The COS was silent for a moment. It wasn’t the answer he’d expected. “That’s a good idea,” he said.
“Yeah, good luck.”
McGarvey broke the connection. “Bin Laden is not at the Fish Harbor compound. It’s a setup.”
“It’s just what you figured,” Gloria said. “So what’s next?”
“Get dressed. We’re going to the lounge for a drink.”
Pakistan was a Muslim nation, and alcohol was forbidden except in special circumstances. In most hotels, guests could order beer, wine, and liquor, night or day, but only to drink in their rooms. And major hotels usually provided a concierge floor of executive suites, generally reserved for foreign, non-Muslim visitors. A cocktail lounge was one of the perks.
A half-dozen businessmen and two women were seated at the bar and at tables in the small, tastefully modern lounge when McGarvey and Gloria walked in. Tall windows on two sides looked out on the city, and at the governor’s palatial mansion next door. A man in a tuxedo was playing American standards on a piano. The lighting was subdued.
They took a table in a corner from where they could watch the door and the bar. A cocktail waiter came and took their order, a cognac neat for McGarvey and a dark rum neat for Gloria, and when he left, Rupert Graham walked in the door and went to the bar.
McGarvey stiffened imperceptibly. He had suspected that Graham was the one who’d escaped from the sub and made off with the SOC, just as he suspected that Graham was here in Karachi and knew that McGarvey had come here too.
He’d even suspected that sooner or later the Brit would make contact to suggest a trade; bin Laden’s whereabouts, something McGarvey wanted to know, for a head start so that Graham could lose himself somewhere not only away from Western authorities, but from al-Quaida. He’d almost lost his life twice in the past weeks; first in Panama and second five miles downriver from the Farm. He would want some breathing room.
Or at least that’s what he wanted everyone to believe.
But McGarvey hadn’t counted on the man actually showing up in person. He’d expected a telephone call or perhaps a messenger to suggest a meeting somewhere safe for both of them, though he’d known that Graham had the balls to come here like this.
It would be so easy to get up as if he and Gloria were leaving, pull out his pistol, and as they passed behind Graham, put a bullet into the man’s head. In the confusion he and Gloria could make their way out of the hotel, and depend again on Otto to get them out of the country.
McGarvey smiled. Graham would be dead, but it would leave bin Laden’s whereabouts still a mystery.
“What’s so funny?” Gloria asked.
McGarvey nodded toward Graham at the bar. “It’s him.”
Gloria nearly came out of her seat, but McGarvey reached out and laid a hand on her arm. “Easy. He’s here to talk, not shoot. So we’ll talk to him.”
Their waiter brought the drinks, and as soon as he’d gone, Graham got up from the bar, a glass of what looked to be champagne in hand, and sauntered back to their table. He was dressed in a conservative dark blazer, with club tie and gray slacks, his grooming perfect, his manner supremely confident.
McGarvey pulled out his pistol and held it under the table on his lap, the safety catch in the off position.
Gloria noticed, but she held her cool.
“Mr. McGarvey, we meet again,” the Brit said pleasantly. “May I join you and Ms. Ibenez?”
“No,” McGarvey said harshly, but without raising his voice. “What do you want?”
A momentary flash of anger passed across Graham’s eyes. But he recovered nicely and smiled. “Why, to talk, same as you.”
“No,” McGarvey said. “I’m here to kill you and bin Laden. At the moment I have a pistol aimed at you from under the table. Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you here and now.”
“Unsporting, old—”
“Has anyone taken notice of us?” McGarvey asked Gloria.
She looked past Graham at the other patrons, and shook her head. “No.” “Get your purse, we’re leaving now.”
“Wait,” Graham said, the first hint of uncertainty creeping into his demeanor. “Bin Laden’s not at Fish Harbor.”
“I know that.”
“But you don’t know where he’s hiding.”
“Somewhere here in the city.”
“So right,” Graham said. “I’ll tell you where he is, and you’ll give me forty-eight hours to make my escape.”
“You could have escaped after Norfolk,” McGarvey said. “Yet you came back here, practically led me here. Why?”
“Looking over my shoulder for you is bad enough. But looking over my shoulder for al-Quaida as well is too much.” Graham managed another tight smile. “Besides, you may get killed trying to get out of Pakistan. The man does have his supporters. I might bag myself a twofer.”
“Okay,” McGarvey said. “Where is he?”
Graham laughed. “What do you take me for?”
“A traitor,” McGarvey said matter-of-factly. “A coward. A fucking rabid dog. Shall I go on?”
Graham held himself in check, the strain obvious in his eyes, which narrowed slightly. “Perhaps you should kill me now, while you have the chance,” he said, his voice soft. “Because sooner or later I will kill you.”
“It’s a thought,” McGarvey replied. He raised his pistol. “But I want bin Laden first.”
Graham nodded. “And I’ll give him to you.”
“How and when?”
“Tonight. Two A.M. I’ll meet you downstairs in the lobby.”
“And take me to him?”
Graham shook his head. “No, of course not. I’ll tell you where he’s hiding — and you’re right, he’s here in the city. You’ll suspect it’s a trap, so I’ll remain here with Ms. Ibenez. We can hold each other hostage. When you return, having got what you came for, I’ll walk out of the hotel and you’ll give me a forty-eight-hour head start.”
“What makes you think that I won’t just kill you?” McGarvey asked.
“You’re an American, and your sense of honor and fair play is nearly as strong as a Brit’s. If you give your word, you’ll keep it.”
McGarvey said nothing.
“Well?”
“You have my word,” McGarvey said.
“I’ll see you at two,” Graham said. He started to leave, but then turned back. “I do have connections, you know. If I find that you’ve involved the Company with anything other than the Fish Harbor operation I’ll put out the word why you’re here. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.”
Graham walked away, setting his champagne glass on the bar before he left the lounge.
“It’ll be a trap,” Gloria said.
“Yup,” McGarvey said. He put his gun away, took out his sat phone, and speed-dialed Rencke’s number. It took a few seconds to acquire, but Otto answered on the first ring.
“Yes?”
“He’s here in the hotel. He just left the lounge.”
“I’m on it.”
Graham’s new driver, Tony Sampson, leaned up against the right fender of the Mercedes S500 sedan parked in front of the Pearl Continental Hotel, smoking a cigarette as he waited for his boss. He’d been a British SAS sergeant until he was arrested for smuggling drugs out of Afghanistan. He’d come to bin Laden’s attention, who had him rescued from a convoy transporting him to the airbase at Bagram for transport back to England, and brought him here to work with Graham.
This was a pisshole of a city and a pisshole of a country, but it was better than Afghanistan and decidedly better than England. Anyway, Sampson had always thought of himself as a man of opportunity. And already he could see any number of possibilities working for Graham. For the moment, then, he was the loyal soldier.