Joshuas Hammer km-8 Page 16

  When she was twelve in Khartoum, bin Laden had called her to his sitting room to punish her. Her brother, Sa’lid had caught her reading a years-old issue of an American teen magazine called Tiger Beat, and brought the magazine to their father.

  When she came into the room she bowed her head, but there was a look of defiance on her face. Bin Laden held up the magazine.

  “Is this yours?” he demanded.

  She raised her eyes. “Obviously,” she told him, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  For a moment a black rage threatened to blot out his sanity. But then he regained his control. “Where did you get it?”

  She said nothing, but she didn’t look away.

  “You will answer me.”

  She shook her head.

  “What did you expect to learn from this filth?” he demanded, “Tell me at least that much.”

  “The truth.”

  “The truth,” bin Laden muttered. He was amazed. “What truth?”

  “There are no Godless heathens in that magazine. No murderers of Muslims. No Jews. Only children like me having fun—”

  “Stop!” bin Laden roared. “You know nothing about the truth.” He threw down the magazine, picked up the long, whippy willow stick lying beside him and went to her. She looked up at him, no fear, only rebellion in her eyes. “You will tell me the name of the person who gave you the magazine.”

  “No, Father,” she said.

  Bin Laden pulled her around by the arm, and struck her in the backs of her legs with the willow stick. She took a half-step forward, but she did not cry out.

  “The name,” he said, but she did not answer him, so he struck her again on the backs of the legs, and then on her buttocks, and back, and legs again. He was crazy with rage and with fear that he was losing the most precious thing in his life to the very system he had dedicated his life to destroying.

  She was wearing a white chad or Bin Laden’s upraised hand stopped in mid swing There was blood on her back. He let go of her arm and stepped back, aghast at what he had done to his child. In the name of Allah, he had hurt her.

  She looked up at him. “I’m not afraid of the truth, Father,” she said in a very strong voice. “Are you?”

  He lowered his hand, and let the willow stick fall to the floor. “No, child, I am not afraid of the truth,” he answered. An overwhelming shame for what he had done, and tenderness for his daughter came over him. He wanted to protect her, and all he had done was cause her pain.

  He held out his arms for her, and without a moment’s hesitation she came to him and he held her close.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” she sobbed.

  “Don’t be,” he comforted her. “But I want you to be wary of the truth — or what seems to be the truth — until you are old enough and wise enough to recognize lies for what they are.”

  “Yes, Father,” she said. “I’ll try.”

  Bin Laden opened his eyes. Nothing was ever more clear to him than his love for his daughter, then or now. Yet at this moment he felt as if he was seeing everything with a crystal purity, something never possible before. Years ago the infidel British philosopher Bertrand Russell said that for centuries we’ve been told that God can move mountains, and a lot of people believed it. Nowadays we say that atomic bombs can move mountains and everybody believes it.

  What did he believe, bin Laden asked himself. What was the truth this time? The gates to Paradise were never more bright, but the path never more dark.

  Laying his cane aside, and awkwardly holding the flashlight under his right arm, he undid the four catches at the corners of the container, removed the top cover and laid it on the floor. He unfolded the thick rubber and fabric covering, exposing an inner aluminum cover. This he unlocked with a four-digit code on a keypad. The panel swung open, revealing four metal catches, which he slid back, releasing the top of the case. He pulled this off with some difficulty because it was heavy, and set it on the floor.

  He was sure that he could feel the heat coming off the exposed mechanism now, even though he knew it was just his imagination. In this state the nuclear weapon was perfectly harmless; cool to the touch, leaking no radiation, impossible to accidentally detonate, and just as impossible to detect by any means other than disassembly.

  Most of the device was shrouded by sealed covers, only some brightly colored wires came together in neatly bound thick bundles to the control mechanism, which was about the size of a hardcover book, attached to the lower right corner of the inner case. A display screen with room for twelve digits and symbols topped what appeared to be the keypad for an advanced scientific calculator. The first code activated the control circuitry. The second code determined how the weapon was to be fired: by a direct timer with as much as a thirty-six-hour delay; by a remote control device that could, depending on conditions, be effective up to five miles away; or by an incoming signal to the weapon’s onboard satellite receiver. The frequency, duration and built in code in the remote firing signal could be determined by the weapon’s keypad.

  Complicated, but exquisitely failsafe and simple. Once the weapon was activated nothing could stop it.

  Bin Laden’s eyes strayed to the metal identification plate to the right of the keypad. On it was stamped the serial number and the factory where the bomb had been assembled.

  The irony would have been sweet, he told himself. And this would have been only the first of many blows. But he was getting tired of the fight, and he felt a deep sense of awe and even dread standing this close to so much power. He was going to have many difficulties convincing the others of his change of heart. But in time they too would come to see the wisdom of his decision.

  He reassembled the bomb case, making sure that all the locks and catches were firmly in place, then picked up his cane and headed back. Deep down he felt a sense of failure, and yet he was looking forward to the new challenge. He didn’t have much time left so he would have to work hard to convince a skeptical world that all he wanted was a Muslim peace. And he would have to work even harder to control his hate, which at times threatened to block out all reason and sanity. But it could be done, because it had to be done.

