Authors: David Hagberg
Soldier of God (20 page)
“He had something else on his mind; I saw that much,” McGarvey said. “He wanted to get the kidnapping over with and bug out of there as soon as possible so that he could get back to whatever it was he was really after. At the time I thought it was taking Shaw back to Pakistan to stand trial.”
“That was supposed to be a diversion,” Rencke said. “The kidnapping and trial were supposed to keep us looking in one direction while the main event was gearing up.”
“In that case, bin Laden’s tape could be just another diversion. But for what?”
Rencke stopped hopping. “The sixty-four dollar question, kemo sabe. Mighty big diversions for what he says he wants to do.”
Unless something else was going to happen. Something bigger.
“Divers are already down on the wreck to recover bodies. Soon as we get DNA results, we should be able to track some of the hijackers back to their origins. Even just one positive ID should give us a direction.”
“Saudis,” McGarvey said.
Rencke nodded solemnly. Osama bin Laden was a Saudi, and although the royal family officially denounced him and his al-Quaida followers, it was openly known that Saudi money was at the heart of a great many Islamic
fundamentalist groups. But no U.S. administration had been willing to take the Saudis to task, for the simple reason of Saudi Arabian oil.
fundamentalist groups. But no U.S. administration had been willing to take the Saudis to task, for the simple reason of Saudi Arabian oil.
Oil dollars for lives.
“But Pakistanis too,” Rencke said. “Maybe ISI.” Interservice Intelligence was Pakistan’s powerful intelligence service, which General Pervez Musharraf used to control the country. Pakistan was where bin Laden and others had set up Taliban training camps, and where al-Quaida put the finishing touches on its recruits.
“The Saudis supply most of the money,” McGarvey said.
“The man your friend Liese is watching is a Saudi prince,” Rencke said, turning away It was as if he couldn’t look McGarvey in the eye. “I did some checking. Just before every al-Quaida attack—Kenya, Riyadh, the Cole, 9/11—the prince disappeared. He and Khalil are of the same general description. And Salman has the perfect cover. He’s a megarich jet-setter. A deal maker. Who would think he’s one of the bad guys who want to pull us down?”
What Otto was saying made sense, but McGarvey wanted to make sure they weren’t snatching at straws because of the pressure to come up with answers. “Okay, assuming for the moment that you’re right, and Salman is Khalil, why are the Swiss watching him, and why do they think I’d personally know something about him?”
“I don’t know what they have on him, but they turned to you because there’s a connection between him and you and Mrs. M. That’s why they sicced Liese on you.”
McGarvey was confused. “I never met the man in my life.”
Rencke was agitated. He started hopping again. “Oh wow, Mac, you didn’t; you didn’t, honest Injun. But Salman was one of Darby Yarnell’s crowd when you and Mrs. M. were divorced. He was right there in the middle at Yarnell’s house when Mrs. M. was there and when Powers was brought down. He was one of Baranov’s recruits.”
McGarvey closed his eyes for a second, all those very bad days coming back to him in full color. General Valentin Baranov was one of the most brilliant KGB officers the Soviets produced during the entire period of the cold war. Among his most spectacular operations was one in which the equally brilliant Donald Powers, the CIA’s director at the time, was assassinated. Key to the complicated plot was a former CIA officer, Darby
Yarnell, whom everybody, including McGarvey, was led to believe was a spy. In the end Yarnell was maneuvered into pulling the trigger on Powers, and McGarvey was maneuvered into killing Yarnell, drawn to the man because Katy was sleeping with him.
Yarnell, whom everybody, including McGarvey, was led to believe was a spy. In the end Yarnell was maneuvered into pulling the trigger on Powers, and McGarvey was maneuvered into killing Yarnell, drawn to the man because Katy was sleeping with him.
Katy was in Yarnell’s arms plain as day in the lens of the spotting scope they’d set up in the apartment across the street.
“There were a lot of guys like Salman in Darby’s mob,” McGarvey said. “What’s Liese trying to find out? Why from me—?” But all of a sudden he knew, and his stomach did a slow roll.
Rencke could see that McGarvey had made the connection, and his face sagged. He stopped hopping. “Bad dog, bad dog,” he said. “They probably think that Mrs. M slept with the prince, too.”
