“You’ll be gambling with five million of Uncle’s money, and if you lose it there’ll be some people seriously pissed off at you,” Rencke had offered.
“Won’t be the first time,” McGarvey said.
“We could give them counterfeit money,” Gloria suggested.
“None of our people would take the deal seriously,” McGarvey told her. “The word would get out.”
“You’re talking about leaks,” Gloria said. “In Karachi? I know Coddington, he’s a good guy.”
“I’m sure he is,” McGarvey said. “But are you willing to bet your life that his shop is airtight? We’re talking about five million cash. A lot of people are going to want a piece of the action.”
“What if we do lose the money?” she asked.
McGarvey had shrugged. “The Company can afford it.”
Bernstein glanced over his shoulder. “From what I heard, Coddington had a hell of a time coming up with that much cash in such a short time. And the word is already out on the street. It’s like somebody tossed a big boulder into a small pond.”
“Any takers yet?” McGarvey asked.
“No, but our guys are in place and ready to go at a moment’s notice.”
“It’ll happen tonight,” McGarvey said.
“How can you be so sure?” Bernstein asked.
“Because I’m here. And as soon as they find out that I am, they’ll move.”
Once they were checked in at the Pearl Continental and their bags were brought up to their tenth-floor executive suite, Gloria ordered lunch from room service while McGarvey used his sat phone to call Rencke.
The number rang once in Rencke’s office before it was automatically rolled over to his sat phone. “You’re in place?”
“We just checked in,” McGarvey said. “Where are you?”
“On the move,” Rencke said. “The opposition knows you’re there. A half hour ago just about every al-Quaida Web site went quiet. Not so much as a symbol. The sites are all blank, and I haven’t been able to get into any of them, which means their computers were disconnected.”
“They knew that we would be looking. That’s good.”
“That’s very good, kimo sabe. Now we just have to wait until they take the bait.”
“How about you?” McGarvey asked.
“No matter what happens, I’ll be at this number until it’s over.”
SEVENTY-ONE
The entire twenty-fifth floor of the M. A. Jinnah commercial tower was in darkness. Osama bin Laden walked to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out at the city. Below, the streets were alive with activity. And out there somewhere Kirk McGarvey was coming.
Bin Laden had no fear, although he did have a great deal of respect for the American’s abilities. They had first come face-to-face in Afghanistan before 9/11, and every day since then he regretted with everything in his soul that he’d not killed the man when he’d had the chance. McGarvey had thwarted nearly every al-Quaida initiative, except for the attacks of 9/11, and now the assassin was here.
But this time McGarvey would surely die, because an al-Quaida traitor would accept the reward money that the Americans were offering and a trap so exquisitely believable for them would be set.
Kamal Tayyhib, bin Laden’s chief bodyguard, knocked softly at the open door. “Contact has been made, Imam.”
“Have the Americans agreed to the meeting?” bin Laden asked, without turning away from the window.
“Yes, and our people are in place.”
Bin Laden nodded. “Very well. But under no circumstances must the American deliverymen come to any harm.”
“It will be as you have ordered,” Tayyhib promised. “But what of the money? It would be of inestimable assistance to the jihad.”
Bin Laden smiled inwardly. In the early days of the struggle, money had been of no concern, because he was a rich man. And later, after most of his personal fortune was gone, some of the very Saudi princes he vowed to depose had supported him and the cause. “Destroy it,” he said softly.
“But surely that’s not necessary, Imam.”
Bin Laden turned around, an infinite patience welling up in his chest. “Has my double arrived at the compound?”
Tayyhib wanted to press the point. Five million dollars was a great deal of money. At the very least it could be used to finance the continuing struggle in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Syria. Or it could be sent to the West Bank to help support the families impoverished by the Jews. But he lowered his eyes. “He arrived two hours ago.”
“Has Colonel Sarwar been notified?” Obaid Sarwar was the chief liaison among Pakistani intelligence, the U.S. Embassy in Islamabad, and the U.S.Consul General here in Karachi. He was also a strong supporter of al-Quaida and the jihad. Pakistan was walking a narrow line between appearing to be hunting the jihadists while all the while secretly supporting them.
“Yes. He promises to give us forty-eight hours. If McGarvey hasn’t made his move by then, the ISI will ask the Americans to help raid the compound. But of course by then no one will be there.”
“McGarvey will take the bait,” bin Laden said.
“If he’s as smart as you say he is, won’t he suspect a trap?”
Bin Laden smiled. “He’ll be certain that it’s a trap. But that won’t stop him. He’ll do it tonight. I’m sure of it. And then he will be dead.”
Tayyhib nodded respectfully. “As you say, Imam.”
“Now leave me,” bin Laden ordered, his voice as soft as a breeze in a field of grass. “But do not go far, I want to know the moment the handover takes place.”
“Yes, Sayyid,” Tayyhib said. It was a term of deep religious respect, most often used for descendants of Mohammed himself.
“Not Sayyid,” bin Laden corrected, although he was secretly pleased. “Imam will do.”
He turned back to the window as his chief bodyguard withdrew, and turned his mind to a second problem, that of Rupert Graham and what had to be done with the man who’d become a serious liability to the jihad.
“You should let me make the handover,” Joe Bernstein insisted.
He was at the wheel of a consulate red Mercedes 300 diesel sedan, parked in the rear of a tall concrete apartment building on the outskirts of the city across the Lyarl River. It was after nine in the evening, and it had started to rain a half hour ago. Before it had been hot and muggy. Now it was hot and steamy, and Bernstein’s filthy white shirt was plastered to his back.
“This is my money and my operation,” David Coddington said from the backseat.
It came down to a matter of trust, Bernstein thought. Five million dollars was a lot of money to let walk out the door. But it rankled, because he had given four dangerous years of his life to Company operations here and up in Islamabad. More than once he could have sold his services to Indian intelligence. Word on the street was that they paid twice as much as the CIA for items of interest. But he’d been loyal the entire time.
“We could run into some serious shit. It wasn’t such a good idea to drive out here all alone.”
“They’ll want the money,” Coddington replied in his maddeningly calm voice. “But if they get a decent look at your face you’ll be worthless to us on the street.” The COS patted Bernstein on the shoulder. “This could be the big one. If we can bag bin Laden we’ll all go home heroes.”