Joshua's Hammer Read online

  “He’s a good man. Don’t give him a hard time, he doesn’t deserve it.”

  Elizabeth’s jaw dropped open. “Dad?”

  McGarvey laughed. “Good luck breaking the news to your mother though.”

  CIA Headquarters

  Rencke was lying on top of his conference table, which was strewn with notes, computer printouts, files and photographs. He’d managed to catch only a half-hour of rest when the call to his office number rolled over to the cell phone in his pocket. He had his computer tied to his phone as well. If one of his search engines came up with something it would automatically notify him. But this was a human call, the ring was different.

  He answered it without sitting up or opening his eyes. “Yes?” He hadn’t slept in four days, and he felt gritty.

  “Otto, this is Johanna at Fort Meade. I have something for you. A call from a man named Bahmad to Osama bin Laden through what fooks like a relay service provider in Rome.”

  Rencke sat straight up as if his tailbone had been plugged into a light socket. “When?”

  “Just a few minutes ago. We don’t know where bin Laden is located, but the originating call came from somewhere in the D.C. area.”

  Rencke held the phone in the crook of his neck, pulled his laptop over and brought up the NSA’s mainframe. “What were they speaking, Johanna? Arabic, English, Russian? What?”

  “Egyptian Arabic at first, but then they switched to another dialect, probably northern Afghani. The Russian translator program picked out a few words. But when I tried using a blend—Russian and Arabic—the program just locked up.”

  “I’ve got your console, do you have a password?”

  “Just a sec, I’ll download the file.”

  The screen split in three. On the left the Arabic text came up. In the middle the same text came up in the Western alphabet. And on the right the incomplete translation came up.

  Rencke was having trouble focusing, having a hard time accepting what he was seeing on the screen. Almost never did the thing they were looking for drop out of the sky into their laps. Most of the time it was a guessing game. But not this time. Daughter, en route, package, timetable. The message could not have been plainer.

  “What’s vorep’s confidence on bin Laden’s voice?”

  “Ninety-seven percent and change.”

  “Anything on the other man?”

  “He’s not in our files, but he sounded a lot calmer to me than bin Laden.”

  Another fact dropped into place for Rencke. He was Trumble’s quiet man in the corner; bin Laden’s chief of staff, Ali Bahmad, the one who had discovered McGarvey’s GPS chip. Now they had a complete name and a voice, they would be able to find something in the CIA’s files somewhere, he was sure of it. He blinked. “Wait,” he said. “Bahmad is here, in Washington? Did you say that?”

  “Somewhere in the area. We can’t be any more precise than that.”

  Rencke broke the connection and started to call McGarvey, but then he shook his head and called Johanna Ritter back. “Sorry about that,” he told her when she came on.

  “No problem,” she said.

  “Anyway, thanks.” Rencke broke the connection again and hit the speed dial for McGarvey’s locator number. After several seconds a warbling tone indicated that he was offline. Next he tried Kathleen’s house, but evidently the phones had been switched off there too, he called the security officer in the van in front of her house.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Rencke in the DO. The phones are off in the house. Is Mr. McGarvey there?”

  “He just left. Problem?”

  “Could be. Keep your head up.”

  “Yes, sir. But his daughter just got here. Do you want me to talk to her?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Rencke said. “Keep your eyes open.

  Rencke’s nerves were jumping all over the place. He didn’t want to alarm Mrs. M., but the bomb was en route as they figured it was, and Bahmad was already here. What was their timetable? -

  He tried McGarvey’s locator number again with the same result as before. He jumped off the table and started pacing and snapping his fingers. Bahmad was here. The bomb was enroute. So what was going to happen in the meantime? What could happen in the meantime? Why was bin Laden’s right hand man here himself?

  Rencke dialed *MHP, and the number was answered on the first ring.

  “Maryland Highway Patrol, what is your emergency please?”

  “My name is Otto Rencke. I’m calling from the Central Intelligence Agency and we need your help right now to get a message to one of our people.”

  “Sir, it is a criminal act to knowingly falsify an emergency—”

  “He is en route here from an address on Laurel Parkway in Chevy Chase. He’s driving a gray, Nissan Pathfinder, D.C. tags, baker-david-mike-five-six-eight. He needs to contact his office immediately. I’ll alert our security service as well as D.C. Metro, but time is of the essence.” Rencke kept his voice calm and deliberate even though he wanted to shout. The man was just doing his job the best way he knew how.

  “Like I said—”

  “Your caller ID is coming up blank,” Rencke said patiently. “I’ll release my phone and you can verify the number I’m calling from.” He entered a four-digit code. Five seconds later the 911 dispatcher was back.

