The only other explanation was that they had once again underestimated the technical abilities of bin Laden as they had in September of 2001. The architects of the World Trade Center towers had never imagined the buildings collapsing because of a strike by airplanes. But al-Quaida’s engineers had.
McGarvey emptied the AK-47’s magazine, tossed the weapon aside, and leaped into the back of the van. Gloria immediately floored the accelerator and they careened down the darkened street, sliding nearly out of control around the corner before anyone inside the compound could react.
“Are we clear?” Gloria demanded.
“We’re clear,” McGarvey told her. He shoved the service door shut, and climbed up front into the passenger seat.
They crossed the main railroad line, and headed to the city’s center away from the slums. “Are you okay?” Gloria asked, glancing at McGarvey. Traffic was still very light, only the occasional delivery truck and odd car.
“What are you doing down here?” McGarvey demanded.
“Otto called your sat phone to warn you that you were probably walking into a trap. Al-Turabi’s GPS chip hasn’t moved in the last thirty-six hours. Not one meter. The bastard’s probably dead.”
“If he’s dead they’d have cremated him before the next sunrise,” McGarvey said. “It’s the Muslim custom.”
“Unless they somehow found out about the chip,” Gloria said. “But I don’t see how that’s possible.”
“Where’d you get this van?”
Gloria quickly explained what had happened from the moment she’d hung up from talking with Rencke. “Otto’s working on getting us out of Karachi.”
“Someone inside the hotel must have monitored your call to the front desk,” McGarvey said.
Gloria took the sat phone from her jacket pocket and handed it to McGarvey. “I got your money and passports too,” she said. “But whatever Otto’s planning better happen pretty soon. I don’t think it’s such a hot idea driving around in this van much longer.”
McGarvey powered up the phone, and when it had acquired a satellite he speed-dialed Rencke’s number. His old friend answered on the first ring.
“Oh wow, Gloria?”
“It’s me,” McGarvey said. “What do you have for us?”
“There’s a diplomatic flight that was scheduled to leave at six this morning,” Rencke said. “Assistant Secretary of State Joyce Fields. She’s on the way out to the airport now, and crew is already there prepping the plane. It’s a 737, coming back here via Ramstein. They’ll take off as soon as you get there.”
“What does she know about us?”
“That you’re CIA and that you’re in a bit of a hurry,” Rencke said. “Are you okay, kimo sabe?”
“I’ll live,” McGarvey said. “I want you to find out what happened to al-Turabi’s GPS chip. Could be that Commander Weiss knows something. Soon as Gloria gets home, figure out an excuse for her to get back down to Gitmo and lean on him again. I’m going to hole up here today, and go back in tomorrow. They won’t be expecting me a second time.”
“Wrong answer, recruit, the prez wants you back ASAP.”
McGarvey’s gut tightened. “Did you find the submarine?”
“Yeah, but it’s not a Kilo boat, it’s a Libyan Foxtrot, and it’s already on its way across the Atlantic.”
“Where’s it headed?”
“Apparently back to the canal for Graham to finish the job,” Rencke said.
“I don’t believe it,” McGarvey said. He’d done a lot of thinking about the Brit since their encounter aboard the oil tanker in the Gatun locks. That operation had been important, but it was never meant to be the big strike against us that al-Quaida had been promising since 9/11. In any event, a submarine would not be as effective as a tanker in damaging the canal in a decisive way.
Graham was a highly trained, highly experienced submarine commander, who now had a boat and crew, and presumably weapons. A man like him would not squander such a resource hitting the same target twice. Whatever he was planning would be up close and personal.
Every American remembered the events of 9/11 as if they were etched with acid. This time would be as bad or worse. And after everything that had happened to us since the Trade towers had come down — the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, the near success of the suicide bombers trying to hit four of our small-town schools, and the terrible seasons of hurricanes and floods — another strike against us, any strike, would be nothing less than devastating.
“How do we get through security?” McGarvey asked.
“Someone will be waiting for you at the air freight entrance,” a relieved Rencke said. “It’s off Shahrah-e-Faisal Road. There’ll be highway signs.”
“We’re on our way,” McGarvey said. He broke the connection and turned to Gloria. “Take us to the airport. We’re going home.”
“What’s happened, Kirk?” she asked.
“Graham’s got his hands on a submarine and he’s on his way across the Atlantic with it.”
“The navy can stop him.”
“If they know where to look,” McGarvey answered absently. Once again he had the feeling that he was missing something. That all of them were underestimating al-Quaida’s ingenuity.
“What are we going to do?” Gloria asked.
“I don’t know.”
FIFTY-NINE
It was 2000 GMT when the twenty-four-hundred-ton submarine came to a depth of twenty meters and extended her snorkel above the surface to take in air to run the diesels and recharge their badly depleted batteries. She was well out into the Atlantic now, running at fifteen knots, and by this time tomorrow evening she would be approaching the broad passage between the Maderia Islands to the north and the Canaries to the south.
“The snorkel is clear,” Captain Ziyax called from behind al-Abbas at the ballast board.
Graham ducked his head around the corner. “Are we still clear on the surface?” he asked his Libyan chief sonar man.
“The same targets well out ahead, designate them as probable commercial traffic, and the same aft.” Ensign Isomil looked up. “Sir, there’s nothing closer than ten thousand meters. Nothing that I think might be a warship.”
“Well done,” Graham said. He went back into the control room and raised the search periscope. The view in the lens was very dim by the standards of the British Trafalgar boats he had skippered, but adequate for him to make sure they were alone. It was a very dark night, no moon.
“You may open the snorkel and start the engines, number two,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Ziyax responded immediately and crisply. Graham had spoken with him after the incident coming out of the Strait of Gibraltar, and the Libyan naval officer had come to see the error of his ways. It was Graham’s intimate knowledge of the captain’s wife and children, supplied by al-Quaida, that had finally convinced the man to cooperate fully.
The three diesels rumbled into life one at a time.
Graham took one last three-sixty, then slapped the handles up and lowered the scope. He turned and looked at his crew. They were well rested now after the long and stressful crossing and emergence from the Mediterranean. But those thirty-six-plus hours of adversity had melded them into something of a unit. Each of them, Iranian and Libyan, had one common fear, which was retribution by al-Quaida, and one common hate, which was Graham.
He smiled inwardly. They were children, unlike the English crews he’d commanded. Those men had been highly trained and motivated professionals, their equipment state-of-the-art, their weapons as accurate and lethal as those of any nation on earth.