When McGarvey walked across the hall to the director’s conference room, his staff was already gathered, glad to see their boss back in one piece but mad as hell that the bin Laden problem would not go away. They got to their feet when he came in, and as he went around the table to his seat he shook hands with each of them.
Besides Dick Adkins and Otto Rencke, the CIA’s senior officers included the deputy director of operations, David Whittaker, who was one of the most moral men McGarvey had ever met; the brilliant, dapperdressed deputy director of intelligence, Tommy Doyle; the Company’s equally bright but ponderous deputy director of science and technology, Jared Kraus; the deputy director of management and services, Felicia Quinones, whose warm heart was only outshone by her absolutely spoton management abilities; and the patrician general counsel, Carleton Patterson.
Over McGarvey’s two-year tenure as DCI the group had become a well-oiled machine, fiercely loyal not only to their boss but also to the organization
and what it stood for. They considered themselves to be the frontline troops against America’s enemies.
and what it stood for. They considered themselves to be the frontline troops against America’s enemies.
“The bastards didn’t know they’d be running into a buzz saw when they tried to take that cruise ship,” Kraus smirked. He pumped his right fist. “Way to kick ass, Mr. Director.”
McGarvey gave him a sharp look. “A lot of good people lost their lives up there, including Jim Grassinger who was just doing his job.” Shaw might have been right that Americans needed a hero right now, but McGarvey wasn’t going to step up to that plate. “If there’s any celebrating to do, let’s wait until we’ve shut the bastard down once and for all.”
“As soon as Jim’s body is recovered, we’ll set funeral services at Arlington,” Felicia said. “I spoke with his wife last night; she’s holding up.”
“I’ll talk to her later today,” McGarvey said, taking his seat. “In the meantime we have a job to do, so let’s get on with it. Priority one is Project Alpha, because I think there is a very real possibility that Khalil not only put together the kidnapping attempt, but is also the mastermind behind bin Laden’s latest threat. If we can find and eliminate him, we might solve the bigger problem, because without Khalil I think al-Quaida will fold up its tents and fade away. So how do we proceed?”
“Along six lines of investigation,” Rencke was the first to answer. He had the bit in his teeth and he was impatient to begin. “First we need to find out what went wrong over at the FBI, the Department of Defense, and right here on our own turf. The entire crew and all the passengers aboard the
Spirit
were vetted by all three of our organizations, and yet a fair number of the crew were bad guys.”
Spirit
were vetted by all three of our organizations, and yet a fair number of the crew were bad guys.”
“That’ll be my Office of Security,” Felicia said. “We’ve already set up an internal affairs team to figure out what went wrong at this end. I’ll get with the Bureau and DoD right away.”
“While you’re at it, find out how Shaw’s travel plans were leaked,” Rencke said.
“Are you looking for one source?” Felicia asked. “I mean, if that’s your thinking, we’ll have to add White House security to the list. Paul Hogue is kind of sensitive at the moment, so we’ll have to use a little finesse.”
Hogue was chief of the president’s and first family’s security operation. Less than two years earlier President Haynes, his wife, and their
daughter almost lost their lives in an al-Quaida-sponsored attack in San Francisco. If it hadn’t been for McGarvey, the president and his family would be dead. Hogue had not forgotten that the Secret Service had very nearly blown it.
daughter almost lost their lives in an al-Quaida-sponsored attack in San Francisco. If it hadn’t been for McGarvey, the president and his family would be dead. Hogue had not forgotten that the Secret Service had very nearly blown it.
“Doesn’t matter,” McGarvey said. “Nothing’s off-limits for this one. If we step on toes now, we can apologize later. What next?”
“Canada,” Rencke said. “We need to find out how Khalil and the men who left the
Spirit
with him got out of the country without leaving a trace, other than the sportfishing boat that was found last night washed up on one of the small islands in the sound.”
Spirit
with him got out of the country without leaving a trace, other than the sportfishing boat that was found last night washed up on one of the small islands in the sound.”
“I’m working with RCMP’s Secret Intelligence Service chief for western Canada,” Adkins said. “At least some of the terrorists flew a DeHavilland Otter out of Kake, just north of where the cruise ship went down. No trace has been found of the aircraft.”
“What about the pilot?” McGarvey asked.
