They’d been given nearly unlimited resources for this operation, because it had the personal blessing of bin Laden himself. In addition to the nearly perfect identity documents all eighteen of them carried, they’d been equipped with the three cars and two dark blue vans that had been repainted with the logos of the Prince William County Sheriff ’s Department. Drivers would wait with the three cars at the Farragut Drive exit, while al-Turabi and the other fourteen freedom fighters would take the vans to a spot above and behind the gravesite.
As soon as McGarvey showed up, they would take him out. And for that job they’d been supplied with a variety of weapons including four RPGs, and the new Heckler & Koch M8 carbine.
Against those odds and that firepower, and with the element of surprise, al-Turabi knew that there was no way they could fail. In a few hours McGarvey, and anyone standing next to him, would die.
Al-Turabi bumped across railroad tracks, then turned down a narrow lane between derelict warehouses in which a community of squatters had sprung up over the past few years. The police did not bother them this far south, because they were out of the public’s eye, and seldom caused any trouble. One of the members of the Baltimore cell had suggested the mission be staged from here, and he’d been spot on. It’s as if they were invisible.
The service door on a building marked CAPITAL CLEANERS rumbled partway open as al-Turabi approached and he drove up the ramp and inside.
One of his mujahideen was there, an M8 slung over his shoulder, and he closed the door, as al-Turabi stopped at the rear of the building where the other two cars and the two vans were parked.
Odeah came over when al-Turabi got out of the car, and they embraced. The others who were sitting around on packing crates and chairs, making last-minute checks of their weapons and loads, which had been laid out on a tarp, looked up. They were expectant, but they had been in other battles before, from Afghanistan and Iraq to Madrid and London, so al-Turabi knew that he could count on them.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” Odeah said. “Everything is finished here. How did it look?”
“I didn’t see anything other than the normal security. A couple of cars at the Memorial Drive gate. A couple of Park Police on patrol in pickup trucks. The marine at Kennedy’s grave. And, of course, the closed-circuit television cameras here and there throughout the cemetery grounds.”
“Our sheriff ’s department vans shouldn’t attract any attention,” Odeah said. “How about visitors?
“About what we’ve been seeing for a weekday,” al-Turabi said. “Nobody suspects a thing. After all, almost everyone there is already dead.”
“There’ll probably just be the family and maybe a couple of officials from the Agency with their bodyguards,” Odeah said. “It’s just a simple funeral for one of their spies.”
Al-Turabi glanced at the array of weapons, and at his men. “And Kirk McGarvey,” he said. “Let’s not forget him.”
Odeah lowered his voice. “I still say that we should find out where McGarvey and his wife are staying, and kill them there. It would be much less risky.”
Al-Turabi’s temper flared. “Are you afraid of martyrdom, Imad?” he asked sharply.
“Not at all,” Odeah answered matter-of-factly. “But I do not want to give my life meaninglessly.”
“Nothing for the jihad is meaningless,” al-Turabi said, just as matter-of-factly. “If we all die killing McGarvey, it will be worth the sacrifice.”
“One man,” Odeah said in wonder.
“Yes, but a man very special to bin Laden.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Gloria’s apartment was on the second floor of a condominium-garden apartment complex off Old Georgetown Road on the outskirts. A half-dozen buildings skirted a nine-hole executive golf course, with a lot of walking paths, the fairways defined by dense woods.
McGarvey, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and subdued gray tie, his 9mm Walther PPK holstered at the small of his back, parked his Range Rover in front, walked upstairs to her door, and rang the bell.
He’d not been able to calm Katy down before he’d left, and her deepening fear and premonition that something horrible was about to happen weighed heavily on him. Leaving the safe house he’d felt as if he were walking away from her again, like he’d done in the old days; abandoning her, instead of remaining by her side until he could make her understand and accept that what he was doing was vital.
“It’s open,” Gloria called from inside.
McGarvey let himself in. A short corridor opened on the right to a small kitchen, to the left on a bedroom, and straight ahead to the well-furnished living room with sliding-glass doors that looked out on the condo complex pool and beyond to the golf course and woods. “What if I was one of the bad guys?”
Gloria laughed from the master bedroom off the living room. “I saw you drive up,” she called. “How are we doing on time?”
“We’re good,” McGarvey told her.
“Make yourself comfortable, I’ll just be a minute,” she said. She came to the bedroom door. She was dressed only in a black lace bra and matching thong panties, her dark skin glowing. A small white dressing covered the gunshot wound in her left hip. She smiled. “There’s beer and wine in the fridge. Pour me a white, would you?”
She was a beautiful woman, with a fantastic body. McGarvey grinned. “I will, if you promise to put on some clothes.”
She put one hand up on the door frame and struck a provocative pose. “I thought you said that we were good on time.”
“Not that much time,” McGarvey said. He went into the kitchen. “Get dressed,” he ordered over his shoulder.
Gloria laughed throatily. “Too bad,” she said.
McGarvey was flattered, despite himself. In another time, another place, when he was young and single, he would have taken her up on her offer. Gladly. Such things were not unknown in the Company. In fact it was sometimes encouraged. A couple in the field seemed to pose less of a threat than the lone officer. It was a psychological thing. Though such pairings were one of the reasons that the divorce rate was so high among CIA officers.
There wasn’t much else in the fridge except for a six-pack of Michelob Ultra and an open bottle of Pinot Grigio, but she and her partner had been out of the country for a long time. He found the glasses in the cabinet over the sink and poured her some wine, then went back into the living room.
“You can come get your drink if you’re decent,” he called to her.
She came out of the bedroom. She hadn’t put on her shoes, but she was wearing a modest black dress that came down almost to her knees. It wasn’t zipped up in the back yet. “Better?” she asked.
“Better for my heart,” McGarvey said.
She laughed. “That’s good to know,” she said. She came over, took the wine from McGarvey, and took a sip. “Thanks,” she said. She looked up into his eyes. “Aren’t you having anything?”
“After the funeral maybe.”
She put her glass down on the coffee table and turned around. “Zip me up, please.”
He reached for the zipper, but she reached around for his right hand and placed it against her breast as she turned her lips to his and kissed him.
“Nice,” she said huskily.
“Very,” McGarvey told her, and he kissed her again, more deeply, holding her for several long moments, before parting.
Her eyes were wide, her lips parted. “We have time,” she said.