  The grotto was nearly a half-kilometer into the mountainside, so it took him almost ten minutes to make his way to the front chambers. It was two in the morning and everyone but a few guards were down for the night. He felt a little sorrow for his men, most of whom would have nowhere to go after he quit. Some of them would probably join the rebels in the north to fight the Taliban. But for many of them there would be nothing. They would be disappointed, even angry, but it could not be helped.

  “Insha’Allah,” he murmured softly. He switched off the flashlight, pocketed it and shuffled down the final tunnel to the opening in the hillside. He needed fresh air after the confines of the cave.

  The two guards outside were wrapped in blankets against the chill night air. When bin Laden appeared they started to get up, but he waved them down.

  “All is quiet tonight?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” one of them replied.

  They were safe here, yet bin Laden, out of long habit, studied the brilliant sky for the fast moving pinpoint of light from a satellite passing overhead, even though he knew that the next one wasn’t due for another two hours. They’d learned to time their movements by the satellite passes, and schedule their most important work for when the skies were overcast and the satellites were blind.

  Someone came out from the medical hut and started up the hill. Instinctively bin Laden stepped back inside the cave, his eyes narrowing as he watched the man approach. But then he recognized it was his chief of staff and he relaxed.

  Ali Bahmad, whose voice had often times been the only one of reason, had surprisingly been against opening negotiations with the Americans. He predicted it would lead to more trouble than they could imagine. His predictions were disturbing, all the more so because Bahmad had worked in the West, and he knew the Western mind as well as any Muslim could.


  As bin Laden watched Bahmad make his way up the hill he realized that after eight years he really didn’t know his chief of staff as well as he should. Brilliant, highly trained, capable, efficient, but as cold as the winds off the high peaks of the Hindu Kush. And yet bin Laden had seen Bahmad do so many little kindnesses for the few children in the camp, and especially for Sarah. She was smitten by him because he had lived in the West and wasn’t afraid of it like so many others here. They would sometimes sit for hours talking about London and Washington where Bah mad had once been stationed with the British Secret Intelligence Service.

  Bin Laden had also listened to Bahmad play the violin; his long, delicately thin, perfectly manicured fingers caressing the strings as if they were a woman’s thighs. Yet for all his talents, including combat training, and his ruthlessness — it was he who had ordered and engineered the killings of Alien Trumble and his family — Bahmad could have passed for a shopkeeper almost anywhere in the world. His skin was pale, his English perfect, and his mannerisms Western. Quiet, mild, even studious looking, he was very short, with plain features, a round undistinguished face, balding, with a slight paunch, he posed no threat to anyone.

  Born of an Egyptian mother and a Yemeni father, he was in his forties now, but he came up the hill with the grace of a gazelle, his movements like everything else about him, surprisingly swift and sure.

  He’d been educated at the American University in Beirut, but after his parents had been killed in an Israeli bombing raid, he’d slipped out of the city to work with a PLO cell. After a couple of years of killing silently in the night, he came to the attention of Arafat who recognized not only his unique intelligence and special skills, but his burning drive and utter fearlessness. Bahmad was the perfect soldier.

  Two years after that, he showed up suddenly at Oxford on beautifully forged papers with a solid background, where he studied for and received his degree in Middle East studies. He was recruited by British intelligence right out of school, and for a few years he worked in London as an analyst. In the late eighties he was sent to the U.S. on an exchange program to work for the CIA and National Security Agency, generating Middle East position papers for the National Security Council.

  But then he resigned, and quietly slipped back to Lebanon and Arafat when he felt that some uncomfortable questions were about to be asked of him. Besides, he admitted to Arafat, he felt that he could do more for the PLO than simply pass along intelligence information.

  The fact of the matter, Arafat told bin Laden, was that Bahmad wanted to kill people. He needed to kill, perhaps as a retribution for his parents’ murders.

  But because of the Camp David Accords and other agreements, Arafat’s position on the West began to soften, and he no longer had need for men such as Bahmad. The feeling was mutual. It was then, after the Russians had pulled out of Afghanistan, and the Soviet Union had disintegrated, that bin Laden had quietly recruited him. Since that time Bahmad had been the mastermind behind every terrorist attack that the West blamed on bin Laden. But his planning had been so good that no Western police agency had ever been able to come up with solid proof that bin Laden had been behind any of the attacks. Nor did any Western intelligence agency know about Bahmad’s connection, or even his existence: His death had been faked in an Israeli raid in Lebanon.

  Bin Laden stepped out of the cave as Bahmad reached the entrance. “You’re up late tonight.”

  “So are you,” Bahmad said mildly. “Your toy is still safe?”

  Bin Laden nodded. “Is everything all right?”

  Bahmad glanced at the guards, his expression bland, as if he was a tailor measuring them for suits. “It’s a good thing for us that I didn’t destroy McGarvey’s satellite phone as you ordered. He’s going to need it. The transmitter we took out of his body no longer works.”

  Bin Laden’s jaw tightened. “What happened to it?”

  “The stupid doctor admitted he dropped it on the floor.”