“He’s missing too, but so far as the RCMP knows, the guy’s a longtime local. Our Coast Guard is working with the Canadian Coast Guard and a private salvage company from Seattle hired by Cruise West to bring up whatever they can from the wreck. The bodies have top priority, of course, in addition to any forensic evidence. I passed along your incident report so the salvors would have something to shoot for.”
It would be cold and dark, the current swift, the wreck possibly unstable and dangerous. And there would be many bodies. Too many bodies.
“Lean on them, Dick,” McGarvey said. “We’re going to need whatever they can come up with—anything—as soon as possible.” This was not going to get away from them like 9/11. “I don’t think we have much time.”
“I think you’re right,” Tommy Doyle agreed. It was one of his analysts who had come up with the notion that bin Laden was wearing a disguise. “His warnings in the past have always been vague, but this time he’s being a lot more specific, almost as if he’s taunting us.” Doyle fiddled with his tie, a gesture of his when he was nervous. “Hell, they don’t have to do anything else, and they’ve already won. Trading on the New York Stock Exchange was suspended ten minutes ago, because the market was taking a nosedive. Airlines are canceling flights in nearly every market because people are afraid to fly and are simply not showing up at the airports. Just
before I left my office, I got the news that GM was declaring a holiday at its Detroit headquarters. Two-thirds of all their junior and midlevel managers called in sick. No one’s left to run the company.” Doyle looked away as if he hated to be the bearer of such bad news. “That’s just the start. By tonight the entire country will be all but shut down, unless the president makes one hell of a good speech at eight.”
before I left my office, I got the news that GM was declaring a holiday at its Detroit headquarters. Two-thirds of all their junior and midlevel managers called in sick. No one’s left to run the company.” Doyle looked away as if he hated to be the bearer of such bad news. “That’s just the start. By tonight the entire country will be all but shut down, unless the president makes one hell of a good speech at eight.”
“It’s up to us to give the man what he needs,” McGarvey said.
“Bin Laden’s head on a platter,” Whittaker stated the obvious. “Because even if we do nail this Khalil character, bin Laden is going to find another chief planner.You can count on it. Some very bright people over there are standing in line for the job.”
“Killing Khalil would at least buy us some time,” Rencke said. “Look, guys, if Uncle Osama is faking being sick, it has to mean that somebody was getting too close for comfort. He’s come down out of the mountains like Moses, and he’s living right in the middle of his tribes.” He looked to the others for support, but no one said a word.
“What are you thinking?” McGarvey asked him.
“My guess is that he’s hiding out in the open, maybe Riyadh, maybe Karachi, maybe Tehran, posing as an ordinary businessman, like he’s done before, ya know” Rencke was getting agitated because no one was catching his drift.
“We have a twenty-five-million-dollar reward on his head,” Adkins said. “Do you think if he’s out in the open now somebody is going to lead us to him?”
“Exactamundo, kemo sabe. And we even know who’s going to do it!” Rencke waved his hands as if he were trying to pull the others along. “Khalil, who just might be a Saudi prince by the name of Abdul Hasim ibn Salman. He’s going to be the super rat fink.”
Tommy Doyle sat forward, scowling. “We’ve not come up with anything other than a string of concidences to tie the two men together.” He turned to McGarvey. “We’ve got no DNA, no fingerprints, not even a voiceprint of Khalil. There’s nothing linking them. And the prince is such a big name internationally that he can’t kiss a woman’s hand in Paris without the tabloids picking up on it.” Doyle shook his head, completely dismissing the idea. “Salman is a member of the Saudi royal family, and lest we forget, bin Laden and the royal family aren’t exactly on
friendly terms. The man wants to overthrow the government, for Christ’s sake.”
friendly terms. The man wants to overthrow the government, for Christ’s sake.”
“Being an international playboy is pretty poor cover for someone who doesn’t want his true identity known,” Whittaker suggested.
“Bzzz. Wrong answer, recruit. What about James Bond?” Rencke demanded. “He did okay.”
McGarvey thought it would be the ultimate irony if Khalil and Salman were one and the same. It conjured up images of one of General Baranov’s old operations. Brilliant, deadly, and loaded with unexpected twists and turns. “Okay, Salman is apparently living in Switzerland at the moment, and the Federal Police are taking a look at him for some reason they haven’t shared with us yet. They’ve asked for our help.”
Whittaker looked confused. “I haven’t heard anything about this. Did it come through my COS in Zurich?”
