“Good morning, Mr. President,” Berndt said. “I saw it on Fox and Friends on the way in.” He stepped in front of the president, switched the television to channel three, and popped the cassette in the player.
“What is it?” Haynes asked.
“Watch,” Berndt said, and he pushed the Play button.
Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing as the image of Osama bin Laden came up. The Saudi terrorist picked up a copy of the front section of The New York Times and held it for the camera to home in on the date.
He began to speak, in Arabic, and two lines of script scrolled across the bottom of the screen, one in Arabic and the other in English.
“The great (jihad) struggle against the Western infidel has been in its infancy. Despite the many valiant and courageous successes by our brothers and sisters around the world; despite the triumph in the nest of thieves on eleventh of September 2001; despite the strike at the heart of the warmongers’ headquarters; despite the righteous blows against the embassies, barracks, warships, and even the buses and shopping centers of our enemies, of the blasphemers against Allah; despite the virtuous pain caused to show the unbeliever the correct path to Paradise, we are not finished.
“We are at the dawning of a new chapter of our book of just causes.
“The infidel has learned to pay attention. But they have only taken the first halting steps; as a child would upon leaving its mother …”
“When did we get this?” the president asked.
“It showed up at our embassy in Doha about eleven o’clock our time last night,” Berndt said. “CIA Riyadh digitized it and sent it by secure satellite link early this morning, and NSA’s people are saying it’s really him.”
“ … time now to continue in earnest the battle we have only just begun.”
Bin Laden carefully laid the newspaper on the floor next to him. He moved slowly and deliberately, as if he were in pain. It looked as if he was having trouble with his back or the muscles in his flanks. When he turned again to face the camera, he was still grimacing, but his facial muscles slowly relaxed and he smiled again; he was a man who was extremely sad, but who was at peace with himself and his terrible decisions.
Seeing the tape for the third time, Berndt was suddenly struck by the notion that bin Laden was not only a man at peace, but he was also a man who had made peace with his maker.
Bin Laden was dying, or preparing to die.
“No infidel should feel safe in his own home. No woman doing her household duties should feel protected. No man at work should feel sure his family will not die very soon. No person anywhere in the U.S. should feel secure that his children will reach their destination — unless their destination is Paradise, and then only if they have made amends with Allah.”
Berndt’s flesh began to crawl, the hairs at the nape of his neck stood up, and he had a bad taste in his mouth. When this next part was broadcast, no one in America would get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow would be a day of panic and chaos.
“We will strike in America’s heartland.We will deliver a blow that the infidel will never forget.This time we will send our arrow of justice into the heart of the evil ones.We will prove that there are truly no innocents among the evildoers.
“By now our soldiers of God are ready to strike the very nests where the children of the infidels lay their heads each evening to sleep; where they dream in peace certain that their parents are near to protect them; where they first learn the heretical words that cause them to wrongly believe that there are gods other than the One God.
“Infidels, send your children to bed, but do not expect them to wake in the morning.”
One of the president’s staff stifled a sob.
“There will be no further compromise. Insha’allah.”
Bin Laden looked away and made a gesture to someone off camera, and the tape went to snow.
The president and the others in the Oval Office, struck with the enormity of bin Laden’s message, did not move at first. Always before the warnings were vague, calling for terrorist strikes against the U.S. and our interests. This time he had specified the targets: America’s children in their homes.
“Al Jazeera is giving us another fifteen hours before they broadcast it,” Berndt said. “Shall I play it again?”
The president tore his eyes away from the television and shook his head. “No need to ask if he means it, or if he has the resources to carry out his threat.”
“No, sir.”
“Is McGarvey back yet?”
“He should be arriving about now. I expect his people will be bringing him up to speed right away.”
The president’s jaw tightened. He glanced again at the blank screen, then nodded as if he had made a tough decision. Everyone in the office was looking at him, waiting for him to say something, to let them know how they should react.
“This attack will not happen,” he told his people. “I am putting every resource available to me for the single purpose of finding bin Laden and killing him.” His expression hardened. “He will not be offered amnesty, nor will an attempt be made to arrest him and bring him to trial. Any possible collateral damage will not become a consideration. I want to be very clear on those points. No deal making. We’re going to get that bastard once and for all.”
It was the reaction Berndt had expected. Haynes was slow to get angry, but once there he became an unstoppable force.
“I’ll meet my National Security Council at noon. That should give Mac time enough to get fully briefed and up to speed.” He gave his staff a reassuring look. “I’ll speak to the nation tonight at eight, before the tape is broadcast. There will be a lot of panicky parents who’ll want to know that we’re doing something to stop the monster.”
No one challenged the president, who had already broken several laws by ordering an assassination, nor did Berndt think that the Democrats would do so. The current mood of the country was one of subdued anger at the al-Quaida terrorists and frustration with Washington for not having gotten rid of bin Laden. Once this tape hit the airwaves, all that would change. The entire country would be behind the president.
TWENTY-TWO
At that moment it was 6 P.M. in Karachi, Pakistan’s largest city and arguably one of the most dangerous spots on the planet, when a Gulfstream bizjet with British tail numbers touched down at Jinnah International Airport. Ground control directed the pilot to taxi to a private boarding gate on the west side of the field, which serviced Pakistan International Airlines’ diplomatic and VIP passengers.
When the jet was parked and the engines were spooling down, the steward, a young Bangladeshi man supplied by the air-leasing service, opened the door and lowered the stairs, then stepped aside politely as the lone passenger got up and exited the aircraft without a word.
Khalil, who had traveled from Vancouver via Montreal, London, and Cairo under the name of Thomas Powers, walked over to a waiting Mercedes sedan and got into the backseat. He was dressed in a stylish linen suit, with a white silk shirt, a pale blue cravat loosely tied around his neck, and hand-sewn tan Brazilian loafers.
Even something more than a casual glance would not connect him with Thomas Isherwood or with the terrorist who had hijacked the Spirit of ’98 thirty hours ago. He was a completely different man now. His facial expression was different, the way he carried himself was not the same, and the color of his eyes and hair, which had both been dark, were now light brown.