Liese stood in the deeper shadows beside the large window that looked across the bay toward the Salman compound, lit now only by the outside lights. The prince had spent the last two hours with his wife and children in the east wing of the main house, but a couple of minutes ago he had returned to his own quarters, where he turned on a television set. It was one in the morning here, but eight in the evening in Washington.
Almost every person on the planet would be watching or listening to president Haynes’s speech to his people.
Tomas Ziegler had plugged in a portable television set under Gertner’s
instructions, and he switched it to CNN. A pair of news analysts, one a man and the other a pretty brunette, were in the middle of discussing the president’s upcoming speech.
At that moment, the same audio came from the surveillance microphone in Salman’s quarters. The prince was tuned to the same television channel. “It would seem that the good prince is also interested in what Haynes will have to say,” Gertner said.
“Filter out as much of the television audio as you can,” Liese told Ziegler. “Salman might be the type who talks back to his television set. I want to hear what he has to say.”
The telephone in the prince’s apartment rang. Ziegler was on it immediately. “It’s from out of the country.”
The telephone rang a second time.
“Saudi Arabia,” Ziegler said, excitedly. “Riyadh.”
Salman answered on the third ring. “
Oui
?”
A man said something in Arabic, and Hoenecker translated. “Will you watch the president, nephew?”
“I have the television on now, my esteemed uncle.” Hoenecker translated Salman’s words.
Ziegler looked up from his monitor. “It’s the royal palace. That’s Crown Prince Abdullah.”
“Turn it off,” Gertner ordered.
“Why?” Liese demanded. “If Prince Salman and Khalil are one and the same man, this could mean that the Saudi royals, all the way to the top, are in the terror business.”
Gertner shot her a bleak look. “That’s exactly why, Liebchen. We don’t need that trouble, you and I. Turn it off.”
At that moment it was five in the morning in Karachi, Pakistan, and a thirteen-inch black-and-white television set on a small table in a featureless room was tuned to Al Jazeera. Osama bin Laden came in, turned the sound up, settled down on a Persian rug, and leaned casually on a large brocaded pillow. His English was good so he did not have to wait for the words of the commentators in Washington to be translated.
The picture cut to an image of a podium with the great seal of the U.S. “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.”
Lawrence Haynes entered the East Room and went to the podium. He’d not brought his speech or any notes. His adviser on national security affairs, Dennis Berndt; the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Paul Wilcox; and the director of the FBI, Herbert Weissman, took positions on either side of him.
“Good evening,” the president began, his famous smile missing this evening. This was a president come to tell his nation something serious. “Directly following my comments tonight we will show you the latest taped message from the terrorist Osama bin Laden. Many of you have already seen the tape. Many of you have unfortunately have already assumed the worst, that once again an unspeakable evil will be unleashed by monsters on America.”
The president slowly shook his head. “Nothing could be further from the truth. Even now units of our naval and air forces are on standby to strike at the very heart of the terrorist’s operations. The Central Intelligence Agency is engaged in a massive worldwide manhunt, using every asset and technical means at its command, as are the National Security Agency and National Reconnaissance Office. At home I have instructed the Federal Bureau of Investigation to coordinate a nationwide search not only for the henchmen of bin Laden’s al-Quaida organization, but also for any group or individual planning to do us harm.”
The president’s lips compressed as he seemed to gird himself for what he would say next. “We will capture bin Laden and his lieutenants just as we captured Saddam Hussein and his staff. There will not be another tragic day such as September eleventh! But in order to effectively carry on with our work of eliminating the evil that would attempt to destroy our freedom, our very way of life, drastic measures must and will be taken.”
A slow smile spread across bin Laden’s harsh features.
“Effective immediately, and to last until we can confirm the capture or the death of Osama bin Laden and his principal lieutenant, the terrorist known as Khalil, I am declaring that a state of martial law exists in the United States and our territories and protectorates.”
Bin Laden rose languorously to his feet, no longer interested in the president’s feeble speech, then switched off the television set and went to compose a personal letter to each of the four boys who would soon be entering the gates of Paradise as martyrs.
McGarvey had Julien take him directly over to the White House first thing in the morning. On the way over he called Calvin Beckett, the president’s chief of staff, to see if he could be fit in early. The morning’s national intelligence briefing was usually held at 9 A.M., but McGarvey was an hour early.
“Do you have something for us already?” Beckett asked, hopefully. The man had left a job as head of IBM’s legal department to join the administration shortly after Haynes took office. He was an avid skier, skydiver, and acrobatic pilot, who was not afraid to take chances. Decisions came easily for him, and as a result he and McGarvey had developed a good working relationship.
“We might have an identification on Khalil,” McGarvey said, “but I don’t think your boss is going to like it.”
“Can we get to him?”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”
“Then I don’t care if he’s the pope. If the CIA knows who he is and where we can get him, the president will order it. I can practically guarantee it, Mac,” Beckett said. “You heard his speech last night. There won’t be another 9/11. Whatever it takes, we’re going to nail the bastards this time before they hit us. If your people have a lead, he’s going to give you the green light for any action that you want to take.”
