Soldier of God (34 page)
Authors: David Hagberg
McGarvey had all but resigned himself to being too late, as the FBI’s Gulfstream executive jet touched down at Washington’s Reagan Airport a few minutes before dawn, and their F/A-18 fighter/interceptor escort peeled off back to its station ten miles south.
He’d come back to the States like this, with a lot of heavy hitters lined up against him, more times than he cared to count. Yet he’d never had the mindset to simply turn his back on a problem and give up. Looking out the window now, the city across the river like an ancient Rome with its marble statues and granite monuments, he could only wonder at his own persistence.
Just run. Turn around and leave. Go. Give it up
.
.
The city had become an armed fortress since the bin Laden tape. Any aircraft operating within the Washington terminal control area was escorted and would be shot out of the sky if the slightest thing seemed wrong. That included official aircraft.
The flight had been long, doubly so because the pair of FBI special agents who’d been sent over to bring him back to the States had refused to answer any of his questions, or allow him to use the aircraft’s comms gear.
But they had handed him a CIA briefing package that had been rushed out to Reagan just before the Bureau plane had taken off for France. The file had been released on Adkins’s signature, but it had obviously been put together by Otto Rencke. They were deferential to him, but their orders had been very specific.
“Whose orders?” McGarvey had asked at one point.
“Mr. Rudolph’s,” one of them said. “Now, sir, maybe we should all try to catch a few z’s.”
McGarvey had worked with Fred Rudolph off and on for the past ten years to narrow the gap between the Bureau and the Agency. Since 9/11 the two agencies had become even closer, especially since McGarvey had taken over as DCI and Rudolph had become the Bureau’s deputy director. Between the two of them they had done good things.
Already in the thirty-six hours since McGarvey had left, the situation on the ground had changed. Coming in on final approach to landing, he’d seen armed personnel carriers or tanks at all the major bridges and highways into the city. In the distance he’d made out even heavier concentrations of military equipment stationed at the White House and the Capitol Building.
According to the slim, leather-bound briefing book, even if al-Quaida’s attack never came, serious damage had already been done. The public’s confidence in Washington’s ability to protect them was almost nil. But instead of cowering in their homes, curtains drawn, lights out, people were at least going about their business. Schools had been closed for only one day before people began escorting their children back to classes. National Guard troops were stationed in front of the bigger schools across the country, though there weren’t nearly enough troops to do an adequate job for even ten percent of the campuses in each state.
Absenteeism in the workforce had spiked the day after bin Laden’s tape, but twenty-four hours later most people had gone back to work. But no one was spending money, and Wall Street had been thrown into a panic, both the DOW and NASDAQ losing nearly thirty percent of their values before computer-driven automatic controls dropped into place.
Though no public announcement was being made, the Fed was estimating that the U.S. economy was losing a billion dollars a day while the nation waited for the shoe to drop.
All of America’s military units and civilian police forces, from the FBI down to the one-cop stations in small towns, had been mobilized.
Nuclear submarines and guided-missile frigates—in port from Newport and Jacksonville on the East Coast to San Diego and Honolulu in the west—recalled their crews, lit off their power plants, and set out to sea, ringing the entire continental United States plus Hawaii and Alaska with a
curtain of steel capable of throwing more firepower, nuclear as well as conventional, than had been fired in all sides of all the wars ever fought on the planet.
curtain of steel capable of throwing more firepower, nuclear as well as conventional, than had been fired in all sides of all the wars ever fought on the planet.
The entire array of Keyhole, Jupiter, and other eye-in-the-sky satellites in the National Reconnaissance Office’s suite of technical means were trained first on U.S. borders and areas of interests, and then on known or suspected hotbeds of terrorist activity, including training and staging areas in such places as Iran, Syria, Algeria, Saudi Arabia, and even the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and parts of Montana.
No one seemed to remember, or cared to mention, the Pentagon warning shortly after 9/11, when the U.S.-led war on terrorism was being launched, that all of America’s nuclear might had been useless against the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.
The briefing book included a summary of a meeting with the president and his security council that had taken place sometime the previous day. Even the Department of Homeland Security, which had raised the threat level to red at the same time bin Laden’s tape had been leaked to the public, admitted to the president and the NSC that stopping an attack by a determined adversary was next to impossible, given the openness of our borders.
