Joshua's Hammer Page 41

  Sanchez sat forward. “You fucking come here and threaten me?”

  Bahmad spread his hands. “I’m merely the messenger from our friend,” he said. “I have no part in his plans, Mr. Sanchez. Believe me, I am nothing more than what you might call a bagman. But it is important that I get aboard that ship very soon.”

  Sanchez was shaken, though he tried to hide it. He knew very well what bin Laden and his people were capable of. “How is Osama now?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Bahmad replied coldly.

  Sanchez bit his tongue. He gave his security chief a questioning look.

  “We could chopper Mr. Guthrie to Long Beach and fly him down to Rosario in the Gulfstream by three,” Galvez said. “How far off shore is your ship?” he asked Bahmad.

  “A hundred miles by now, I should think.”

  “Miguel could have him out there by dark in the Cigarette.”

  “Do it,” Sanchez ordered. “Anything else?” he asked Bahmad.

  “Forget that I was ever here,” Bahmad said, rising.

  CIA Headquarters

  McGarvey tired easily, though he was getting better. His staff was putting together the mission parameters, and Dick Adkins would make sure that they stayed on track. McGarvey had his own agenda to work on this afternoon, and at the moment he didn’t want any interference.

  Killing bin Laden and getting away safely would be dif ficult but not impossible if the plans stayed dead simple. Put a committee on it and the first thing that would come up was proof that the mission could not succeed. One man could not do it on his own. The job would take a small army. But the logistics for such a strike would be impossible to keep simple. Look what had happened when Jimmy Carter tried to mount a rescue operation in Tehran. The project should be scrubbed.

  And maybe we were already too late, Adkins had suggested after the staff meeting. Killing or arresting bin Laden could very well be a moot point if the bomb were to be detonated in the middle of the planning stage. Then you’d better make it quick, McGarvey had shot back sharply. Adkins was used to him by now, but McGarvey had seen that his remark had been over the top. It was too bad, but they had work to do to avert a disaster. He would apologize later.

  Bin Laden was holed up in Khartoum, the troubled and complicated capital of a troubled and complicated country torn apart by almost continuous fighting. Its oil reserves were thought to be as vast as Saudi Arabia’s. Religious factions were fighting each other. And the Iranian military was in Sudan in a very big way because of the strategic importance of the country. It had leases on military bases in Port Sudan and Suakin that ran until 2019, thousands of Iranian soldiers were in training on Sudanese soil and there was a powerful Iranian-funded radio station in Port Sudan that beamed Islamic propaganda to the entire region.

  But the CIA also had a hand in Sudanese politics, something that McGarvey had only come to realize after he’d become deputy director of Operations. He was trying to extricate the Company from the morass, but it had become a Dennis Berndt pet project, and getting out was impossible for the moment. Money and arms were being funneled to the Sudan’s People’s Liberation Army of Christian Nilotes. They weren’t doing much to change the nature of the politics over there, but they were a source of potential embarrassment to the U.S. It was something he’d tried to explain to the White House, but his arguments fell on deaf ears. Leave politics to the politicians, he’d been told.

  There were any number of the SPLA’s soldiers who could be pursuaded to try for a hit on bin Laden. McGarvey had seriously considered the possibility. But there wasn’t one chance in a million that any of them would be successful, let alone survive the attempt. They were farmers turned amateur soldiers. They did not have the discipline, the equipment, the training or the dedication to carry out such an operation. They might be able to supply the shooter with a relatively safe haven after the kill, and possibly the means of getting him out of the country, but nothing else.

  A detailed street map of downtown Khartoum was displayed on his computer monitor. The map was keyed to the National Reconnaissance Office’s digital file of satellite photographs. He clicked on the vertical borders and brought them inward until they encompassed the block in which bin Laden’s compound was located. He did the same with the horizontal borders, then clicked on the photoreconnaissance record. A menu came up showing more than a hundred shots, some of them infrared, of the area within the box, each marked with a date and time. He pulled up a series that had been taken over a five-day period starting two months ago, just after the missle raid.