Beckett hesitated, and McGarvey could almost hear him weighing his next words. Their telephone conversation was encrypted, but in Washington once a thought was spoken it could never be taken back. And the
wrong kinds of words could take on a life of their own, which had the power to devastate even a solid career.
“The president doesn’t want to negotiate this time.”
McGarvey knew exactly what Beckett was going to say. He’d heard other men skirt around the very same issue with him more times than he’d care to count. He wasn’t going to make it easy by assuring Beckett that he knew what he was supposed to do. He wanted the administration to tell him.
“There’ll be no trial, understand?” Beckett said. “If you can get to Khalil, kill him. The same goes for bin Laden.”
The White House, McGarvey figured, was operating under the same siege mentality that the rest of Washington was struggling with. Bin Laden’s threat was already having a serious effect on the nation. People across the country were calling in sick, keeping their children home from school, all but barricading themselves in their houses with what Fox News was calling the “9/11 flu.”
Any building over four or five stories tall was all but deserted. Almost every office in Washington was operating with a skeleton staff. The DOW and NASDAQ were sharply down. And traffic on the interstate system, even the normally crammed-to-capacity 1-95 along the eastern seaboard, had less volume than on an average Sunday.
Americans were frightened.
“That’s what I’m coming to talk about,” McGarvey said.
Beckett sounded relieved. “The president will be glad to hear that, Mr. Director. I’ll clear the deck for you. This is priority one. Nothing is more important.”
McGarvey looked out the window as they crossed K Street and skirted the greenery of Farragut Square just a couple of blocks from the White House.
“The president is taking a lot of heat over his martial law decision. He’ll be meeting with a bipartisan group from the Hill at ten, and we just found out that they’re bringing Emmet Sampson with them.” Sampson had taken over the ACLU in the aftermath of 9/11, and he had become the most vocal critic of the White House and especially of the Justice Department and Homeland Security.
McGarvey could just guess what the California Democrat would say to Haynes. “There are going to be a lot of people who’ll agree with him.”
Beckett was suddenly cool. “We want you with us on this one, Mac. The president needs
all
his people to stand up and be counted.”
McGarvey hated bullshit in any variety. “I know. I got a taste of it in the Rose Garden yesterday.”
His limo crossed H Street on the light and headed past the Renwick Gallery and Blair House to the west gate. Almost no one was on Pennsylvania Avenue in front of the White House’s iron fence. McGarvey almost expected to hear air-raid sirens. The street reminded him of the scene outside the Presidential Palace in Santiago the morning after he’d assassinated army general August Pinar and his wife at their coastal retreat near San Francisco. All of Chile had been thrown on the defensive. It was generally known that the CIA had made the hit, and if a towering figure such as Pinar could be reached, then everybody was vulnerable.
September eleventh had proved that America was not an invulnerable island nation.
“That was a very necessary ceremony that has nothing to do with the problem staring us in the face now,” Beckett said.
The president’s chief of staff wanted to be belligerent, McGarvey thought, because no one over there knew what to do. We’d been caught flat-footed by just about every act of terrorism ever committed against us, including the Murrah Federal Building, the USS
Cole
, and both attacks on the World Trade Center. And it was happening again.
Declaring martial law wouldn’t do a thing to stop whatever bin Laden was going to do. The only sure cure was finding and killing the men responsible, like we should have done long before 9/11.
Assassination.
“I wouldn’t have advised martial law,” McGarvey said.
“You weren’t asked, Mr. Director,” Beckett said, bleakly.
McGarvey broke the connection as his limo was passed through the west gate. He hadn’t been at all sure how the president was going to react, and after talking with Beckett he was even less sure. Becoming president did not make a man immune from fear. For a lot of them, from the moment they took up residence in the White House until the day they left, they never got a decent night’s sleep. And a frightened man who
wasn’t sleeping well could make some very bad decisions. Like Truman had when he’d given away our nuclear advantage by promising the world we would never again be the first to drop the bomb. Or like Kennedy, ordering the Bay of Pigs fiasco, then later promising the Russians we would never again attack the island. Or like Nixon, denying he knew anything about the Watergate break-in. And now Haynes declaring martial law.
McGarvey felt a great foreboding as he got out of the car and entered the west wing. Beckett was waiting for him, and wordlessly they walked down the corridor to the Oval Office.
A pair of Marines, dressed in BDUs and armed with Colt Commando assault rifles, were stationed just inside the entrance. They had replaced the usual White House security detail. September eleventh had changed everyone, just as Pearl Harbor had, only this time the changes were happening even
before
the next event.
A harried Lawrence Haynes stood at his desk talking to someone on the telephone, while aides and advisers scurried in and out. This was the beginning of an extremely busy day, typical of any before it except for the threat hanging over the nation. As McGarvey followed Beckett in, he wondered why anyone in his right mind would want the job, because in the final analysis being president had nothing whatsoever to do with power. It had to do with administration, organization, politics, and most of all stamina and the ability to make decisions and to truly believe that they were the best ones possible under the circumstances.