“Even Israel, with its stringent security measures, can’t keep its citizens safe,” Homeland Security’s new director, Peter Townsend, reminded the group. All that was left to do, beside doubling-up on air marshals on all flights over U.S. airspace, was to ignore the ACLU and other human rights organizations and take profiling to new heights.
Most terrorist attacks against the U.S. and its interests had been carried out by Arab males between the ages of eighteen and forty-five. “They’re our targets,” said one of Townsend’s deputy assistants, stating the obvious.
The president was remaining in Washington, though the vice president and a significant number of congressmen were in seclusion in rural Maryland. Air Force One was ready at Andrews, with its crew on standby 24/7 to whisk the president out of the area within minutes of notification. A Marine helicopter and crew stood by on the south grounds in sight of the West Wing. And the White House Secret Service detail was tripled, and supplemented by Marines and additional radar-guided Patriot missile launchers.
“We’re facing one big problem,” Townsend’s deputy assistant warned. “We don’t know if they’re going to come at us with airliners again, or if they’re going to hit us with a nuke, or a bioweapon, or a car bomb. We just don’t know, Mr. President.”
The Gulfstream got off the main runway, followed one of the taxiways across the airport from the main terminal building and past the maintenance hangars of several airlines, and was directed by a Follow Me pickup truck to an unmarked hangar.
Watching from the window, McGarvey spotted Adkins and a pair of men standing next to a Cadillac SUV with tinted windows. The two men, who were obviously security officers, were dressed in dark blue windbreakers and baseball caps, their Heckler & Koch M8s in the compact carbine version at the ready, their heads on swivels.
Fred Rudolph climbed out of a plain gray Chevy Impala, and as the Gulfstream came to a stop and its engines began to spool down, he went over to Adkins and they shook hands. Neither of them seemed to be particularly happy to be there.
Before the aircraft door was opened, one of the guys who had come to escort McGarvey back to the States handed him a padded envelope. “Your weapon, spare magazine, and cell phone, sir,” he said. “We were instructed to give them back when we got here. Someone will grab your bags from the hold in a minute.”
“I thought I was under arrest,” McGarvey said, ripping open the envelope. He wasn’t feeling charitable.
“That was just for the benefit of the French,” the agent replied, evenly. He wasn’t enjoying the exchange, but he had a job to do and he was doing it.
“Right,” McGarvey said. He loaded his pistol, stuffed it in his belt, and pocketed his spare magazine and cell phone. He was tired and irascible. His chance to get to Khalil on Corsica had been blown. Coming back like this would be starting all over again. And he didn’t know if there was enough time.
Last night, trying to get a couple of hours sleep, he had wondered if he should go on. If he should ignore the president’s orders to back off.
The woman did not want to be rescued from the water without her baby. Her cries still pierced his heart. There had been no reason to kill them. No reason at all.
Backing off, he decided, had never been an option.
He tossed the envelope aside. “Did you guys have a surveillance set up on me?”
“No, sir. We were instructed to sit tight and wait until you got into trouble, then bail you out if we could.”
The other agent was watching from the open door, a neutral expression on his features. Like his partner he had a job to do, and he was doing it. He only wanted McGarvey to get off the airplane and his job would be over.
McGarvey softened a little. “Okay, fellas, thanks for the lift. What do you say we try to catch the bad guys before they can hit us again?”
“Yes, sir.”
McGarvey got off the airplane and walked across to where Rudolph and Adkins were waiting. “Your timing stinks, Fred.”
Rudolph didn’t offer his hand. “Nothing I could do about it, Mac. Weissman gave me no room to maneuver, and his orders came straight from the White House.” He glanced at Adkins. “We’re not screwing around here.”
“Neither am I, Fred.”
Rudolph was angry. “Goddammit, going after the Saudis won’t help. We’ll just get tangled up in money trails, nothing more.”
From the beginning Rudolph had been caught between a rock and a hard place in his dealings with the CIA. This time it was worse because he and McGarvey had become friends. McGarvey nodded. “What’s my situation? Am I under arrest?”
“The president wants you neutralized. And he’s serious about it.” Rudolph was apologetic. “Means house arrest.” He glanced at Adkins again. “Why the hell did you have to quit in the middle of this?”
“Because I don’t agree with Haynes. The Saudis were behind 9/11, and they’re right up to their necks in this one. I had a chance to stop one of them in Corsica.”