  It was too much to hope that one of the satellites might have caught bin Laden himself showing up, but he was looking for the same kinds of patterns he’d asked Rencke to look for. Was the traffic to the compund mostly from the outside, or were bin Laden or his people traveling out of the compound to attend meetings elsewhere in the city, or the region?

  A big problem was that bin Laden had an inside track on the satellites’ orbits. It could be someone on the inside of the NRO, or possibily even computer hackers who’d gotten into the system, found out what they wanted to know and then got back out, all without being detected by one of the new antihacker programs. Rencke thought that was a slim possibility at best. Actually figuring out what satellite would be overhead at any given time was fairly simple for someone who knew some mathematics and some rudimentary orbital mechanics. If you plotted a satellite’s movements across the sky at night when it could be seen, a mathematician could predict where it would be at any given time. Thus whenever a photorecon satellite was overhead there seemed to be a sharp drop in traffic in the area around the compound.

  Finding nothing in the first series of photographs, McGarvey narrowed the horizontal and vertical borders to box in nothing but bin Laden’s compound. As before a menu came up showing a series of photographs that were taken in the past seven years since the compound was first identified as a possible bin Laden stronghold. The number of photographs was well over one thousand, practically speaking, a dead end for him, McGarvey thought.

  Rencke came from Adkins’s office unannounced. “You’re not going to get anywhere like that.”

  McGarvey looked up, vexed that he was being interrupted. “Try knocking next time.”

  “I only meant that I’ve been over all those pictures. You already know what I came up with.” It suddenly dawned on Rencke what McGarvey was really up to and his eyes widened. “Oh, wow, Mac, you can’t be serious. Not after what you already went through.”

  “It has to be done.”

  “If you say so,” Rencke said. He started hopping from one foot to the other. “But use somebody else.”

  “There isn’t anybody.”

  “You mean that there’s nobody you’d be willing to send on such a mission,” Rencke countered.

  McGarvey shook his head. “You might be beating a dead horse no matter what we do,” he said. “Unless he comes out of his compound, or unless we can lure him out of it, he’s going to stay pretty safe for the duration.”

  “That’s about what I came up with, ya know. And it’s different this time, not like the others.”

  He had McGarvey’s attention. “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t have my search engines so it’d take you a long time to figure out what’s happening. The last three times that bin Laden was in residence he didn’t stay put. He traveled all over the place. He even flew over to London once. Tehran, Beirut, Tripoli, everywhere.”

  McGarvey turned to stare at his computer screen.

  “He’s hunkered down,” Rencke said. “It means that he doesn’t want to take any risks.”

  “Either that or he’s too sick to travel now.”

  “In that case guys like Turabi and General al-Bashir wouldn’t be showing up on his doorstep on such a regular basis.” Lieutenant General Omar Hassan Ahmad al-Bashir was the president of Sudan and the leader of the National Salvation Revolutionary Council. “That’s what I came to tell you. He’s staying put for a r
eason. And the heavy hitters are coming to see him for the same reason.”

  “He’s waiting for the bomb to go off, and they’re trying to talk him out of it.”

  “Bingo,” Rencke said without his usual enthusiasm. “It’s just like you figured.”

  “Find the bomb, find Bahmad and keep the President and his family out of harm’s way. We have the best people in the country working on it, but so far we’ve struck out.” McGarvey looked up. “All we can do is keep trying. Starting this weekend in San Francisco.”

  “Don’t forget Liz,” Rencke said with feeling. “They tried to hurt her once, they might try again.”

  Rosario de Arriba, Mexico

  At ten thousand feet the Baja California coast was little more than a hazy, pale brown slash against the deep, electric blue of the Pacific Ocean, but as they came in for a landing Bahmad could see the Rosario Marina where he would pick up his ride. It was very large and modern, but there were only a few boats tied up at the more than five hundred slips. The parking lot behind the restaurant-condominium complex was nearly empty too. A lot of the boats had to be out of fishing charters now, and the handful left were powerboats, all of them large and expensive.