  “The American monitors will believe that it has malfunctioned, either that or it’s out of range, its signal blocked. Where is the problem?”

  “The problem is, Osama, that there is a third possibility they may be considering,” Bahmad said cooly. “McGarvey may have been killed, his body destroyed and the transmitter with it. But the exact location of this installation has already been pinpointed to within a couple of meters.” He shrugged. “They know exactly where you are, and for whatever the reason McGarvey is no longer a consideration for them. Do you see where I am taking this?”

  “He came here to bargain with me, not lead an attack.”

  Bahmad smiled slightly. “It was really quite brilliant of you to give them that serial number. It got their attention. But now they will do anything to stop you from using it. If they believe McGarvey is dead, they’ll try to kill you.”

  “Send someone after McGarvey.”

  “I already have. But the transmitter has been down four hours now, I think that we should leave immediately, at least until we get word that McGarvey has made his call.”

  “Do you expect me to scurry off someplace else to hide?” bin Laden demanded.

  “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

  “I’ll go back to my quarters—”

  “McGarvey’s device transmitted the exact coordinates of this very spot. Their smart bombs are accurate enough to come right down the tunnel. You would die, and the cave would be sealed for all time.”

  “Send Sarah to me, we’ll talk.”

  “Sarah is gone,” Bahmad said.

  “Gone? Where?”

  “She was worried about Mohammed, so she decided to go with them at least part of the way.”

  “And you let her go?” bin Laden roared.

  Bahmad was unmoved. “You have very little control over your daughter, what do you expect of me?” His expression softened. “If something were to happen here tonight she’s better off away from the camp. I sent one of my men after them. He’ll get word to McGarvey and bring Sarah back here.”

  Bin Laden looked up at the sky. If the Americans attacked tonight the jihad would already have been lost. Any further talks between them would be impossible. The only thing left would be retribution. A strike or strikes so devastating that no American would ever feel safe again. So devastating that the American government would have to retaliate with all of its might, with every means at its disposal. It would finally be a war that bin Laden knew he could not win.

  He shook his head. “I don’t think the Americans will attack us so soon. They take time to think about actions like that. Talk them over with their military commanders, and maybe some key Congressmen. When your man gets word to McGarvey he can make a telephone call to the CIA to let them know he has not been harmed.” Bin Laden spread his hands and smiled. “You see, there is no problem.”

  “Are you willing to bet your life on it, Osama?” Bahmad asked.

  Bin Laden nodded without hesitation. “Yes, I am,” he said. “Insha’Allah.”

  CIA Headquarters DCI Roland Murphy put down his White House phone and looked up as the connecting door from the deputy director of Operations office opened, not at all surprised to see Otto Rencke standing there, his wild red hair flying everywhere. It was coming up on 6:00 p.m. “I haven’t heard anything new, but you already know that.”

  “Oh, boy, I think they’re getting set to make a big mistake,” Rencke gushed. “They’ve got some of the right reasons, but the wrong int erp They’re not looking close enough, ya know.”

  “By they, I take it you mean the White House,” Murphy said. He’d seen Rencke in one of his “moods” before, but nothing quite like this.

  “The National Security Council. They’re on their way over there right now. You gotta stop them, General.”

  “I just got the call myself, Otto. We’re going to have a teleconference in ten minutes, and the President’s going to want my best recommendation.”

  “I want seventy-two hours,” Rencke said.

 
Murphy shook his head. “I don’t think they’d give me twelve. Mac is off the air, and unless you have something for me, we have to assume that he’s dead and the chip has been destroyed. You’ve seen the data.”

  “All right, forty-eight hours then. At least long enough for Mac to get back to Kabul. Someplace where he can call us.”

  “If he died four hours ago, they’ll be getting set to move out of there. The President wants to hit the bastards right now. Show them that we can move fast when we want to.”

  “You don’t understand, General, Mac is still alive.” Rencke was deeply distressed. Murphy didn’t know what Otto was going to do, but when geniuses suddenly started getting excited and raising their voices, you listened.

  “You have ten minutes to convince me.”

  Rencke came around the desk, and Murphy moved aside so that he could get to the computer. Otto brought up an action file that moved in slow motion. Along the bottom of the screen was a time-elapsed bar starting forty-eight hours ago. Displayed on the screen was a detailed map of the section of Afghanistan northwest of Charikar. It was constantly shifting to keep a small red icon that was moving through the mountains centered, and the time bar filled in.

  “Okay, they take him from the Inter-Continental, and they head north past the airport, where they stop once—” Rencke looked up. “Probably a military patrol. But no problemo, they’re bin Laden’s boys. Around Bagram they stop for awhile.”

  “Another checkpoint,” Murphy suggested.

  “They switched cars,” Rencke said. “After they made the second stop, Mac’s transmitter moves about five meters to the west, but at a direct ninety-degree angle to the line it was moving in.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When a car makes a turn, even a sharp turn like at an intersection, there’s a radius of curve. Cars just don’t turn on a dime like people do.”

  “You’re saying that they stopped the car, Mac got out and walked over to another car, which took off in the opposite direction twenty minutes later.”