does the CIA suggest we do about it?”
“I’d very much like to see bin Laden dead, and the CIA will use all of its resources to that end even though it’s against the law and against national policy, if that’s what you want.”
“There’s no other choice.”
“Very well, Mr. President. But before we get started I would like that in writing.”
Berndt started to object, but once again the President held him off. This was one administration that did not leave its people hanging in the wind. “It’ll be on your desk first thing in the morning, Roland.” The President gave him a penetrating look. “But I want you to keep in mind what we were faced with here before you think about making any public or historical announcement.”
“Of course.” Murphy closed his briefcase and got to his feet. “Bad business, all of this,” he said. He thought the President had made a poor decision. But then any other decision would have been just as wrong. He knew what McGarvey was going to say about all of this, and for once he had to completely agree with his deputy director of Operations. The politicians had truly screwed up what could have been a successful operation. And now they were faced with a much worse problem; an angry, highly motivated madman with the capability and the willingness to explode a nuclear weapon on U.S. soil.
“We didn’t create the situation, Roland,” the President said. “He did.”
“Yes, sir. But we might be looking at an even bigger problem.”
“What’s that?”
“If he should somehow pull this off — get the bomb here and detonate it — it won’t be the end. It’ll just be the beginning.”
Murphy had served four Presidents, his tenure as DCI by far the longest in the history of the CIA, and during that time he had been a part of every crisis to hit the United States in nearly twenty years. He’d seen it all; from the fallout precipitated by the breakup of the Soviet Union, to the embassy crisis in Iran, the wars in Kuwait, Grenada, Panama, Bosnia and Kosovo, the terrorist attacks against Americans in Africa, Italy, Germany, the Middle East and even here at home against our airline industry; spies from the Walker family to the Bureau’s Robert Hanssen and the CIA’s own Aldrich Ames and a dozen others whose cases never hit the media; downswings and budget restrictions and congressional witch hunts. But there was one thing that never changed, and that was the need for the CIA or some intelligence-gathering organization like it. President Truman’s Secretary of War Henry Stimson’s famous quote that gentlemen do not read other gentlemen’s mail didn’t apply then, and it certainly didn’t apply now.
Riding in his limousine across the river he thought again about his retirement, something he’d been doing a lot of lately. It wasn’t enough to know how many missiles and tanks and submarines the other country had, you needed to know if they intended to use them, and when and where. That was a job for a much younger, much less cynical man than himself. He’d seen it all, he had the experience, but he was burning. He was finding that there were times when he simply didn’t give a damn.
He didn’t believe that, of course. In twenty years every problem the CIA had solved was immediately followed by ten new ones. For every ten successful operations that never hit the media, there was one failure that was splashed all over the front pages of every newspaper in the country. The CIA screws up again! And they howled for blood, oh, how they howled for blood up on the Hill. Their cries were driven by their constituents and the next election. He was starting to ask himself what kind of howls of protest their constituents would be making if there wasn’t a CIA, and if we were constantly being blindsided because we were too shortsighted to open other gentlemen’s mail?
One segment of the media was sharply critical of the administration for talking to bin Laden. No negotiations with terrorists, they said. Another segment of the media criticized the missile attack on his camp. The U.S. was being a bully again, moving carriers into an intimidating position and attacking a sovereign nation. The administration would weather these storms, previous administrations had, but the real problem was that no one suggested any solutions. Okay, don’t negotiate with terrorists. What then, Murphy asked himself. The critics didn’t say.
Okay, don’t attack the terrorist’s base camp, don’t destroy his weapons, or his will to continue to slaughter innocent civilians. What then? No one was making any real suggestions other than to stop doing whatever it was that pissed off the terrorists in the first place. Dismantle all of our godless institutions, like IBM and General Motors and Microsoft. Take all the money from the billionaires and give it to the poor people. Make it a law that families could not live in big houses and drive fancy cars unless everyone else on the planet could live in a big house and drive a fancy car. Let’s take away all incentives. Don’t use pesticides, or cut trees, or use animal antibiotics, or irradiate food, but make sure that everyone on the planet is fed as well as everyone else on the planet. Get out of Saudi Arabia, get out of Bosnia and Kosovo, give the American Indians back all of their land including Manhattan, spend the entire GNP on welfare programs for the rest of the world. If we have too much because we’re clever enough to have earned it, give it away. Dismantle our army and air force and especially our navy. Give in to every special interest group here and in every other country in the world, because they have rights too. Take the flag down and toss it in the trash.
Murphy’s limousine took the CIA exit off the George Washington Parkway and followed the road up to the main gates. They were passed through without stopping and parked in the back at the DCI’s private entrance. His bodyguard, John Chapin, opened the door for him and escorted him up to the seventh floor.
“You can stand down, John. It’s going to be another late night,” Murphy said at the door to his office.
“Yes, sir,” Chapin said, not surprised. He’d seen the look on the general’s face when he came out of the Oval Office.
Murphy went through the outer office into his own office, his secretary jumping up and trailing behind him. “You’ve had a dozen calls, nothing urgent, the memos are on your desk. Mr. Adkins wanted to speak to you when you returned. And Mrs. Murphy would like to know when to expect you home.”
“Late,” Murphy said, putting his briefcase down and loosening his tie as he went around his desk. He lifted the phone and hit Adkins’s number. “Come on over, Dick, we need to talk.”
His secretary brought him a mug of coffee, black, no sugar, and the briefing book with the afternoon summaries of the news stories from the top fourteen foreign newspapers. “Would you like me to stay for a while?” she asked.
Murphy shook his head. “It’s going to be one of those nights. You might as well go home.”
“I’ll call Mrs. Murphy first.”
“Thanks.”
When she was gone, Murphy turned and looked out the windows at the rolling Virginia countryside. Everything was green and new and fresh. His forty-two-foot Westsail ketch was docked at Annapolis, and he wished that he and Peggy were aboard her now. Cocktails this early evening with a few friends. Maybe find a reasonably quiet spot to anchor a few miles down river. Something on the grill, then to bed with the setting sun and up with the rising sun in the morning. He closed his eyes for a moment, and he could almost smell the sea smells, feel the gentle rocking of the boat.
Dick Adkins, McGarvey’s chief of staff and acting DDO, knocked once and came in. “How’d it go, General?” he asked.
Murphy turned around. “They want us to kill him.” Adkins stopped in midstride. “Just like that?” “With bin Laden dead they feel that his organization will fall apart, and they’ll no longer be a threat.”
“That’s assuming we could get to him in time — if at all.” “Well, we’re going to try to find him as well as the bomb, and hope to God we’re not too late.”
Adkins smiled wryly. “Hell, General, I don’t know what’s going to be worse — tracking down bin Laden again, or telling McGarvey what they want us to do.” “He’ll have plenty to say about it,” Murphy said. “Indeed he will.”
The three-wheel Flat delivery truck with prandesh deliveries, ltd. stenciled on its doors raided to a stop in line at the west wharf of the International Terminal Customs Center. When it was his turn, the driver, a small man with wide dark eyes, handed a copy of the bill of lading, repair order and temporary customs release form to the uniformed inspector.
As the inspector took the forms back into the customs shed, Kamal Azzabi lit a clove cigarette and nervously