  “We’ve gotten some of the heavy hitters to sign up, but the flood hasn’t started yet,” the Gulfstream pilot Wayne Hansen observed. “The word’ll get out.”

  Bahmad sat in the copilot’s seat because he thought it might be possible to catch a glimpse of the Margo on the horizon. But they never flew that far off shore, and he did not direct the pilot to do so. He wanted to keep the need to know at an absolute minimum.

  “Is this place new?” he asked.

  “Opened last year. Sanchez built it. The man’s a genius. He figured the marina would keep the federales busy watching his nighttime activities, and they’d be too distracted to pay attention to what he was doing during the day.” Hansen clenched a small cigar still in its plastic wrapper in the corner of his mouth. “Smart.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Bahmad said.

  They lined up for their landing, the afternoon very bright now, and Hansen lowered the flaps and came in slightly crabbed because of a crosswind. He was a very good pilot. “Should I wait for you?”

  Bahmad shook his head. “You might as well go back to California.”

  “I hope you like fishing and drinking, ’cause there’s not a hell of a lot more to do here yet.”

  Customs was perfunctory; they didn’t even check his bags. Ten minutes after touching down he rode in an air conditioned shuttle over to the marina, where he was directed to Aphrodite near the end of B dock.

  The boat was a black-hulled Cigarette of about fifty feet on the waterline. Long and low she looked very sleek. Bahmad knew something about this type of boat. He’d attended a meeting aboard one in Monaco about five years ago. Its low profile made it very difficult to detect by radar, its powerful engines could push it to speeds up to eighty knots if the sea conditions were correct, and if the engine compartment was properly insulated and the exhausts baffled and led below the waterline she could be extremely hard to detect even by infrared sensors. She could outrun just about anything that the Mexican or U.S. Coast Guards could put to sea.

  According to the pilot Aphrodite was used almost exclusively for overnight and long weekend cruises that were arranged by Loves Unlimited, a swingers club from Los Angeles. In reality she was used to head off shore during the day and meet with another ship where she would take on several tons of heroin or cocaine. From there she would race north to the U.S. border, where she would drop the weighted containers about a mile or two off a deserted beach at a precise GPS location for later pickup.

  A slender man wearing a baseball cap, brightly flowered Hawaiian shirt and white shorts stood on the foredeck coiling up a thick power cord. He looked up as Bahmad approached. His eyes were dark, and there was a five- or six-day growth of whiskers on his angular face.

  “Captain Fernandez?” Bahmad asked.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m Gordon Guthrie. I believe that you are expecting me.”

  “Come aboard,” the man said. He stowed the power cord in a locker, and directed Bahmad to the aft sun deck, then below through a smoked Lexan door.

  Everything that Bahmad could see about the boat was first class, very expensively and professionally done. The hatches, the fittings, the ports, all of it was extremely heavy duty. If the entire boat had been custom built and outfitted this way, Bahmad thought, it would withstand a typhoon.

  “He’s here,” the crewman said.

  A huge, shirtless man with long black hair and a thick black beard, seated at the saloon table studying a chart, looked up. Thick black hair covered his chest, and lay in great patches on his shoulders and flanks. Even the backs of his hands were covered. He smiled, his teeth perfectly white.

  “Señor Guthrie, here you are.” He extended a hand, but Bahmad ignored it, cocking his head to listen. He thought he heard someone pounding on something below decks.

  “Who else is aboard?”

  “Besides Antonio here, no one else except for Hernando, who takes care of the engines.” Fernandez’s eyes narrowed. “What were you expecting?”

  “A larger crew.”

  “We manage.”

  Bahmad laid his bag down, opened his attaché case, took out a Bank of Mexico, S.A. envelope and handed it to the captain. “I would like to hire you, your crew and this boat.”