  “Sorry about that, sir. I have a unit rolling. What’s his name?”

  “Kirk McGarvey,” Rencke said. “And tell your people to step on it, would ya?”

  Chevy Chase Country Club

  The country club was starting to fill-up with the morning weekday crowd. Bahmad thought of all the contingencies he had considered in his plan to kill the two women. The capture of bin Laden, the defection of one or more of the men who were carrying the bomb or who knew about it, or who were working on any of a dozen other vital elements of the mission. But he had not considered the possibility that McGarvey was alive.

  He was scarcely able to believe what the fools watching Kathleen McGarvey’s house were telling him. McGarvey had been there all night, and they had not called. Their job was to wait for his daughter to show up, so that’s exactly what they had done.

  They had not used their heads. They had no real idea what they were doing. They were ignorant, uneducated simpletons. Worse than that, they were stupid.

  “Do you want us to make the hit now?” Aggad asked eagerly.

  “Is the CIA van still parked in front of the house?”

  “Yes, it’s been there all night.”

  McGarvey was alive and had come to his wife’s side and yet the CIA still watched her. Bahmad wondered what that could mean. Obviously they thought that his wife was still in danger. From whom?

  “Was the daughter alone, or did someone come with her?”

  “She was alone. What do you want us to do?”

  Bob Hutton, one of Bahmad’s foursome came out to the patio from inside the club, spotted him and started over. With McGarvey back it changed everything. Or did it, he asked himself. Rightfully the decision to continue should be Osama’s. But making the one overseas call had been dangerous enough, making a second would be pushing the envelope.

  There was no time. McGarvey could return at any moment, or the daughter could leave. Bahmad looked up as if he had just spotted Hutton, waved and then shook his head in disgust.

  “Do nothing, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Ready your weapons. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Bahmad broke the connection, pocketed the phone and got to his feet as Hutton reached him. “Bad news from one of my business associates,” Bahmad apologized. “I have to make a meeting, so you’ll have to start without me.”

  Hutton glanced uncertainly at the jamup at the starter’s hut. “I don’t think that we can get a delay.”

  “I’ll only be a half-hour. I shouldn’t miss more than one or two holes, the way you gentlemen play.”

  Hutton laughed. “Low blow. You’ll have to take a penalty.”

&
nbsp; “A stroke a hole, and I’ll still spot you five.”

  “Loaded for bear this morning, are we?”

  Bahmad clapped him on the shoulder, though he wanted to rip the bastard’s heart out, and smiled. “I’ll meet you out on the course. Take my clubs with you, would you please?”

  Cabin John, Maryland

  The solid night’s sleep, only interrupted once, had done him some good, McGarvey had to admit. But seeing Elizabeth this morning all bright and happy, her entire future ahead of her, made him think about Sarah bin Laden, her life cut short before it had even begun, and it made him a little morose.

  Traffic on I-495 heading south toward the river was heavy as usual at this time of the morning and it would get even worse once he reached the GW Parkway to Langley.

  It was the United States government going to work, and that’s what got him about bin Laden. The man had taught his daughter that the United States was evil. That they were all a bunch of monsters bent on destroying the world. They were murderers, rapists, despoilers of the earth. They were out to defile Dar-Islam, the only true religion. Except that the “they” were out here on the Washington ring road with McGarvey this morning; some of them drinking coffee from McDonald’s Styrofoam cups, most of them still half asleep, a lot of them thinking about their own children, their mortgages, the upcoming weekend—soccer, swimming, Little League. Monsters, every one of them.

  McGarvey picked his cell phone off the passenger seat, switched it on and pocketed it.

  Now that the President had gone public with the accidental killing of Sarah bin Laden there would be an almost intolerable pressure on bin Laden not only by Iran, Iraq and the Sudan, but by himself to do something right now. The State Department had issued warnings to all embassies, especially in Islamic countries. Every CIA base, station and special interest section had been alerted to what was probably coming their way. Later today the State Department would also make an announcement to the media warning the American traveling public, and especially those Americans living and working overseas, to take special precautions.

  The U.S. had been blindsided at the Khobar Barracks in Saudi Arabia, at the Trade Towers in New York City, and by the tribal problems in Somalia, but this time everyone was about as ready as could be. Every law enforcement organization and intelligence agency in the country was on full alert.

  McGarvey’s cell phone chirped. He got it on the second ring. “This is McGarvey.”

  “Oh, wow, Mac, where are you?” Rencke said in a rush.

  “On 495 outside Cabin John coming up on the river. 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 th
e 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—”