Soldier of God (35 page)
Authors: David Hagberg
The elegant three-story brownstone off Thirty-second Street in Georgetown had belonged for five years to a Saudi business institute under the name Middle East Center for Advanced Studies. In the climate of Washington it had gone all but unnoticed by the FBI. In reality the house was used by Saudi intelligence for operations deemed too sensitive to be conducted out of the embassy.
Khalil got out of the Capitol City Cab a few minutes before eight and stood for a moment at the security gate savoring the idea of what was coming in the next seventy-two hours. Not only would another major blow be struck against the infidel, but Kirk McGarvey would die.
The man was everything Osama had warned him to be. Watching the life drain from McGarvey’s eyes would be a pleasure of inestimable measure.
Under martial law Washington had turned into a fortress. Yet customs at Dulles didn’t raise an eyebrow when he presented his British diplomatic
passport in the name of Donald Baden Powell, nor were any questions asked. The authorities aboard the commercial flight from Hamilton and on the ground were looking for Arab males between the ages of eighteen and forty-five. A tall, well-dressed diplomat from the island of Bermuda did not fit the profile.
passport in the name of Donald Baden Powell, nor were any questions asked. The authorities aboard the commercial flight from Hamilton and on the ground were looking for Arab males between the ages of eighteen and forty-five. A tall, well-dressed diplomat from the island of Bermuda did not fit the profile.
Traffic was heavy on the main thoroughfares, but back here on Scott Place there wasn’t even pedestrian traffic for the moment. Once the cab left, he was alone, tasting the air in the enemy capital.
The house was set back fifteen meters from the street behind a tall wrought-iron fence. It was an armed camp in the middle of the infidels’ headquarters. The windows were all blank, either curtained or silvered. Nothing could be seen through them, nor was there any activity in the driveway at the front.
After this blow, the search for bin Laden would intensify again, and sooner or later all his doubles would be captured or killed, and it would finally be his turn. No man was immortal. But even that didn’t matter, Khalil thought, for the
jihad
had had a life of its own.
jihad
had had a life of its own.
The struggle would go on despite any man’s passing, be it bin Laden or McGarvey
.
.
Khalil switched his leather overnight bag to his left hand, took a security pass card out of his pocket, and swiped it through the reader on the electric gate. The lock buzzed, and as the gates swung open he stepped inside the compound and started across the driveway to the front door.
Someone shouted something on the speaker above the card reader behind him, and as Khalil mounted the three steps to the entryway, the door opened and a very large man dressed in a Western business suit was there.
“Good morning, brother,”
Khalil said, pleasantly, in Arabic. “
I’m here to see al-Kaseem.”
Khalil said, pleasantly, in Arabic. “
I’m here to see al-Kaseem.”
The security officer wasn’t impressed. He studied Khalil’s face without recognition, glanced at the bag in his hand, then glanced over his shoulder at the electric wrought-iron gate, which was swinging shut.
“There are no visitors here. How did you get in?” he demanded.
Khalil held up the pass. “Take me to al-Kaseem, please.”
The security officer reached for the pass, which was exactly what Khalil thought he might do. The fool.
Khalil moved his hand to the left, diverting the officer’s attention; took a quick look over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being observed by someone passing on the street; then easily shouldered the man back into the stair hall and slashed the edge of the plastic card across the bridge of his nose, opening a small gash that immediately welled blood.
The guard roared something unintelligible as he struggled to regain his balance. He pulled out a boxy Glock semiautomatic, but Khalil stepped inside his reach, grabbed the man’s arm under his own, and stepped sharply to the left.
The security officer’s arm bent backward nearly to the breaking point before he dropped his pistol.
Two other security guards came up the hall from the rear of the house on the run, their pistols drawn.
“I’m going to step back,” Khalil said, loudly enough for them to hear, and they pulled up short. “I don’t want anybody to do something foolish that would make me cause further pain or suffering. I am a friend, and I come in peace. Rashid al-Kaseem will verify my identity.”
A security officer behind a short counter to the left had risen and pulled out his pistol. He was pointing it at Khalil’s head. “Take care that you do not reach for a weapon, or I will shoot you,” he called out, in a steady voice. He was a professional.