  “We are already yours,” Fernandez said. He opened the envelope and took out the bank draft. It took a moment for it to register and when it did he looked up surprised and very interested. “This is a lot of money.”

  “There will be a second draft for a further half million U.S. dollars when we’re finished.” Bahmad gave the captain a significant look. “Of course the exact nature of this transaction is strictly between us. It need never leave this boat.”

  “What do you want us to do?”

  “Hijack a cargo ship.”

  “What about the crew?”

  “There are seventeen officers and men, but two of the officers are mine. Most of the remainder of the crew won’t know what’s happening.”

  “Those that do?”

  “We’ll kill them.”

  Fernandez sat back. “What then?”

  “You’ll get your second check and you can come back here or go wherever you would like to go.”

  Fernandez looked at the bank draft again. “How do I know that this is legitimate?”

  “Telephone the bank.”

  Fernandez nodded. “I think I’ll do just that.”

  “Good. In the meantime I want to meet your other crew member, I want to see your radio equipment and I want something to eat. We have a busy night ahead of us.”

  M/V Margo West of Isla San Martin

  “This is unit two standing by on schedule. This is unit two standing by on schedule, over.” Green was on the radio telephone, obviously waiting for a reply. The crewman normally on the bridge with him had gone below to fetch more coffee. Green had spilled his on the deck. Captain Panagiotopolous had been on deck checking the helicopter. When he came back inside he spotted the crewman and asked why he wasn’t on the bridge. He stood now in the shadows of the chartroom just aft of the bridge, watching and listening.

  “Unit one, this is unit two standing by on schedule, over.”

  Green was not getting the reply he wanted, and he was becoming frustrated. Something made him turn around and he spotted the captain, his face falling almost comically.

  “How long have you been standing there, sir?”

  Panagiotopolous came out into the light. “Long enough to want to know what the hell you’re up to. What’s this unit one and unit two stuff?”

  “It’s a company code. I was trying to contact my father.”

  Panagiotopolous glanced at the SSB radio attached to the overhead. It wasn’t set to any of the company’s frequencies. “You’re lying, Green. Now I want to know what�
�s going on here!”

  “It’s your off-watch,” Green snarled. “You should have stayed in your quarters instead of coming here.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pistol.

  Panagiotopolous, surprisingly light on his feet, was across the bridge in two steps and he batted the gun out of Green’s hand. “You little shit. Pulling a gun on me.”

  Green stepped back and tried to hit Panagiotopolous in the head with the radio telephone handset. But the captain had been in his share of barroom brawls during his long service as a merchant mariner, and he knew all the tricks. He ducked like a boxer, slipped the blow and shoved Green hard enough against the radar console that the breath was knocked out of the first officer. Nevertheless Green tried to fight back, but he was outweighed by at least seventy-five pounds. Panagiotopolous slammed him against the console again, this time knocking the flight out of him.

  The portside door swung open and Schumatz came in. He looked from Green to the captain in surprise. “Do you need some help, Captain?”

  “Green pulled a gun on me.”

  Green tried to say something, but Schumatz was across the bridge in a few strides and he knocked the first officer to the floor. “I told you that I didn’t trust the sonofabitch.” He looked up. “What was the little pissant trying to do, sabotage the helicopter?”

  “No. He was up here trying to call someone on the SSB.”

  “My father,” Green croaked from where he was crouched on the floor still clutching the phone.

  “That’ll be easy enough to check,” the captain said. “I’ll call the company.”

  “It’s the middle of the night over there,” Schumatz pointed out. “Maybe we should wait until morning.”

  Panagiotopolous turned back to Green. “Why did you pull a gun on me?”

  Green looked away defiantly. The captain snatched the telephone from him.

  “Unit one, this is unit two, go ahead.” There was nothing but the soft hiss of a dead frequency. He hung up the phone. “Put him somewhere secure. I don’t want him sneaking up on me tonight and slitting my throat.”