Has there been a response already?”
“It looks like it. This morning, about forty minutes ago, NSA picked up a telephone conversation between bin Laden and Ali Bahmad. He’s the guy from bin Laden’s cave who knew about your GPS chip, and the same one Trumble said sat in a corner without saying a word during the meeting in Khartoum.” Rencke was all out of breath, even more so than he usually was when he was excited and had the bit in his teeth. “We couldn’t get a fix on bin Laden, the call went through a service provider in Rome, but Bahmad is here in the area somewhere. We didn’t get a fix, but he’s here.”
“Who initiated the call?”
“Bahmad.”
“Do we have a translation?”
“Just a partial. They were probably using a northern Afghani dialect, and we’re trying to find someone to help out, but we got enough to know that you were right all along. The bomb is already on its way here.”
“Did they say where or how?”
“If they did, we haven’t gotten to that part yet. But NSA’s translator program got another word out of it. Daughter.”
McGarvey’s stomach did a flop. He checked the rearview mirror, then shot over to the far left lane and jammed on his brakes. He eased onto the grassy median, the Pathfinder’s rear end fishtailing in the grass and soft ground.
“Hold on a second, Otto, I’m turning around,” he shouted. He dropped the cell phone in his lap, and stomped on the gas as he careened across the broad median, judged the oncoming traffic and bumped up onto the interstate heading back to Chevy Chase.
“We know why Bahmad is here, you were right about that too,” Rencke was saying when McGarvey picked up the phone. “I shot this over to the Secret Service so they know what might be coming their way, but I can’t get ahold of Mrs. M. or Liz. The phones at the house are shut off and Liz turned off her cell phone just like you did.”
“I’m on my way back there now. Who’s pulling surveillance duty this morning?”
“Mike Larsen. I’ve already given him the heads-up.”
“Tell him that I’m on my way, and if Liz tries to leave, keep her there. Call Dick Yemm and tell him what’s happening. And then have the Chevy Chase cops head over there.”
“I’ve already done that. And I called the Maryland Highway Patrol to be on the lookout for you, and to give you the message to call here.”
A highway patrol cruiser suddenly swerved off the opposite side of the interstate and shot across the median, its lights flashing.
“They found me,” McGarvey said. “Call them now, tell them that I got the message, give them Katy’s address and tell them to go straight out there. I’ll try to keep up.”
“Standby,” Rencke said.
McGarvey was doing one hundred miles per hour, trying to be careful not to cause an accident, but his nerves were jumping all over the place, and he was afraid that his vision would go haywire at any moment. He wanted to fly. He kept seeing bin Laden’s face when they were talking about their daughters. By his own words no one was an innocent, and he would want revenge now.
Rencke came back. “They’re getting word to every unit in the vicinity, but the daughter that bin Laden talked about was probably the President’s.”
“I think you’re right, but I’m not going to take the chance.”
“Oh, shit, I didn’t mean it that way, you gotta believe me. I’m doing everything I can to protect Liz.”
“Take it easy, Otto, I know that you’re doing your best. Call State and the Bureau right away and give them whatever you can dig up on Bahmad. I think that he’s bin Laden’s chief of staff.”
“He is, and not only that — he worked for British Intelligence about eight years ago. And he even came over here on a six-month study exchange program.” The voice suddenly clicked into place for McGarvey. He’d been back to headquarters for a couple of weeks about that time. “Christ, I think I met him once, just for a minute. Where’d you get this information?”
“Out of our own records. He was in the system all the time.”
“How about deep background, or anything else that might be useful?”
“It’s in archives. I have a runner on the way down there now to dig up what she can for us.”
The highway patrol cruiser, its lights still flashing, pulled up beside McGarvey, and the officer motioned that he was going on ahead. The Crown Victoria was a lot faster than the Nissan and it pulled away.
“As soon as you come up with something, anything at all, Otto, get it to me,” McGarvey instructed.
“If he makes another telephone call through Rome we’ll nail the bastard, guaranteed.”
Chevy Chase Bahmad drove his Mercedes directly to a parking ramp off Connecticut Avenue where he switched with the Capital City Cleaning van. He put on a pair of white coveralls over his golfing clothes, buttoning the top button. As he pulled out of the ramp and headed back to Laurel Parkway he took out his Glock 17, switched the safety off and laid it on the seat beside him.
He took care to keep a couple of miles over the speed limit to minimize attention. Traffic was heavy streaming into the city, but light in the opposite direction. When he rounded the corner onto Laurel Parkway he called the house.
“Are you ready?” he asked, when Aggad answered.
“We’re in the garage now.”
“Is the girl still there?”
“Her car is still in the driveway,” Aggad said.
Bahmad turned left toward the end of the cul-de-sac and he saw the yellow VW in Kathleen McGarvey’s driveway, the same dark blue van as before parked across the street. “Keep out of sight now, I’m going to open the garage door.”
“Okay.”
Bahmad put the phone down, hit the garage door opener then stopped across from the driveway and backed up to the garage, keeping an eye peeled for anyone getting out of the blue van. He pulled halfway into the garage, then climbed into the back and opened the rear door.
“You took your time,” Aggad grumbled. He and Ibrahim were wearing white coveralls too. They quickly loaded their weapons into the back of the van and climbed in.
“Did you leave anything behind?” Bahmad demanded.
“Nothing,” Aggad replied sullenly. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Fingerprints?”
“I said nothing.”
“Very well,” Bahmad shrugged. He climbed back into the driver’s seat as they shut the rear door, and headed down the driveway, pressing the garage door opener switch.
He rolled down his window, then picked up his pistol as he pulled up beside the CIA surveillance van. A young man inside leaned over the back of the passenger seat and then powered down the window.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Bahmad smiled, raised his pistol and fired one shot at point blank range into the man’s forehead, shoving him backward, then pulled across the street into Kathleen McGarvey’s driveway.
“Stay with the van,” he told Ibrahim. “If anyone shows up, kill them.”
Elizabeth came racing down the stairs. She’d been in the front bedroom packing her things and had happened to look out the window when Mike Larsen went down. For a split instant she was frozen, unable to believe what she was witnessing. But then her training and instincts kicked in, she dropped the overnight bag and headed out.
Her mother was just coming from the back with some socks and underwear. “These were in the dryer —”
Elizabeth waved her back, and crossed the stair hall to the door. She turned the lock and deadbolt and checked out the side window as two armed men climbed out of a van and started up the driveway.
“What is it?” Kathleen asked calmly.
“Trouble,” Elizabeth said, cursing herself for leaving her pistol and cell phone with her purse in the car.
