“Do you understand everything that you must do?” bin Laden asked.
“Completely.”
Bin Laden nodded. “My faith goes with you. Insha’Allah.”
Bahmad’s flight from Paris touched down at Kennedy about 11:00 p.m.” and by the time he had retrieved his bags, cleared customs and caught a cab to the Hudson River boatyard it was midnight. There were lights on in the forward cabins and in the main saloon of Papa’s Fancy, and he saw a shadow pass a window. He stood in the darkness just beyond the end of the dock to watch.
There was no one around this late, and had there been he would have avoided them. He’d come back only to pick up the things he’d left aboard before heading out to California.
Now this.
He hadn’t spent enough time at this boatyard to recognize the few cars that were parked in the lot, but none of them was obviously a government vehicle. Nor did he think that whoever was aboard the yacht was a burglar. No, it was probably one of the crew who’d returned to check on the yacht, or to pick up something that they might have left behind.
On the surface of it, that was just fine, except for one detail. If whoever was aboard at this moment had returned because they were suspicious of Bahmad and were going through his things it could mean trouble.
He had portrayed himself as an independently wealthy international businessman and playboy. But the aluminum case in his stateroom contained weapons and other devices; not things that an ordinary businessman would carry.
He considered turning around and leaving without his things. There was very little in his stateroom, except for the remote control detonating device, that he could not easily replace. Yet most of it was illegal under American law. And the nature of the equipment would raise some red flags with the FBI and CIA, because much of it could be traced to similar sources of the equipment in the van.
He had to weigh that possibility against the fact that the yacht’s owner had secret business dealings with bin Laden and with the Islamic jihad. He had given up the boat for Bahmad’s use without hesitation and without so much as a single question. Perhaps the crew had been briefed to ask no questions either, and to do nothing except what they were told to do. Even if they found the case and opened it they might do nothing.
Bahmad decided that he could not afford to take that risk. For all practical purposes he was now working on his own, independent not only of the movement, but of bin Laden, whose hands were completely tied. If Bahmad ran into trouble he would have to deal with the problem himself. Whatever resources he needed Would have to come from his own connections, as would the extra manpower if and when he needed it.
Which meant he could not make any more mistakes like he had in Chevy Chase, nor could he leave any clues. Or witnesses.
For a moment he was back in Beirut as a child with his parents; happy and safe, feelings that he’d not experienced since their deaths at the hands of the Israelis. From that moment he had, in effect, become a loner. He believed in no one, trusted in no one, and most importantly, depended on no one for help.
This was nothing new to him.
Hefting his bags he walked out onto the dock, making no effort at stealth. The gate at the head of the yacht’s boarding ladder was open, and when he stood on the deck he stopped to listen. There were no sounds from within the boat. They were connected to shore power, so the generators to power the lights weren’t running, but neither was the air conditioner. The night was warm. Whoever was aboard was not planning on staying for long, yet they weren’t afraid of showing lights.
Bahmad went aft and entered the warm, stuffy saloon from the party deck as Captain Web Walker came from the forward part of the yacht. He wore civilian clothes; deck shoes, khaki trousers and a short-sleeved white Polo shirt with Papa’s Fancy embroidered on the pocket. He seemed nervous about something.
“You’re back,” he said. “I thought I heard someone come aboard.”
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Bahmad said pleasantly.
“I came down for the week, so I thought that I’d check on things. Are you going to need the yacht? Shall I recall the crew?”
“Not for ten days, maybe a little longer,” Bahmad told him. He put down his bags and went behind the bar where he poured a cognac. “Care for a drink?”
“No, thanks,” Walker said. “Everything’s fine here, so I’ll be going.”
“A moment, if you would, Captain,” Bahmad said mildly. It was obvious that Walker was lying. “Did the owner tell you why he wanted you to check on the yacht tonight?”
The captain was a distinguished man, but he looked like a deer caught in headlights. He wanted to bolt, but he was rooted to the spot. “As I said, I happened to be in the city.”
“Yes, yes, I know all of that, but the owner did ask you to check on things, didn’t he?” Bahmad kept his tone friendly. A couple of yachtsmen discussing a simple fact.
“He gets nervous when no one is aboard to watch over things.”
“I don’t blame him.” Bahmad put his glass down and came around the bar. “Did he tell you what you were supposed to be looking for?”
The captain tried to smile. “Primarily that the vessel hadn’t sunk at the dock,” he said. “It’s happened to other boats.”
“For which the captain would take the blame.”
“Naturally.”
“As he would take the blame if there was contraband aboard.” Bahmad laid a hand on Walker’s shoulder. “Drugs, maybe booze. Something that we might have picked up in Bermuda and didn’t declare when we came back.”
“No one is worried about anything like that.”
“Weapons then. Guns with silencers and hollowpoint bullets.”
The captain swallowed.
“So, you came back on the owner’s orders to search my stateroom. You found the case and you opened it. The question is who did you call? The FBI?”
The captain backed up. “I just got here, I haven’t called anyone—” He realized his mistake and clamped his mouth shut.
Bahmad smiled again. “What did you take?”
“Nothing, I swear to God.”
Bahmad turned him around and roughly shoved him up against the bulkhead. “Hands on the wall, feet spread.”
“What the hell is this all about?”
“Do it.” Bahmad gave him a shot in the ribs, and the captain grunted as if he’d been struck by a sledgehammer, but he did as he was told.
Bahmad quickly frisked him, but came up with nothing except the captain’s wallet, some money, keys, handkerchief, comb, glasses and penknife.” “What did you take?” he asked again.
“Nothing—”
Bahmad drove his fist into the same spot in Walker’s side. The man cried out in pain and his knees started to buckle. “What did you take?”
“I tossed the case over the side. I swear to God it’s at the bottom of the slip.”
Bahmad was surprised. It wasn’t what he had expected. “Why?”
“I was told to do it before you got back.”
There it was — the answer. Someone from Nafeh’s staff had called the yacht’s owner and asked that Bahmad’s weapons be found and destroyed. They were fools. He didn’t need the equipment. Not even the remote detonator because the weapon could be manually set to fire from the keypad with as long as a twenty-four-hour delay.
“Then what?” Bahmad asked, though he didn’t care what the answer would be, he was merely distracting the captain for one necessary moment.
He shoved Walker flat against the bulkhead with his left hip, then grabbed the man’s head with both hands and twisted it sharply backward and to the right. The captain’s neck broke with an audible pop.
