“Can we make contact with Mac?” Murphy asked Rencke. “No, his phone is still on simplex. But he said that he would call again once he got to Kabul. We have until then to come up with something for him. He’ll need an ETA.”
“We will, Otto,” Murphy said seriously. “You have my word on it.”
Adkins and Whittaker got up. “We’d best get to it then,” Adkins said and they left.
Rencke got to his feet. “We can’t leave him stuck there, General.”
“We won’t,” Murphy said. “What did Kathleen say when you told her.”
Rencke looked like a startled deer caught in headlights.
“I know you called her,” Murphy prompted gently.
“She’s a tough lady, but I thought she should know what’s coming down,” Rencke said defensively.
“Maybe we should send someone out to be with her.”
“Already done, General,” Rencke said. “And Liz is on her way in right now. I’m putting her in the loop.”
“Good idea,” Murphy agreed. “If you hear anything else let me know. But we will get him out of there. And we will stop bin Laden.”
“Yes, sir,” Rencke said, but he didn’t seem to be very convinced about the second part.
“We will talk now,” bin Laden said. The morning was surreal, almost like a nightmare of hell. The sky over the camp was still filled with smoke. The distant mountains, usually crisp in the clear air, were obscured. Below there was a lot of frantic activity as their remaining mujahedeen cleaned up the missile damage, buried their dead and sifted through the rubble for anything usable. Although the order to pack up and leave had not come yet, everybody knew that they could no longer stay here. If the Americans suspected that anyone had survived, which they surely did by now, they might mount another attack. Even if they didn’t, however, there was little or nothing left here except for the facility inside the cave. There were other camps, other caves that had not yet been pinpointed.
Bin Laden was numb with fatigue and grief. He wanted to run away and hide somewhere until it was time to die. His body was on fire, his left leg ached from the bone cancer eating at his hip and pelvis. Strange thoughts and visions kept popping into his head like lightning flashes, there for one brilliant split second, and then gone. He’d actually managed to do his midmorning prayers, lingering over each word, savoring each as if it were a sip of blessed ice water in the middle of the hot desert. But when he was finished he did not feel the same refreshment of spirit that he usually felt. Sarah, the light of his soul, was gone, and the only thought that allowed him to hold onto even a small portion of his sanity was that he would soon be joining her in Paradise, if indeed she was there. The Qoran said nothing about women in heaven. But Allah was just. He would not abandon her. He could not.
Bin Laden closed his eyes for just a moment, seeing the missiles raining down on them, feeling Sarah’s lifeless body in his arms.
“As you wish,” Bahmad said softly. He had read most of that from bin Laden’s body language. He watched the struggle the man was going through with some sympathy because he had been there himself.
Sarah’s body, completely wrapped in linen, lay on a prayer rug in the middle of the main chamber. When it got dark they would burn it. Bahmad was brought back to the funeral for his parents. He’d felt an impotent rage that he’d tried to quench all of his life. But now, though he wanted to feel some sadness for the girl, that part of him was already burned out. Sarah had been a wonderful girl; a daughter that he’d never had, never would have. They had talked often about life in the West, and she’d hung on everything he told her. And yet he still could not feel the loss. He could feel now was a little sympathy for the stirrings of anticipation for what might be.
Leaning heavily on his cane, bin Laden walked back from the entrance and settled wearily on the cushions in front of the brazier. A young mujahed brought him tea, and then bin Laden dismissed him and the other guard standing by. They looked nervously to Bahmad who nodded, and they went out.
“We must leave here, Osama,” Bahmad said, joining him on the cushions. Bin Laden poured him a glass of tea with shaking hands.
“Soon,” bin Laden said. “But for us there will be different paths.”
Bin Laden“‘s manner and speech were formal, which was worrisome to Bahmad. The man was coming unglued. There was a holy zeal in his eyes. He’d seen the same look in the eyes of mujahedeen about to go off on suicide missions with ten kilos of plastique strapped to their chests. “I have always followed your orders faithfully.”
“Yes, you have. And now I am sending you out on one last mission.”
“Are you asking me to throw away my life?”
Bin Laden shook his head. “No, my old friend. But you will have to be very clever to walk away from this one. And where you will go afterwards will be up to you. Once your assignment is completed, you will be on your own.” Bin Laden managed a small, coy smile despite his obvious physical and mental pain. “I think that you miss London.”
“There are some aspects of life in the West that I have enjoyed,” Bahmad admitted. “But no place might be safe for me if you want me to do what I think you want.”
“Are you a mind reader?”
“No, a loyal servant.”
“Of me, or of the cause?” bin Laden asked sharply. He glanced at Sarah’s body.
“I’ve never known the difference.”
Bin Laden might not have heard him. “It will be another burden for her mother to bear. So many burdens, so much pain. But she understands the jihad.” He looked back in anguish. “She must!”
“The most difficult pain for a mother to bear,” Bahmad offered gently. He thought about his own mother who had been mercifully spared that pain, though she had endured others. Because of the West.
A silence fell between them. The hiss of the gas lanterns was the only sound to be heard. After the missile strike the quiet was almost shocking.
“Kirk McGarvey must not be allowed to leave Afghanistan alive,” bin Laden said after a minute. “Have you received word from Hamed?”
“I gave him orders to kill McGarvey, but he is out of radio range now, so there is no way of knowing if he succeeded until he returns.”
“What if he reaches Kabul?”
“I have made arrangements.”
“There must be no mistakes.”
“Not this time.”
Bin Laden nodded his satisfaction. “Sarah told me that she and McGarvey spoke about his daughter. She works for the CIA.”
“She also mentioned it to me. But we knew about his background.”
“Her name is Elizabeth.”
“Yes.”
“I want you to kill her,” bin Laden said in a gentle voice. “After Mr. McGarvey, she will be your first priority.”
Bahmad hid his surprise. “There is no reason for that, Osama,” he said carefully. “Her father came here on a dangerous mission to find you and lead the missile attack. Killing him can be viewed as an act of war. Killing his daughter will be taken as nothing more than a senseless act of vengeance.”
“You had Trumble and his family killed.”
“That was to send the CIA the message that we were serious. It guaranteed that someone such as McGarvey would come.”
“Will you do it?” bin Laden asked simply.
“Killing her would be a criminal waste of resources. Every American law enforcement agency would go on a worldwide alert of such intensity that no place would be safe. She is an innocent—”
“There are no innocents,” bin Laden raised his voice. “You will show them that. You will teach the entire world.”
Bahmad lowered his eyes. Not out of deference, but because he knew what else was coming. He’d known for several months, the realization coming to him on the day he learned about the bomb, about bin Laden’s illness and about the final deal bin Laden had wanted to make with the West, with the nuclear weapon as the ultimate