“I am unarmed,” Khalil said. He spread his arms and stepped back.
The security officer he’d damaged started for him, but someone at the head of the stairs shouted an order, and the officer stopped in his tracks.
Khalil looked up as Rashid al-Kaseem, chief of station for Washington Saudi intelligence, came down the stairs. He was a short, dapper man, dressed in a conservative British-cut tweed sport coat, gray slacks, and a club tie. He was bald except for a fringe of dark hair above his very large ears. He was only a very distant cousin in the royal family, but he had a lot of respect from the major princes. He knew things. He saw and heard things. One day he would rise to head all of Saudi intelligence, which was a very powerful position within the kingdom.
“Achmed, pick up your weapon, and see to your injury,” al-Kaseem said. “If you need stitches, someone will drive you to the embassy. The rest of you, return to your duties. And there is blood on the floor. Clean it.”
When the others were gone, he motioned for Khalil to follow him, and together they went upstairs and down the broad, expensively carpeted corridor to a small book-lined office at the rear of the building. A hum of muted conversations, a few voices raised in anger or frustration, came from behind closed doors. This place, like just about every other office in Washington, was on an emergency footing.
When they were alone, al-Kaseem turned on him. “What are you doing here, now of all times?” he demanded, harshly. He was one of very few men who knew Khalil by sight.
Khalil considered the possibility that the intelligence chief, who had entirely too high an opinion of himself, might beg for mercy as his life’s blood drained from his body. The expression in his eyes at the end would be most interesting. “I have a job to do, and I require your assistance, here and at the embassy.”
“That’s impossible—”
“I’m going to set a trap, and the timing will be delicate. I’ll need a van and at least two men plus a driver. I mean to kidnap the wife of the CIA director.”
Al-Kaseem was struck dumb.
Khalil took four fat envelopes out of his pocket and handed them to the intelligence chief. “Place these in your safe for me. And see that they are not tampered with.”
Ernst Gertner was at Zurich’s Kloten Airport when Liese arrived on a charter flight from Marseille at four o’clock in the morning. The French authorities had held her until all the ballistics reports were completed, and to finish interrogating her about her relationship with Kirk McGarvey, a man who’d always been of great interest to them.
Gertner was in a higher-than-usual state of agitation, and he kept flapping his arms as if he were an ostrich trying to take off. “Goodness gracious, what am I supposed to do when one of my star officers simply goes off into the bush without a word, against all orders to the contrary, and then gets herself involved with a shooting death?”
Liese was beyond tired, and very worried about Kirk’s reception back
in Washington. He’d gone against his president’s orders. Not only that, but Khalil wasn’t finished. He would continue to go after McGarvey until one or both of them were dead.
in Washington. He’d gone against his president’s orders. Not only that, but Khalil wasn’t finished. He would continue to go after McGarvey until one or both of them were dead.
She looked up at Gertner, almost feeling sorry for him. “Sorry, captain, I was following a lead. And we almost got Khalil.” She looked away momentarily. “It was very close.”
“The French are distressed—”
Liese turned back. “Are you going to fire me for good this time?” she asked. She felt alone and isolated, and frightened.
“As of this moment you’re on administrative leave, but I’ll expect you to stand it at the chalet.”
Liese shook her head. “He’s not guilty, you know.”
“For heaven’s sake.” Gertner puffed up. “Then explain why he left you alone in the corridor to face Khalil while he went off gallivanting around outdoors?”
It had only been forty-eight hours since McGarvey left for Monaco. He’d promised Katy he would come back safely, and that he would deal with Khalil. It was unsettling to return home with his work left undone, and the danger to the U.S. worse than before he’d left.
Coming up the cul-de-sac from Connecticut Avenue to his house, he could see that the security detail was gone, but he said nothing to Adkins, who had ridden beside him in silence most of the way from the airport. There was nothing to say that they hadn’t said to each other the morning McGarvey left headquarters. Adkins was directing the CIA’s efforts to track down the al-Quaida terrorists before they struck. In that administrative task he was every bit as good, if not better, a DCI than McGarvey was.