“If you’re talking about Salman, he’s not there. In fact, his jet landed at Dulles a couple of hours ago. He’s here at the Saudi Embassy. If it makes you feel any better, we’re keeping a watch on him.”
For just an instant McGarvey was taken aback. Salman coming here was the last thing he’d expected. “Well, that’s a real comfort, Fred,” McGarvey
said, meanly, to cover his racing thoughts. The arrogance of the Saudi bastard was awesome.
said, meanly, to cover his racing thoughts. The arrogance of the Saudi bastard was awesome.
Rudolph turned away in frustration. “I’m not the enemy,” he shouted.
McGarvey’s muscles bunched. He was in Alaska. He couldn’t get it out of his head. “Someone is,” he barked, “and unless we get off our dead asses we’re going to have another fucking 9/11 on our hands.”
Rudolph lowered his head and shook it. He was silent for a second, and when he looked up he compressed his lips. “What happened to us, Mac? What the hell happened in the past ten years to make us the bad guys? I thought it was the Russians.”
“Simpler times, Fred,” McGarvey said. He turned to Adkins. “Take me home, would you, Dick?”
“Stay there, Mac,” Rudolph said. “I don’t want to arrest you.”
Dennis Berndt put down the telephone, paused for a moment, then got up and went to the window that looked toward the Rose Garden. It was morning finally, after a long and difficult night. He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath to relieve the pressure that had steadily built in his chest since he’d heard bin Laden’s tape.
When he’d come down from Harvard at Haynes’s behest to become the president’s adviser on national security affairs, he had thought of the job in academic terms. He would work in the White House. He would be among the chosen few to actually
make
history and not simply live it, or react to it. He would conduct national security briefings on a daily basis. He would consult with the heads of the CIA, FBI, and National Security Agency. He would be among the privileged few who were privy to the nation’s secrets. He would have the ear and the trust of the president of the United States.
make
history and not simply live it, or react to it. He would conduct national security briefings on a daily basis. He would consult with the heads of the CIA, FBI, and National Security Agency. He would be among the privileged few who were privy to the nation’s secrets. He would have the ear and the trust of the president of the United States.
But now his job wasn’t so academic. He had a wife and two children, one in high school and the other at Princeton. It was his family that the bastards were targeting.
Government was no longer simply an intellectual exercise
.
.
His secretary, who like most of the other White House staff was working 24/7, catching catnaps whenever possible, buzzed him. “The person from Langley you wanted to see is here.”
“Send him in.”
Otto Rencke, carrying a plain buff file folder, his red hair flying in all directions, his sneakers untied, his Moscow University sweatshirt stained with what might have been coffee or Coke, bounded in as if he were the March Hare with no time to spare. “Oh, wow, Mr. Berndt,” he bubbled, “thanks for agreeing to see me.”
Berndt motioned for his secretary to close the door. “Give us five minutes; I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and she withdrew, closing the door behind her. This meeting was an unofficial one, and it would not be logged, except by security.
Rencke sat down cross-legged in a chair. “I thought you guys would dink around until we ran out of time. Your Homeland Security people mean well, ya know, but they’re not doing any good. No time. No time. The bad dogs are already here, so sealing borders won’t do, Jack. And blocking Washington won’t do any good either. They’re not attacking here, and they won’t use airplanes again. We’re safe. No one has to run for their hidey-holes.”
Berndt had had dealings with Rencke on several occasions, but each time, like now, the experience was something new and novel. The man was a genius, but he was probably the most eccentric individual Berndt had ever met. “Has Mac gotten back from France yet?”
“About a half hour ago.”
“Have you talked to him this morning?” Berndt asked. “About coming here?”
The crazy animation suddenly left Rencke’s face. He no longer looked like some kid high on speed. “I understand your position, Mr. Berndt. We all do. But the name of the game is stopping the bad guys before they hit
us again. Mac is going to do his thing, no matter what the president orders or how hard the Bureau tries to stop him, because that’s the way he operates. In the meantime, the Company is there to serve the administration. Of which you are a senior member. Which is why I’m here.” He handed the file folder across to Berndt. “Prince Salman.”
us again. Mac is going to do his thing, no matter what the president orders or how hard the Bureau tries to stop him, because that’s the way he operates. In the meantime, the Company is there to serve the administration. Of which you are a senior member. Which is why I’m here.” He handed the file folder across to Berndt. “Prince Salman.”
