Bin Laden nodded. “Kirk McGarvey is a man among men. If you ever come up against him, kill him immediately. Doing so will be your only chance of survival.”
Khalil stared at Kathleen McGarvey as if he could see through her skin and bone right into her brain, and into her soul. He wanted to have a real measure of her before he ended her life. One bullet into her head, or one quick slash of his knife across her throat, severing not only her windpipe, but both of her carotid arteries, and he would see whatever that measure was.
It wasn’t the mechanical act of killing that enticed Khalil; he’d had his fill of those kinds of thrills, and he was no longer satisfied by simple body counts. Now he had the insane idea that if he were quick enough, his perceptions agile enough, he would be able to catch the exact moment when a person’s soul actually left the body.
It would be just like the green flash on the horizon at sunset, a sight never to be forgotten.
But that pleasure would have to wait. Kirk McGarvey was loose aboard the ship, and he could interfere with their plans if he was allowed to continue unabated. Shaw would come back with them to Pakistan, but so would Kathleen McGarvey.
He stepped back and took the walkie-talkie from his pocket. Everyone in the lounge was looking at him — the passengers waiting for him to make a mistake, his operators waiting for his next order. Everyone wanted to get off the ship, and he was going to accommodate all of them.
There were fourteen minutes left.
He keyed the walkie-talkie. “Bridge, report.” The ship had not altered its course, so far as Khalil could tell, so whatever else McGarvey had tried he’d not gotten there.
But there was no answer.
“Bridge, what is your situation? Report now.”
A slight smile came to Kathleen McGarvey’s lips. Kahlil resisted the nearly overpowering urge to shoot her.
“Radio room, what is your situation?”
Some woman across the lounge started to cry, a moist snuffling that grated Khalil’s nerves, raising his gorge. If McGarvey had already taken out his operators on the bridge and in the radio room, he would still be up there. There wouldn’t have been enough time to reach the third vital point on the ship — the engine room — yet, but that’s where he was probably heading.
“Purser’s office, report.”
“Here,” the operator radioed back immediately. “The passenger manifest was on the desk. But there’s no listing for Kirk McGarvey.”
“Never mind the list,” Khalil ordered, relieved that at least one of his people was answering. “He’s taken out the bridge and radio room, so he’ll probably try for the engine room next, which means he’ll have to come past you. “If you see him, kill him.”
“Yes, sir.”
The woman’s sobs were getting louder. Khalil was having trouble hearing much of anything else. He keyed the walkie-talkie, and called the engine room. “Granger, what is your situation?”
“The crew has been neutralized, and we’re just about set here. Give me five minutes.”
Khalil breathed a silent thanks to Allah. “You may have some trouble coming your way. One of the passengers is on the loose, and he’s armed.”
Pahlawan chuckled. “We’ll give him a warm reception if he pokes his nose down here.”
“Listen, you idiot,” Khalil practically shouted. “This one is a professional. He is dangerous, so don’t take any chances. Post a lookout.”
“Very well,” Pahlawan said. He was a veteran of numerous terrorist operations in Afghanistan and India. He was a fearless mujahideen.
“You’re forgetting something,” Kathleen interjected, softly.
Khalil turned his gaze to her. He was fascinated despite himself. She was an extraordinary woman of very great courage. “What is that?” he asked, mildly, though he wanted to lash out at something, at anyone. At the stupid woman making all the noise on the other side of the lounge.
“My husband has already killed your men in the radio room and on the bridge. At the very least it means that he has already taken partial control of this ship.”
“Make your point.”
Kathleen’s smile turned vicious, as if she were a shark coming in for the kill. “He has one of the walkie-talkies. He’s heard everything that you told your men.”
Khalil’s rage spiked, but he caught himself before he raised his pistol and put a round into her face. He wanted to take her back to Pakistan, to personally teach her the true meaning of humility. But more importantly for the moment, there was a very good chance that he would need her as an additional hostage.
He keyed the walkie-talkie. “Mr. McGarvey, I would like to propose a truce.”
There was no answer. The sobbing woman was getting louder.
“I know that you can hear me, Mr. McGarvey. We don’t want to hurt anyone else aboard this ship. Our operation is a political one. We have come to arrest Mr. Shaw and take him to the World Court at The Hague, where he will be put on trial for crimes against humanity. You know that there have been calls for just such a trial. We are merely acting as the policemen.”
Khalil figured that there were two possibilities: Either McGarvey was not listening, or he was ignoring them.
They were running out of time.
“Your bodyguard is dead, as is the secretary’s bodyguard. They were brave men, but their only chance would have been to lay down their weapons. It’s your only chance. You are outnumbered and outgunned. Come down to the passageway aft of the lounge, unarmed and with your hands in plain sight. Once you have been secured, we will leave with Shaw.”
There was no answer.
Khalil stuffed his pistol in his jacket, walked over to Kathleen, grabbed her by the arm, keyed the walkie-talkie, and shoved it in her face. “Tell your husband to give himself up or we will kill you.”
Kathleen did not hesitate. “There are at least seven here, all armed with submachine guns—”
Khalil shoved Kathleen aside. He yanked out his pistol, strode across the room, and fired five shots into the head of the woman who was crying, driving her backward off her chair and onto the deck in a spray of blood.
TWELVE
Up on the bridge McGarvey heard the sounds of gunfire transmitted over the terrorist’s walkie-talkie, and then the transmission stopped.
There wasn’t another word from Katy, which could have meant that the terrorist had simply cut her off in midsentence when he realized she was shouting a warning. But the gunfire could also mean that the terrorist had murdered her in cold blood as he warned he would.
McGarvey stood flat-footed for two seconds, the walkie-talkie in one hand, the RAK machine pistol in the other, a feeling of utter despair threatening to consume him. The thought of his wife lying dead in a pool of her own blood was more than he could bear.
The terrorist had allowed him to hear the gunshots. The bastard was sending a sick message. We have your wife down here, and we may — or may not — have murdered her in cold blood. Why don’t you come down and see with your own eyes?
They were stalling for time. Because they’re not ready to get off this ship yet, McGarvey thought. The watch from the wrist of the terrorist in the radio room was in countdown mode, with less than seventeen minutes to go. Seventeen minutes for what?
He raised the walkie-talkie and started to depress the Push-to-Talk switch but then held up. Somehow the terrorists knew who he was. They had to know what he was capable of doing. That being the case, they would need Katy as a hostage.
Katy was alive.
Nothing else mattered except freeing her. But in order to do that, he would have to kill or disable a significant number of the hijackers. Now, before they got off the ship. There wasn’t enough time to find a radio, call for help, then wait for the cavalry to arrive.