She shook her head.
“What did you expect to learn from this filth?” he demanded, “Tell me at least that much.”
“The truth.”
“The truth,” bin Laden muttered. He was amazed. “What truth?”
“There are no Godless heathens in that magazine. No murderers of Muslims. No Jews. Only children like me having fun—”
“Stop!” bin Laden roared. “You know nothing about the truth.” He threw down the magazine, picked up the long, whippy willow stick lying beside him and went to her. She looked up at him, no fear, only rebellion in her eyes. “You will tell me the name of the person who gave you the magazine.”
“No, Father,” she said.
Bin Laden pulled her around by the arm, and struck her in the backs of her legs with the willow stick. She took a half-step forward, but she did not cry out.
“The name,” he said, but she did not answer him, so he struck her again on the backs of the legs, and then on her buttocks, and back, and legs again. He was crazy with rage and with fear that he was losing the most precious thing in his life to the very system he had dedicated his life to destroying.
She was wearing a white chad or Bin Laden’s upraised hand stopped in mid swing There was blood on her back. He let go of her arm and stepped back, aghast at what he had done to his child. In the name of Allah, he had hurt her.
She looked up at him. “I’m not afraid of the truth, Father,” she said in a very strong voice. “Are you?”
He lowered his hand, and let the willow stick fall to the floor. “No, child, I am not afraid of the truth,” he answered. An overwhelming shame for what he had done, and tenderness for his daughter came over him. He wanted to protect her, and all he had done was cause her pain.
He held out his arms for her, and without a moment’s hesitation she came to him and he held her close.
“I’m sorry, Father,” she sobbed.
“Don’t be,” he comforted her. “But I want you to be wary of the truth — or what seems to be the truth — until you are old enough and wise enough to recognize lies for what they are.”
“Yes, Father,” she said. “I’ll try.”
Bin Laden opened his eyes. Nothing was ever more clear to him than his love for his daughter, then or now. Yet at this moment he felt as if he was seeing everything with a crystal purity, something never possible before. Years ago the infidel British philosopher Bertrand Russell said that for centuries we’ve been told that God can move mountains, and a lot of people believed it. Nowadays we say that atomic bombs can move mountains and everybody believes it.
What did he believe, bin Laden asked himself. What was the truth this time? The gates to Paradise were never more bright, but the path never more dark.
Laying his cane aside, and awkwardly holding the flashlight under his right arm, he undid the four catches at the corners of the container, removed the top cover and laid it on the floor. He unfolded the thick rubber and fabric covering, exposing an inner aluminum cover. This he unlocked with a four-digit code on a keypad. The panel swung open, revealing four metal catches, which he slid back, releasing the top of the case. He pulled this off with some difficulty because it was heavy, and set it on the floor.
He was sure that he could feel the heat coming off the exposed mechanism now, even though he knew it was just his imagination. In this state the nuclear weapon was perfectly harmless; cool to the touch, leaking no radiation, impossible to accidentally detonate, and just as impossible to detect by any means other than disassembly.
Most of the device was shrouded by sealed covers, only some brightly colored wires came together in neatly bound thick bundles to the control mechanism, which was about the size of a hardcover book, attached to the lower right corner of the inner case. A display screen with room for twelve digits and symbols topped what appeared to be the keypad for an advanced scientific calculator. The first code activated the control circuitry. The second code determined how the weapon was to be fired: by a direct timer with as much as a thirty-six-hour delay; by a remote control device that could, depending on conditions, be effective up to five miles away; or by an incoming signal to the weapon’s onboard satellite receiver. The frequency, duration and built in code in the remote firing signal could be determined by the weapon’s keypad.
Complicated, but exquisitely failsafe and simple. Once the weapon was activated nothing could stop it.
Bin Laden’s eyes strayed to the metal identification plate to the right of the keypad. On it was stamped the serial number and the factory where the bomb had been assembled.
The irony would have been sweet, he told himself. And this would have been only the first of many blows. But he was getting tired of the fight, and he felt a deep sense of awe and even dread standing this close to so much power. He was going to have many difficulties convincing the others of his change of heart. But in time they too would come to see the wisdom of his decision.
He reassembled the bomb case, making sure that all the locks and catches were firmly in place, then picked up his cane and headed back. Deep down he felt a sense of failure, and yet he was looking forward to the new challenge. He didn’t have much time left so he would have to work hard to convince a skeptical world that all he wanted was a Muslim peace. And he would have to work even harder to control his hate, which at times threatened to block out all reason and sanity. But it could be done, because it had to be done.
The grotto was nearly a half-kilometer into the mountainside, so it took him almost ten minutes to make his way to the front chambers. It was two in the morning and everyone but a few guards were down for the night. He felt a little sorrow for his men, most of whom would have nowhere to go after he quit. Some of them would probably join the rebels in the north to fight the Taliban. But for many of them there would be nothing. They would be disappointed, even angry, but it could not be helped.
“Insha’Allah,” he murmured softly. He switched off the flashlight, pocketed it and shuffled down the final tunnel to the opening in the hillside. He needed fresh air after the confines of the cave.
The two guards outside were wrapped in blankets against the chill night air. When bin Laden appeared they started to get up, but he waved them down.
“All is quiet tonight?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” one of them replied.
They were safe here, yet bin Laden, out of long habit, studied the brilliant sky for the fast moving pinpoint of light from a satellite passing overhead, even though he knew that the next one wasn’t due for another two hours. They’d learned to time their movements by the satellite passes, and schedule their most important work for when the skies were overcast and the satellites were blind.
Someone came out from the medical hut and started up the hill. Instinctively bin Laden stepped back inside the cave, his eyes narrowing as he watched the man approach. But then he recognized it was his chief of staff and he relaxed.
Ali Bahmad, whose voice had often times been the only one of reason, had surprisingly been against opening negotiations with the Americans. He predicted it would lead to more trouble than they could imagine. His predictions were disturbing, all the more so because Bahmad had worked in the West, and he knew the Western mind as well as any Muslim could.
As bin Laden watched Bahmad make his way up the hill he realized that after eight years he really didn’t know his chief of staff as well as he should. Brilliant, highly trained, capable, efficient, but as cold as the winds off the high peaks of the Hindu Kush. And yet bin Laden had seen Bahmad do so many little kindnesses for the few children in the camp, and especially for Sarah. She was smitten by him because he had lived in the West and wasn’t afraid of it like so many others here. They would sometimes sit for hours talking about London and Washington where Bah mad had once been stationed with the British Secret Intelligence Service.
Bin Laden had also listened to Bahmad play the violin; his long, delicately thin, perfectly manicured fingers caressing the strings as if they were a woman’s thighs. Yet for all his talents, including combat training, and his ruthlessness — it was he who had ordered and engineered the killings of Alien Trumble and his family — Bahmad could have passed for a shopkeeper almost anywhere in the world. His skin was pale, his English perfect, and his mannerisms Western. Quiet, mild, even studious looking, he was very short, with plain features, a round undistinguished face, balding, with a slight paunch, he posed no threat to anyone.
Born of an Egyptian mother and a Yemeni father, he was in his forties now, but he came up the hill with the