Unspoken between them was that Adkins had withdrawn the Directorate
of Security detail from the house against his better judgment in order to give McGarvey the freedom to come and go without hindrance.
of Security detail from the house against his better judgment in order to give McGarvey the freedom to come and go without hindrance.
Adkins’s driver parked in the driveway; then he and the bodyguard grabbed the M8 carbines from their brackets on the transmission hump, got out of the limo, and did a slow three-sixty scan of the neighborhood, leaving the two men alone for a couple of moments.
“Your daughter spent the night with Kathleen,” Adkins said. “I’ve put her on administrative leave for the duration.”
“Anyone else inside?” McGarvey asked, looking up at the front bedroom window. Liz was standing there.
“No. I didn’t think you wanted anyone else. Under the circumstances.”
“This close I don’t think they’ll bother coming after Katy,” McGarvey said. “How about Todd?”
“Your son-in-law is back at the Farm helping to get the student-instructor crews out the door to work security around Washington.” Adkins was clearly unhappy. “Listen here, Mac, the White House is in an uproar over your stunt in Monaco. The French have lodged a protest against you. The Saudis are screaming bloody murder, threatening to convince OPEC to cut oil production another seven or eight percent. And half the people on the Hill think you might be guilty of treason, while the other half think that at the very least you’re a quitter. Depends on whether they’re Republicans or Democrats.”
“Pretty quick turnaround for someone who was a national hero three days ago,” McGarvey said. “Is there any word on where Salman is staying in Washington?”
“The Bureau had him at the embassy as of an hour ago. They promised to let us know the instant he makes a move.” Adkins looked at him. “I suppose it’d be fruitless to ask you if you knew what you were doing. You always do.” He shook his head. “But Jesus, Mac, you’re going head-to-head with the president this time.”
“How close is the Bureau watching Khalil?”
“I don’t know,” Adkins admitted. “But certainly close enough so that he won’t be able to pull off anything significant.” He glanced at the house. “Like coming here after Katy.”
McGarvey had been thinking about that very possibility from the moment
he’d learned Salman was in Washington. He didn’t think Khalil would bother trying to inflict any collateral damage this late in the game, though why Salman, if he wasn’t Kahlil, had come to Washington at this moment was a puzzlement. Unless he’d come to personally lodge a complaint with the president about McGarvey’s behavior aboard his yacht. After all, the former director of the CIA had threatened to kill him.
he’d learned Salman was in Washington. He didn’t think Khalil would bother trying to inflict any collateral damage this late in the game, though why Salman, if he wasn’t Kahlil, had come to Washington at this moment was a puzzlement. Unless he’d come to personally lodge a complaint with the president about McGarvey’s behavior aboard his yacht. After all, the former director of the CIA had threatened to kill him.
Whatever the case the sheer arrogance of the Saudi prince was nothing short of awesome.
“It’ll all be over in the next day or two, so just keep the Company on track in the meantime,” McGarvey said.
“Unless al-Quaida postpones the hit.”
McGarvey shook his head. “They’re committed this time. If they back off, they’ll lose too much face.”
Adkins was studying him. “You’re going after Salman, aren’t you?”
“Don’t ask,” McGarvey said.
He gathered his two bags, got out of the limo, and without looking back went up to the house. The door opened and Katy was there, a worried but relieved expression on her narrow, pretty face. Dressed in a pair of designer jeans and a white tee, she looked like a model who hadn’t slept since he’d left; her hair was a little mussed and her eyes were red, but she threw her arms around him once he stepped inside and put down his bags.
“God, am I glad to see you,” she said, clinging tightly.
She felt good to McGarvey, even though he had not come in from the field yet. Only a small part of him was home with his wife in his arms. Most of his head—his concentration, and his awareness of his surroundings—was at a heightened, unnatural level. He was on the defensive, like a boxer with his guard up, while at the same time he was circling for the kill.
Katy caught this feeling immediately. She parted and looked up into his face. “Oh,” she said, “it’s not done.”
“I missed him in Monaco, and now he’s here in Washington,” McGarvey told her. “Sorry, Katy. But I’m not going to miss this time.”
