee having the other. I may be lying to you.”
“We think not.”
“Perhaps I brought you here as a diversion, to give me time to place the bomb somewhere effective. My bargaining position would be stronger.”
The origin of evil has always been an abyss, the depth of which no one has been able to sound, Voltaire had written. McGarvey thought that no one in the West had any idea who bin Laden really was. We had deluded ourselves into believing that he was nothing more than another Islamic fundamentalist waging a holy war against the infidels. Just like in the thirties when we had deluded ourselves into thinking that Hitler was only interested in righting the wrongs of the Versailles Treaty, and gaining Lebensraum for his people.
“What else do you want?” McGarvey asked, keeping his voice even. Maybe Dennis Berndt and the others had been right. Maybe this was an exercise in futility that was going to get him killed.
“I can see what you are thinking, but you are wrong. I am a simple man who wants nothing more than an Islamic peace for my people.”
“Why did you give Alien Trumble the serial number? There has to be something else that you want, something other than what we’ve already talked about.” “There is,” bin Laden said. “But it is not an impossible condition.” He pursed his lips. “It’s possible—”
A short, slightly built man, wearing the baggy trousers, long vest and head covering of a mujahed came in from the back. He waved the four soliders to their feet and came directly to bin Laden. He wore a white-and-blue striped fringed scarf over his face so that only his eyes were visible.
“We have a potential problem,” he said, looking at McGarvey. He spoke English.
“What is it?” bin Laden asked, instinctively reaching for his gun. “I’ll show you.” He motioned for McGarvey to get to his feet. “In the center of the room.”
McGarvey hesitated. He had no idea what was going on, but he knew that he was in trouble.
The man with the scarf pulled out a gun. “If need be I’ll put one in your right knee. If you’re ever allowed to get out of here alive, the return trip would not be pleasant.”
McGarvey had the feeling that he’d heard the voice before. Something in the British accent, in the intonation of certain words, seemed familiar. Unlike the others who were armed with Russian weapons, this one held a Glock 17, certainly powerful enough to take off a knee.
He motioned with the pistol. McGarvey stepped around the brazier and went to the middle of the chamber. The armed guards watched him closely.
“Spread your arms and legs,” the man ordered.
McGarvey did as he was told. “I’ve already been searched.”
“Yes, I know. I found out how you brought your gun through airport security, and past our people. Very clever.” Hash had mentioned that a man named Ali would want to inspect the laptop. This was the same man?
Ali laid his pistol down next to bin Laden, took what looked like an electronic security wand used at airports from his vest and came over to where McGarvey was standing. He found the spare magazine of ammunition in McGarvey’s bush jacket and took it. Then he slowly moved the wand over McGarvey’s entire body. Just above the belt line on McGarvey’s left side the device emitted a high pitched squeal.
He stepped back. “Take off your jacket and sweater.”
Bin Laden and the guards watched with interest as McGarvey stripped to the waist. Coming here with the GPS chip had been a calculated risk, but Technical Services had assured him that its power was so low, its frequency so high and its bandwidth so narrow that it was virtually undetectable. They were wrong, McGarvey thought bitterly.
His torso was marked with the scars from several bullet wounds and other injuries, plus the removal of his left kidney. The expression in Ali’s eyes was unreadable, but he studied McGarvey’s body for a long beat.
“You’ve lost a few battles.”
“Some.”
Ali ran the wand over the kidney scar and the device squealed. “Even more clever.”
“What is it?” bin Laden asked softly.
“Mr. McGarvey has been fitted with a global positioning system transmitter. Surgically implanted where he once had a kidney. It’s the latest thing in the CIA.” McGarvey measured distances between himself and the guards, and to where bin Laden was seated. If any sort of an agreement was dead, he would have to kill the man before the bomb could be delivered and set off. But the guards had kept a clear field of fire. If he made a move they could shoot him without fear of hitting their boss.