Haynes looked presidential this morning. It was something about him that the American public loved. When the nation needed a leader he was there. Two years ago he and his wife and daughter had almost been assassinated. He’d come out of the ordeal as the most popular president since FDR. His jacket was off, his tie already loose, his shirtsleeves rolled up. Here was a president getting down to the business of leading his country through a difficult time.
He looked over at McGarvey with something akin to relief, then turned away. Whoever he was talking to wasn’t an ally. The president did not sound pleased. He had his detractors who were waiting in the wings ready to pounce the moment he made a mistake. The martial law thing
could very well lose him the next election, and everyone in Washington was already taking sides.
It was politics in its rawest form.
Beckett herded everyone else out, then motioned for McGarvey to have a seat on the couch. “Coffee?”
“I won’t be that long,” McGarvey said. “I’m going to lay out what we’ve come up with, and the president will have to make a decision. The ball’s in his court.”
“Yes, it is.”
Beckett called Dennis Berndt to come over, and the national security adviser showed up a minute later just as Haynes was hanging up. Like Beckett and the president he looked hopeful when he saw that McGarvey was here.
“Mr. Director,” Berndt said. He glanced over at Haynes.
“Good morning, Dennis,” McGarvey said. “Mr. President. I think we know who Khalil is.”
Haynes was direct and to the point. He was obviously in no mood to play games. “Can we get to him?”
It was the same question Beckett had asked. Anybody could be got, if that was the sole consideration. But at what price? That was the second, unasked, half of the question. “I don’t think there’ll be a problem getting close to him. In fact, we’ll have to do that first before we can be one hundred percent sure we’re right about who he is.”
Haynes nodded with satisfaction. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“But it won’t be that easy killing him,” McGarvey warned. “He’s masquerading as an important figure.”
“I don’t care who it is,” Haynes countered. “He damned near snatched Don Shaw, and in the process he murdered nearly fifty innocent people. Most likely he was the brains behind 9/11, and he’s probably behind this new threat.” Haynes looked at Berndt and Beckett for backup, then shook his head. “I don’t give a damn who he is. You find him, prove you’re right, then take him down. If you want, I’ll put that in writing.”
“He’s a member of the Saudi royal family,” McGarvey told them. “Prince Abdul Hasim ibn Salman.”
Haynes exchanged a look with his NSA and chief of staff; then his eyes narrowed in anger. “That’s not possible.”
It was the reaction McGarvey had expected. He had considered going after the prince first and explaining the CIA’s suspicions to the White House later, but this president deserved the unvarnished truth, especially now. Until recently the CIA, like a lot of other agencies in Washington, tended to tell the administration it served only what the administration
wanted
to hear, even if it didn’t square with reality. More than one president had made a bad call because of faulty intelligence.
“We’ve come up with credible evidence linking the two men,” McGarvey said, “including at least one eyewitness.”
Haynes shook his head. “A man such as Salman has enemies. Witnesses lie.”
“Not this one,” McGarvey countered, a little too sharply.
“For Christ’s sake, Mac—” Beckett warned, but the president held him off with a gesture.
“Just a minute ago you said you wanted to get close to him first because you weren’t one hundred percent sure.”
In his heart of hearts McGarvey didn’t want Salman, the man who had once made love to his wife, to be the terrorist Khalil, because he would not be able to separate revenge from justice. “Not sure enough to put a bullet in his brain.”
“You want to set up a surveillance operation to watch him, is that it?” Haynes demanded. “But that’ll take time, which we don’t have.”
“I got within twenty feet of the man aboard the cruise ship. I talked to him. If I get close again, I’ll know it’s him.”
The president was beyond anger; he was puzzled. “I can’t believe it, Mac. The fact of the matter is that Prince Salman is an important member of the Saudi royal family. The fact of the matter is that the Saudis still allow us to maintain a military presence there. The fact of the matter—the real fact of the matter—is that Saudi Arabia sits on one trillion dollars in oil reserves. And until we become a hydrogen economy, which I’m told won’t happen for at least another twenty years, we need that oil.” He shook his head. “The prince is a very important friend to American business. Like Adnan Khashoggi before him, he’s brokered a bunch of international deals that we’ve needed. Some of them critical. Goodwill for us at a time we badly need it.”
“I know, Mr. President.”
The president’s anger was returning. “What would he have to gain by attacking us? He’d be cutting his own throat. It doesn’t make any sense from the standpoint of business.”
“He’s made deals with other countries.”
“Yes, Canada,” Beckett said, angrily. “At the same time he was supposedly trying to kidnap Don Shaw.”
“The times match,” McGarvey shot back. “And he’s also brokered deals with North Korea, Iran, Iraq, Libya, Syria, and China, sometimes with money from us and the British, and at other times with Saudi money.” McGarvey hesitated. “The Saudis want to sell their trillion dollars of oil to us, but at their own pace, because once their oil reserves run dry they’ll have nothing. So if they can keep us seriously off-balance with attacks like 9/11, or with military actions in Somalia, Afghanistan, and Iraq, maybe it’ll take us longer to get off the fossil-fuel bandwagon. It’s going to take a president willing to go out on a limb, like Kennedy did by putting an American on the moon, to fire up the nation to make the switch to hydrogen.”