aides, two chefs and four young deckhands, including the young woman who had helped with his bags. They were shorthanded because Bahmad was the only guest, and he’d wanted to keep the numbers low.
“A package was to be delivered for me,” he said.
“Yes, sir. It arrived this morning, and I had it put in your quarters.”
“Very well,” Bahmad said. The crew was looking at him somewhat apprehensively. They didn’t know what to expect. He put down his wine. “I don’t know what you were instructed about the nature of this cruise.”
“Just that the ship was to be put completely at your disposal for as long as you required her, sir,” the captain said.
“I’m here on business,” Bahmad said. “Somewhat stressful business, I’m afraid.”
The captain’s lips compressed.
“Which means that when I am not conducting my business, there will be no long faces around here. I want smiles, music, good food and drink, and that’s an order. Do I make myself clear?”
The captain grinned. “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear.”
Bahmad laughed. It was so ridiculously easy, he thought. “I’m going to freshen up now. When I get back I want something very good to eat, and I’ll want some champagne. Cristal, I should think. Can we manage that?”
“With pleasure,” the head chef said.
“Afterwards I’ll want a tour of the ship, and then I’ll be going into the city for a few hours, so I’ll need a car.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” Captain Walker said. “In the meantime should we be preparing to sail?”
“Not for a while. It’s time for a little R and R.” He gave Cheryl a smile. “Pass the word to Terry that we’re having a party tomorrow evening. He should know who to invite.”
“I’ll talk to him right away.”
“Lighten up, okay?” Bahmad told them, getting his attache case. “You’d think that this was a bloody funeral.” He gave them another warm, reassuring look. “Now, if someone could show me where I’m bunking I’ll take a shower.”
Cheryl took him up to the owner’s suite, which was just aft of the bridge. Like the rest of the yacht, the three rooms were spacious and extremely well appointed. Large windows looked out across the yacht basin toward the National War College with its pretty grounds on Greenleaf Point.
“This is just lovely,” Bahmad said.
“Yes, sir. She’s a nice ship,” Cheryl said earnestly. “Would you like some help unpacking?”
“Thanks, but I can manage.”
“Yes, sir. And welcome aboard. If there’s anything you need just ask.”
When she was gone Bahmad took off his jacket and hung it in one of the closets, then splashed some cold water on his face in the bathroom.
He’d had a lot of time to contemplate exactly how he was going to accomplish the two tasks bin Laden had sent him here for. Killing Elizabeth McGarvey would have to be done in such a way that it would have the minimum affect on the second phase — that of providing a diversion so that the nuclear weapon could be moved into position beneath the Golden Gate Bridge at the moment the Special Olympics runners were there, and then exploding it. If the authorities suspected that McGarvey’s daughter had been killed as an act of revenge by bin Laden then the mission would be made all the more difficult as he had tried to explain to Osama. Her death would have to look like a random act of violence.
A drive-by shooting, a botched robbery while she was stopped at a 7-Eleven, a burglar caught in the act in her apartment. But that would take surveillance. Being at the right place at the right time, with a plan to get away when it was done. He had to know her movements, her habits. McGarvey’s daughter was not much older than Sarah had been, but she was a trained CIA field officer who already had experienced some difficult situations. The worst thing he could do would be to underestimate her.
He dried his hands and face, checked to make sure that the door was locked, then opened his attache” case and went through the material he’d been given in London. There were a dozen photographs of McGarvey’s daughter, some of them straight head shots, others in settings ranging from the CIA’s main gate, to her in spandex running shorts and a sweatshirt in some park. Also contained in the intelligence briefing files were the locations of her usual hangouts, starting with her apartment in Georgetown, to her mother’s house in Chevy Chase, and several restaurants she frequented in and around Washington. She was an active young woman, with a circle of friends from the Company. From time to time she made the drive down to the CIA’s training facility in Williamsburg, and until very recently she had been posted to Paris. All that had come from bin Laden’s contacts.
Bahmad looked out the window for a moment. She’d obviously been recalled because of the murders of Trumble and his family, and because her father was going to Afghanistan. It meant that McGarvey already had some concern for his daughter’s safety. And presumably the safety of his ex-wife as well.
The file also contained photographs of her, some with her daughter, and some on the country club golf course where she belonged. She was a striking woman, selfassured, even haughty looking. Nothing at all like Bin Laden’s wives, or most other Muslim women for that matter. She epitomized, in Bahmad’s mind, the arrogant American woman. Too bad, he thought, that she wasn’t a target as well.
The equipment he had requested had been sent down from New Jersey packed in a large aluminum case of the sort often used by professional photographers. Included in his package from London were the keys.
He hefted the case onto the bed and opened it. It was heavy, about sixty pounds, and contained what appeared to be a camera, lenses, light meters and canisters of film all fitted into shapes cut into the foam rubber tray. Lifting the tray out and setting it aside revealed a lower compartment that held the things he had requested, secured in bubble wrap. One by one he unwrapped each item and inspected it. Included were a Glock 17 pistol, two spare magazines of 10mm ammunition and a silencer. The weapon was in perfect working order. Next he took the other items out of the case. A thin, nine-inch stiletto, a case-hardened steel lock pick set, a small but powerful penlight, an electronic hotel lock card decoder, a thick envelope containing ten thousand dollars in cash, a halfdozen valid but untraceable credit cards, three complete sets of identification and a satellite phone complete with an extra battery pack. Finally he withdrew a small leather case that contained what looked like the remote control for a television set.
Bahmad handled the controller with great care. At the proper time and place, a dozen keystrokes would arm and fire the nuclear weapon. So much power, he thought with a sensuous pleasure.
Killing McGarvey’s daughter had never been a part of his preliminary planning. But the rest was, and it had taken all of three months to have the equipment gathered and waiting for him should bin Laden give the order.
He put everything back in the aluminum case, locked it and set it down. Then he got undressed and went to take a shower. A bullet in the head during an interrupted burglary, he thought. It would be the simplest and easiest method. But first dinner and drinks. He began to sing a song that he’d learned in London about a young woman who sold shellfish in Dublin’s fair city.
It had been a very stressful few days for Kathleen McGarvey Kirk’s leaving so suddenly on what even Rencke thought could turn out to be a dangerous fool’s mission had obliged her to think long and hard about their upcoming marriage, and how she was going to hold up under what could never be a normal relationship. Having a daughter in the business didn’t help much either. There were times when she wasn’t sure of anything, especially her own resolve. Looking objectively at herself she knew that there were other times when she was incredibly self-centered, even selfish to the point she didn’t want to hear what anyone else had to say. But she loved Kirk, she had never stopped loving him, and that was one constant embedded so deeply in her heart that nothing could ever tear it loose. The problem was within herself. In the old days, when she was threatened, she became a bitch. It was a defense mechanism that she used to shield herself from getting hurt. But that was just as stupid, she had come to feel, as Kirk’s penchant for running off to be alone when he was hurt. She insulated herself emotionally; he did so with distance. They both would have to change if they were going to make their marriage work this time. And that was something, Kathleen decided, that she wanted more than anything.
She looked out the window of the front bedroom. A dark blue van was parked down the block. One of Dick Yemm’s people. The Company was keeping a watch on her twenty four hours a day. Instead of comforting her, however, she felt a dull, gnawing fear in her stomach. People who needed bodyguards were people in harm’s way, and she didn’t know if that was the part of Kirk’s job that she hated the most, or if it was his frequent absences.