“Mac thinks that the prince and the terrorist Khalil are one and the same man,” Berndt said. “He told us about it, but the president doesn’t share his view.”
“We have confidence that Mac might be right.”
Berndt was skating on thin ice, going directly against a presidential order that the Saudis were strictly off limits. This was realpolitick. Oil was power. Without it, the U.S. would all but cease to operate. Almost every other consideration was secondary.
But the nation could not endure another 9/11. Especially not an attack on children, who after all were one commodity that was more precious than anything pumped out of the ground.
“How high a confidence?” Berndt asked. “One hundred percent?”
Rencke shook his head without hesitation. “Eighty percent. Our data are mostly circumstantial.”
It’s what Berndt was afraid of. If he was going to make a successful case to the president for going after Salman, he wanted more than that. His career was on the line. The president had warned McGarvey that continuing on a collision course with the Saudi prince would possibly be construed as treason. Berndt would be an accessory.
“Circumstantial evidence is a hard sell,” Berndt observed.
“Not this stuff. You gotta listen, because no matter what’s the truth, Salman is here in Washington. And every time Salman shows up somewhere, Khalil is right there. Don’t ya see? It doesn’t matter if they’re the same dude; they’re practically using the same travel bureau.”
Berndt suddenly had a bad feeling that today was going to be one hundred percent worse than yesterday, which had been no picnic. “What’s he doing here? Are they going to hit us in Washington?”
Rencke shook his head. “Khalil isn’t here to direct the attack. He came to face McGarvey. Something that would have happened in Corsica if the FBI hadn’t interfered in Monaco.”
“McGarvey’s under house arrest—”
“Yeah, right,” Rencke interrupted. He got to his feet. “You’d better cross your fingers and hope he doesn’t stay home like a good boy.” At the door Rencke stopped and gave Berndt a baleful stare. “We’ve got another bloodbath coming our way, Mr. National Security Adviser. Do what you can to convince the president who’s behind it. Short of that, don’t tie our hands.”
“Good luck.”
“You, too,” Rencke said, and he left.
Berndt opened the thick file folder that Rencke had brought him and began to read. After only two pages, he picked up the phone and called Calvin Beckett, the president’s chief of staff. The call rolled over on the second ring to Beckett’s cell phone. He was in his car just coming down West Executive Avenue.
“Good morning, Dennis. Did you spend the night?”
“Yeah. I wanted to see the overnights from State as they came from our embassies,” Berndt said, tiredly. “We’re getting plenty of sympathy but no offers of assistance. No one wants to be next on the list. They don’t want to end up getting hit like they did in Madrid because they were our ally.”
“From their standpoint, it makes sense,” Beckett said, crossly. He sounded peckish. Like everyone else in the loop he was probably not getting much sleep. “What have you got?”
“McGarvey is back.”
“Good,” Beckett said. “No one was hurt, I presume. And I hope he’ll listen to the good advice he’s getting this time and stay the hell out of it.”
Berndt looked at the timetables for Prince Salman and Khalil that Rencke had laid out like a spreadsheet. “There was a shooting, but apparently it was a photographer who got in the way.” Berndt hesitated. He’d read that report from Paris at five this morning. Fred Rudolph over at the Bureau had been kind enough to fax him a copy. “But the shot wasn’t fired from McGarvey’s pistol or the gun the Swiss cop was carrying. Someone else was there.”
Beckett was suddenly very interested. “So who was it?”
“Probably Khalil. He wants revenge for Alaska.”
“Shoot-out at the OK Corral. At least it happened somewhere else—” Beckett stopped. “But that’s not why you called.”
“I’m calling a meeting for the NSC at ten. The president needs to know about this.”
“He’s coming down at seven-thirty. Tell him then,” Beckett said.
Berndt glanced out the window. It promised to be a beautiful day. At least weatherwise. “There’s a good possibility that Khalil is here in Washington. And that’s not all. I think we finally have a convincing argument that the Saudis are up to their necks in this thing.”
Beckett took a moment to answer. “When we were accused of being behind the curve on 9/11, there weren’t a whole lot of people who knew even half of it,” he said, resignedly. “We’re under the same gun now.”
“Ten o’clock?”
“Ten,” Beckett said. “I just hope that you have some concrete suggestions in addition to your dark possibilities.”
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