grace of a gazelle, his movements like everything else about him, surprisingly swift and sure.
He’d been educated at the American University in Beirut, but after his parents had been killed in an Israeli bombing raid, he’d slipped out of the city to work with a PLO cell. After a couple of years of killing silently in the night, he came to the attention of Arafat who recognized not only his unique intelligence and special skills, but his burning drive and utter fearlessness. Bahmad was the perfect soldier.
Two years after that, he showed up suddenly at Oxford on beautifully forged papers with a solid background, where he studied for and received his degree in Middle East studies. He was recruited by British intelligence right out of school, and for a few years he worked in London as an analyst. In the late eighties he was sent to the U.S. on an exchange program to work for the CIA and National Security Agency, generating Middle East position papers for the National Security Council.
But then he resigned, and quietly slipped back to Lebanon and Arafat when he felt that some uncomfortable questions were about to be asked of him. Besides, he admitted to Arafat, he felt that he could do more for the PLO than simply pass along intelligence information.
The fact of the matter, Arafat told bin Laden, was that Bahmad wanted to kill people. He needed to kill, perhaps as a retribution for his parents’ murders.
But because of the Camp David Accords and other agreements, Arafat’s position on the West began to soften, and he no longer had need for men such as Bahmad. The feeling was mutual. It was then, after the Russians had pulled out of Afghanistan, and the Soviet Union had disintegrated, that bin Laden had quietly recruited him. Since that time Bahmad had been the mastermind behind every terrorist attack that the West blamed on bin Laden. But his planning had been so good that no Western police agency had ever been able to come up with solid proof that bin Laden had been behind any of the attacks. Nor did any Western intelligence agency know about Bahmad’s connection, or even his existence: His death had been faked in an Israeli raid in Lebanon.
Bin Laden stepped out of the cave as Bahmad reached the entrance. “You’re up late tonight.”
“So are you,” Bahmad said mildly. “Your toy is still safe?”
Bin Laden nodded. “Is everything all right?”
Bahmad glanced at the guards, his expression bland, as if he was a tailor measuring them for suits. “It’s a good thing for us that I didn’t destroy McGarvey’s satellite phone as you ordered. He’s going to need it. The transmitter we took out of his body no longer works.”
Bin Laden’s jaw tightened. “What happened to it?”
“The stupid doctor admitted he dropped it on the floor.”
“The American monitors will believe that it has malfunctioned, either that or it’s out of range, its signal blocked. Where is the problem?”
“The problem is, Osama, that there is a third possibility they may be considering,” Bahmad said cooly. “McGarvey may have been killed, his body destroyed and the transmitter with it. But the exact location of this installation has already been pinpointed to within a couple of meters.” He shrugged. “They know exactly where you are, and for whatever the reason McGarvey is no longer a consideration for them. Do you see where I am taking this?”
“He came here to bargain with me, not lead an attack.”
Bahmad smiled slightly. “It was really quite brilliant of you to give them that serial number. It got their attention. But now they will do anything to stop you from using it. If they believe McGarvey is dead, they’ll try to kill you.”
“Send someone after McGarvey.”
“I already have. But the transmitter has been down four hours now, I think that we should leave immediately, at least until we get word that McGarvey has made his call.”
“Do you expect me to scurry off someplace else to hide?” bin Laden demanded.
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
“I’ll go back to my quarters—”
“McGarvey’s device transmitted the exact coordinates of this very spot. Their smart bombs are accurate enough to come right down the tunnel. You would die, and the cave would be sealed for all time.”
“Send Sarah to me, we’ll talk.”
“Sarah is gone,” Bahmad said.
“Gone? Where?”
“She was worried about Mohammed, so she decided to go with them at least part of the way.”
“And you let her go?” bin Laden roared.
Bahmad was unmoved. “You have very little control over your daughter, what do you expect of me?” His expression softened. “If something were to happen here tonight she’s better off away from the camp. I sent one of my men after them. He’ll get word to McGarvey and bring Sarah back here.”
Bin Laden looked up at the sky. If the Americans attacked tonight the jihad would already have been lost. Any further talks between them would be impossible. The only thing left would be retribution. A strike or strikes so devastating that no American would ever feel safe again. So devastating that the American government would have to retaliate with all of its might, with every means at its disposal. It would finally be a war that bin Laden knew he could not win.
He shook his head. “I don’t think the Americans will attack us so soon. They take time to think about actions like that. Talk them over with their military commanders, and maybe some key Congressmen. When your man gets word to McGarvey he can make a telephone call to the CIA to let them know he has not been harmed.” Bin Laden spread his hands and smiled. “You see, there is no problem.”
“Are you willing to bet your life on it, Osama?” Bahmad asked.
Bin Laden nodded without hesitation. “Yes, I am,” he said. “Insha’Allah.”
CIA Headquarters DCI Roland Murphy put down his White House phone and looked up as the connecting door from the deputy director of Operations office opened, not at all surprised to see Otto Rencke standing there, his wild red hair flying everywhere. It was coming up on 6:00 p.m. “I haven’t heard anything new, but you already know that.”
“Oh, boy, I think they’re getting set to make a big mistake,” Rencke gushed. “They’ve got some of the right reasons, but the wrong int erp They’re not looking close enough, ya know.”
“By they, I take it you mean the White House,” Murphy said. He’d seen Rencke in one of his “moods” before, but nothing quite like this.
“The National Security Council. They’re on their way over there right now. You gotta stop them, General.”
“I just got the call myself, Otto. We’re going to have a teleconference in ten minutes, and the President’s going to want my best recommendation.”
“I want seventy-two hours,” Rencke said.
Murphy shook his head. “I don’t think they’d give me twelve. Mac is off the air, and unless you have something for me, we have to assume that he’s dead and the chip has been destroyed. You’ve seen the data.”
“All right, forty-eight hours then. At least long enough for Mac to get back to Kabul. Someplace where he can call us.”
“If he died four hours ago, they’ll be getting set to move out of there. The President wants to hit the bastards right now. Show them that we can move fast when we want to.”
“You don’t understand, General, Mac is still alive.” Rencke was deeply distressed. Murphy didn’t know what Otto was going to do, but when geniuses suddenly started getting excited and raising their voices, you listened.
“You have ten minutes to convince me.”
Rencke came around the desk, and Murphy moved aside so that he could get to the computer. Otto brought up an action file that moved in slow motion. Along the bottom of the screen was a time-elapsed bar starting forty- eight hours ago. Displayed on the screen was a detailed map of the section of Afghanistan northwest of Charikar. It was constantly shifting to keep a small red icon that was moving through the mountains centered, and the time bar filled in.
“Okay, they take him from the Inter-Continental, and they head north past the airport, where they stop once—” Rencke looked up. “Probably a military patrol. But no problemo, they’re bin Laden’s boys. Around Bagram they stop for awhile.”