McGarvey shook his head. “It came as a personal request from an old friend of mine. I want a records search done ASAP to see what we have on him.” He did not elaborate any further. At the moment there was no need. “In the meantime we might get lucky with something from the wreck of the Spirit or the sportfisherman they used to make their escape. For now I want a complete search of every database anywhere in the world for anything and everything on Khalil: his past operations, eyewitness reports including mine and my wife’s, along with all the other crew and passengers who had contact with him. Send someone to interview Secretary Shaw and his wife, and I want two of our people up in Juneau right now to work with the Bureau. Khalil and at least some of his people got aboard the
Spirit
in the middle of nowhere. They didn’t simply materialize out of thin air. I want to know how they got to Frederick Sound from the Middle East. Someone, somewhere, saw something, and I want to know about it.”
Spirit
in the middle of nowhere. They didn’t simply materialize out of thin air. I want to know how they got to Frederick Sound from the Middle East. Someone, somewhere, saw something, and I want to know about it.”
“We’re grabbing at straws,” Carleton Patterson mused. He was a lawyer and a pessimist by nature. He had hired on as the CIA’s
temporary
general counsel six years ago and had not gotten around to leaving yet. He thought of himself as a voice of reason in a nuthouse.
temporary
general counsel six years ago and had not gotten around to leaving yet. He thought of himself as a voice of reason in a nuthouse.
“You’re right, but it’s all we have at the moment,” McGarvey said. “Khalil has made a mistake somewhere in his past, and we will find it.”
“Why haven’t we done so earlier?”
“We weren’t looking hard enough,” McGarvey said.
In the few short hours since the message on bin Laden’s latest tape had been leaked to the public, Washington had become a city under siege. Riding over to the White House in his Cadillac limousine, the first thing McGarvey noticed was how much emptier the streets were than normal. People were staying home, glued to their television sets to find out what was going on, waiting for someone to tell them what to do.
Police or National Guard units were stationed at every major intersection from the Roosevelt Bridge all the way up to the White House. Air Force fighter/interceptor jets circled overhead, and Air Force One was crewed and powered up at Andrews in case the president needed to be evacuated from the city.
The Pentagon had declared a DEFCON Three, which placed all U.S. forces anywhere in the world on a heightened state of alert, and the Department of Homeland Security was expected to issue a red alert after the president’s address to the nation tonight.
Unlike bin Laden’s other warning messages, this one had gotten to Americans. The majority of the country was frightened that another 9/11 was about to happen and that no one in Washington knew what to do.
Tommy Doyle was right. Even if there was no attack, bin Laden had already won an important victory. If the role of a terrorist was to terrorize, the deed had been accomplished.
But it would not go unpunished. Khalil would die and then so would Osama bin Laden. No delays this time. No excuses. No mistakes. No international deal making to put together a coalition. Just a bullet in each man’s brain.
McGarvey called his house on his cell phone. “How are you holding up?” he asked when Katy answered.
“I’m watching television. It’s like 9/11 all over again.” Katy’s voice sounded strained. She hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since the hijacking, but she was holding together. “How about you?”
“I’m too busy to worry,” he told her, which was a lie. He couldn’t get out of his mind Otto’s conjecture that Prince Salman and Khalil were one and the same, which was why the Swiss had resorted to using Liese Fuelm to get personal information from him.
“Will you be home at a reasonable hour? Elizabeth andTodd are coming over.”
McGarvey had a feeling that tonight might be one of his last early nights at home until this business was settled once and for all. After the ordeal in Alaska, Katy deserved at least that much. “I’d like a bourbon and water, one cube, on the kitchen counter at precisely seven.”
“Aye, aye, skipper,” Katy said warmly. “Love.”
“Love,” McGarvey responded.
The president’s press secretary, Lucille Rugowski, met McGarvey at the security post just inside the west portico. She was a short, sturdy brunette from Gary, Indiana, who the media loved to hate. She was fair but extremely tough. In the nine months she’d been on the job, she’d developed a reputation for being one of the brightest people ever to hold the pressure-cooker job. On top of that she was married and had four children, all of whom were strictly off-limits. It was her aloofness that had early on earned her the nickname “the Snob.”
“You’ll be joining the president for a brief ceremony and a photo op in the Rose Garden, Mr. Director,” she said, as they headed to the Oval Office. “The NSC will meet directly afterward in the Cabinet Room.”
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