The sat phone was silent for several beats. Graham opened his eyes and looked out at the city. He could imagine bin Laden sitting on a prayer rug in his dayroom. It was a few minutes after seven in the morning in Pakistan, and the man was an early riser.
“Why didn’t you blow up the ship when you had the chance?” Graham laughed. “I’m a mercenary for the cause, not a martyr, I thought we’d already got that straight, chum.”
“I want to know everything, beginning with your arrival in Caracas,” bin Laden said. “It’s certainly not out of the realm of possibility that you were spotted and identified for who you are at the airport. The CIA has a presence there.”
“If I had been made, they would never have allowed me to board the ship. Vensport Security controls all the ferry operators on the lake.”
If he had sown the seeds of his own failure it would have been with the Russian steward who had spotted him as an imposter and reported her suspicion to the first officer. But they had only gotten to the point of searching his room when he’d walked in on them. They wouldn’t have had the time to make a call.
“Very well,” bin Laden said. “You got aboard and sailed out of there. What happened next?”
“I killed the crew, made the rendezvous, and picked up my people without a hitch. Then in Limón Bay we picked up the canal pilot and headed into the Gatun lock.”
The pilot had come to the realization that Graham was an imposter, but he’d not had a chance to radio for help.
“The explosives were set?” bin Laden asked.
“Yes, and we even made it to the middle lock, but before I could get ashore and press the button the U.S. SEAL team was on top of us.”
Bin Laden said something in Arabic that Graham didn’t catch. “How did you know that it was a U.S. strike team? Perhaps they were Panamanian.”
“They came in a Seahawk helicopter with U.S. Navy markings, and they spoke English,” Graham said. “The point is, what’s next? This operation is dead—”
“Only this operation,” bin Laden interrupted. “How was it you escaped, if as you say, your ship was taken over by the American military?”
Graham told him everything, including the parts about hijacking the helicopter, killing the crew, and making his rendezvous with the Nueva Cruz.
“That was inventive,” bin Laden said. “But then you are a clever man.”
“Only the civilian seemed to be suspicious. I have a hunch he was CIA, which is what’s bothering me the most. How did they get involved unless your organization has an informer?”
“What about the civilian?” bin Laden demanded sharply. “What made you think he was a CIA officer?”
“He was in charge, he was armed, and he knew what he was doing,” Graham said. It was the expression in the man’s gray-green eyes. He’d seen things, done things. “He was a pro.”
“What did this professional look like? Describe him.”
“Taller than me, husky, athletic-looking. Green eyes—”
“What?” bin Laden demanded sharply.
“Green eyes.”
“Did he speak with an accent?”
Graham was confused. “I’m not a bloody expert on American accents,” he said. “Southern, maybe. I don’t know. Oklahoma?”
Bin Laden was silent again for several seconds. When he came back his tone of voice was different, as if he’d received some bad news. “If the civilian is who I think he is, you may consider yourself lucky to be alive. How good a look did he get of you?”
“Very good, but I was in disguise,” Graham said. He decided not to tell bin Laden about the cell phone detonator. “Who is he?”
“A man I know very well,” bin Laden replied. “Now it will be necessary to kill him, no matter the cost, because he’ll not stop hunting until he finds you.”
“He’s just another CIA operator. They’re a penny a pound.”
“Not this one,” bin Laden said. “I want you back here as soon as possible, I have a new mission for you. Something much better, something more suitable to your training.”
“What mission?” Graham asked, his interest piqued and his rage subsiding for the moment.
“It’s called Allah’s Scorpion,” bin Laden said. “Come here and I’ll explain everything to you.”
TWENTY-FOUR
McGarvey stopped for a moment at the head of the stairs, as his six-month-old granddaughter, Audrey, giggled in the kitchen. It was nine thirty, well past her normal bedtime, but Elizabeth and Todd hadn’t been able to come over until past seven, and Katy wouldn’t have allowed them through the front door if they hadn’t brought the baby.
When he’d gotten home a little before one this afternoon, Katy had searched his face to find out if he was done. What she’d seen hadn’t pleased her. She knew without asking that her husband’s return from the field was temporary; he was on the hunt. He had the old look: lean, hungry, determined.
But they’d made the best of the afternoon because the kids were coming for a late dinner and they were bringing the baby, and she was the joy in their lives that they’d all desperately needed for a long time.
Adkins had called around four, wanting McGarvey to come to the Building first thing in the morning. He hadn’t pressed for any details, but he’d broadly hinted that the operation was far from over.
“Someone will have to go after Graham,” McGarvey had agreed. “I don’t think he’s a man who quits easily.”
“There’s more,” Adkins had said.
McGarvey had chuckled. “There always is.”
The house was in complete disarray. Boxes were stacked everywhere, waiting for the movers who were supposed to come on Thursday. Furniture was tagged, paintings, pictures, and mirrors were off the walls and crated, and his study had been completely disassembled.
They’d bought this house ten years ago for $350,000, just before he and Katy had split up and he’d run to Switzerland. They’d put it on the market two months ago, and it had sold in two days for $l.9 million—$200,000 more than they were asking.
Coming downstairs, he was suddenly struck by his history here. It was from this place that he and Katy had ended their marriage, and it had been here that they’d reunited.
But there had also been bad things. His wife and daughter had been placed in harm’s way, more than once. And just outside across the street his bodyguard and friend, Dick Yemm, had been assassinated.
Time to head for sunnier climes. Time to get back to teaching, and back to the book on Voltaire that he’d been writing for several years.
But first there was one remaining task, other than Graham. Something he should have done in 2000 when he’d had the opportunity. In many respects the failure to stop 9/11 was as much his fault as it was anyone else’s.
This time he would not stop until he had personally put a bullet in Osama bin Laden’s brain.
He went down the stair hall and into the kitchen, where Audrey in her high chair had been pulled up to the counter and was eating her dinner. She had strained beets in her hair, her ears, her eyes, and in the creases of her neck.
Katy looked up. “Did you find the camera?”
McGarvey shook his head. “It’s in one of the boxes. I couldn’t find it.”
“Don’t worry, Mother, Audie does this with every meal,” Elizabeth said. “We’ll send pictures.”
“Your granddaughter is a slob, Mrs. M,” Todd said.
Katy smiled. “So was your wife.”
“She still is,” Todd added.
Liz shot a playful slap at him when the telephone rang.