or worse he might get himself arrested and under questioning reveal everything. But Bahmad was better than that, he would never allow himself to be captured alive. Even if he was he didn’t know all the details. He knew that the bomb was coming to California aboard a ship, but he didn’t know which ship. Not yet. Not until everything else was in place.
Bin Laden realized that he had drifted off. He opened his eyes as they came down into the broader valley that ran along the base of the mountain range. Far to the east four of his mujahedeen who had left last night were heading as fast as they could travel for Pakistan, the bomb wrapped in burlap, strapped to the back of a horse. They had no idea what they were really carrying, they only knew that it was of supreme importance, and that their lives depended on getting safely to Peshwar where they would hand it over to two of bin Laden’s most trusted agents.
“Are you all right, Osama?” one of his mujahed asked respectfully. “Should we stop here for a rest?”
Bin Laden looked at him with love. He was just a young boy, as most of them were. He shook his head. “There will be time for rest later.”
The two mujahedeen exchanged a worried glance. Since Sarah’s death in the missile raid he had not been himself. He had changed in some not-so-subtle way that none of them could define. It was troublesome.
Bin Laden let his thoughts soar like an eagle down the valley to the four men heading east with the bomb. He could actually see them on horseback. They were boys, and they could go on like that day and night. Good boys. Dedicated. Religious. They understood the jihad at a deeper, more visceral level than anyone in the West could comprehend. They felt God not only in their hearts, but in every fiber of their beings.
Last night they had brought the nervous pack animal up into the cave where the package was waiting for them, and listened as bin Laden explained the importance of their mission. “You will take this to men who will transport it to Mecca where it will be buried in a place of honor,” bin Laden told them.
He rubbed his hand along the horse’s muzzle, then touched the hem of the burlap covering the bomb. He could almost feel the warmth emanating from it.
The four mujahedeen watched him, their eyes wide. They were impressed because they thought that they were being ordered to carry the remains of bin Laden’s daughter home for burial. They were suddenly filled with a religious zeal and an overwhelming love for bin Laden. “We will not fail you,” Mohammed’s brother Achmed promised. His grip tightened on the strap of the Kalashnikov rifle.
“Of course you won’t,” bin Laden said. “Insha’Allah.” He embraced each of the four men, and then watched as they led the horse out of the cave and down the hill where they mounted their horses and headed off into the darkness.
His thoughts came back to the present, and tears filled his eyes. He was seeing these mountains for the very last time. Leaving the mortal remains of his beloved Sarah forever bound with the Afghan soil. It was a pain more unbearable than that of his cancer. He began to recite to himself the opening chapter of the Qoran, peace coming very slowly to his soul.
Kabul The morning was in full bloom, the sky crystalline clear. From an opening between the slats of the shutters covering a window in a front bedroom, McGarvey looked down at the quiet street. The two soldiers were still parked in front, so no one suspected he was here yet.
He felt detached, somewhat distant because of his fatigue, but he had to keep his head. He had to think his way out of this. Coming here he’d formed a vague plan of overpowering the caretakers and stealing their clothing and identification papers. He figured that with such a disguise he might be able to get out to the airport. From there he would have to improvise. But with the C-130 on the tarmac, and a line of anxious Americans pushing to get aboard, he thought he’d have a better than even chance.
That was no longer possible, there were no caretakers here. He had to come up with another plan no matter how improbable. Out there he had a chance, and he had faced worse odds before. He went to the back bedroom where he retrieved his phone, the cap and the scarf and headed downstairs to the back door.
When the American military transport came in for a landing, the airport would be cleared of all other traffic. The Taliban would not want to create an incident that might cause a military retaliation. This was bin Laden’s fight now, and they would want to stay as distant from it as possible. The C-130 would land, taxi to the terminal, pick up its passengers, then taxi back to the end of the runway for takeoff. If the Taliban were waiting for him they would have to logically assume that he would try to make it to the terminal and somehow bluff his way aboard. Their attention would be concentrated there, wanting to get the plane loaded and away as quickly as possible.
Peering out the laundry room door at the backyard, the first glimmerings of a plan came to him. It would be all or nothing, and would depend on timing and luck. But he decided that it was his only real chance for getting out.
He pulled on the cap, wrapped the scarf around his neck and slipped out the door and hurried past the tennis court to the wall.
The bricks were in much better condition on this side, so it took him three running attempts to reach the top and pull himself over. He dropped down into the sewage clogged alley, crossed the ditch and let himself back into the empty rug merchant’s shop.
He had to stop for a couple of minutes to catch his breath. The slightest exertion was difficult, and scaling the wall had used almost all of his reserves.
The narrow street in front was still deserted. Nothing seemed to have changed in the half-hour he’d been inside the ambassador’s compound, which he found was odd. But he couldn’t dwell on it now. Stealing another car was a possibility he was going to have to consider. But if no one had discovered the Rover yet using it one last time might pose less of a risk.
His luck ran out when he left the shop and started down the narrow street.
Dozens of men suddenly materialized out of the shops and homes up and down the street. Some of them were armed with clubs, but none of them were in uniform, nor did he see any guns.
McGarvey stopped, and held his empty hands out. An older man with a long white beard, wearing a leather apron, shouted something at him in Persian. Some of the others murmured angrily. McGarvey put his hands over his ears, showing them that he was deaf.
The old man pointed to the shop that McGarvey had just come out of and shouted something else. They thought he was a thief. He shook his head and again held out his empty hands to show them that he had taken nothing. He took a step forward and the old man backed up warily. They were just ordinary people trying to protect their neighborhood in troubled times. Had they been interested in politics they would be demonstrating at the old American embassy.
More people were coming out of their homes and shops into the street behind him, ringing him in. Soon it would be impossible to move two feet let alone break free. It had to be now.
He shook his head and walked directly toward the old man. He didn’t think he had much to fear from these people once he got away from here. They might report a religious crime to the Taliban, but they probably wouldn’t go to the government to report a suspected thief. They would deal with it in their own way by running him off.
The old man and those around him backed up, and when it looked as if McGarvey wasn’t going to stop, they parted for him.
He shook his ‘head as if he was disgusted as he passed through them, and without breaking stride or looking back he headed down the street the way he had come in. Once he reached the corner and got out of the neighborhood he figured he would be okay. But the crowd was becoming agitated, the men shouting something, arguing with each other.
Ten feet from the corner rocks and bricks began to rain down around him, one of them hitting him in the shoulder. Covering his head, he bolted, and a huge cry rose up behind him.
He almost made it to safety, but as he turned down the side street a brick smashed into the side of his head, driving him to his knees and temporarily blacking out his vision. A wave of nausea rose up from his gut causing him to retch as he got unsteadily to his feet and stumbled away as fast as he could move. He was dizzy, moving mostly on instinct, and the day was suddenly very dark, his vision reduced to a narrow tunnel directly in front of him. But there were no more rocks, and at the next corner he looked back. In the distance, what seemed to him to be a mile away, the crowd had stopped just at the edge of their district as he hoped they would. The last he saw of them they were shaking their fists and clubs.
There was a huge knot on the side of his head just above his right ear. When he explored it with his fingers it was extremely tender to the touch, but there was no blood. As he walked, he wrapped the scarf around his mouth