“They wouldn’t tell us why they were withdrawing security from the house,” she said. “Even Dick wouldn’t say, except that they thought the threat level against me personally was down. But they left Elizabeth.”
“Hi, Daddy,” Liz said, coming down from upstairs. She was dressed in
khaki slacks and a soft yellow pullover, with a Walther PPK in a quick-draw holster at her left hip.
khaki slacks and a soft yellow pullover, with a Walther PPK in a quick-draw holster at her left hip.
McGarvey looked up. “Hello, sweetheart. How’re you doing?”
“Fine,” she said. “But I just got word from Neal Julien that Salman left the Saudi embassy, and he thinks that the FBI might have lost him.”
McGarvey nodded. He had been afraid of something like this. “He’ll be back. Anywhere else in Washington will get too hot for him.”
Liz’s pale green eyes narrowed as she assimilated the information. “They’re not making any real progress stopping these guys, so it looks as if it’s going to be up to the CIA to nail Khalil and make him tell us what their plans are.” She looked a little pale and drawn. Like everyone else in Washington, she’d not been getting much sleep since the bin Laden tape.
“I’ll have to get to him first.”
“Do you have any ideas, Daddy?” Liz asked. Her parents had divorced when she was just a little girl, so she had spent all of her teenage years without a father. Instead of hating him for his absence, though, she had put him in a fantasy world in which he was her knight in shining armor. Whenever she had a problem, she would ask herself what her father would do about it—what he would say, how he would react. When he’d finally come back into her life, she wasn’t disappointed; in her mind he was even better than her fantasy version of him. Her adoration of her father sometimes was a bone of contention between Todd and her. But he too looked up to McGarvey, so he could never stay angry with his wife for very long.
“Getting Salman out of the embassy is going to be easier than getting me inside,” McGarvey said. He had a couple of ideas, neither of which would make the White House happy. “If I can get him isolated, I’ll need ten minutes.”
Liz smiled wickedly. “That fast?”
McGarvey nodded. “He’s a coward. Won’t be pretty, but it’ll be fast.”
Kathleen was following all this closely. “I thought you were going to kill him,” she said, an intensity in her voice. She had seen Khalil brutally gun down innocent passengers, and had been at his side when he’d ordered the young mother and her infant child thrown overboard.
“I am,” he said gently. “But first I need to get to him, and then I need to get some answers.”
McGarvey studied the expression on her face. She had changed since Alaska. All of them had. But in her the change had taken the form of a hardness around the edges of her personality. There was a certain recklessness in her attitude, as if she was impatient to get on with things and was willing to take whatever chances had to be taken; damn the consequences despite the baby.
Or perhaps because of the baby.
“Good,” Kathleen said.
McGarvey turned back to his daughter. “Did you talk to Otto this morning?”
“He left the White House a few minutes ago. Berndt took the package, and at least agreed to look at it.”
Rencke had laid out his plan in the briefing book he’d sent over with the FBI agents who’d gone to France to fetch McGarvey. No matter what might or might not have happened in Monaco, the White House had to be convinced that at least some members of the Saudi royal family had been involved in 9/11 and were almost certainly involved in the latest bin Laden threat. Rencke had gotten that information into the hands of the one man the president trusted most.
“One thing, Kirk,” Kathleen said. “Are you sure that Salman and Khalil are the same man? Because I am. It was his eyes.”
That was another question McGarvey had wrestled with since Monaco. Half the time he was sure they were one and the same, but the other half he just couldn’t be sure. One thing was certain, he thought; ten minutes alone with the prince and he would find out.
“I think so,” he told his wife. He turned back to his daughter again. “Where do Otto and I meet?”
“Right here, at the fifteenth fairway shelter.” It was across the creek, next to the maintenance barn and access road. Liz looked at her watch. “He should be getting there in the next twenty minutes.”
“It’ll give me time to change,” McGarvey said. “In the meantime I want you two to stick it out here. Anything comes your way, call for backup. But I think you’ll be okay. It’s me he wants now.”
“What if someone calls for you?” Kathleen asked.
McGarvey grinned viciously. “Tell them I’m in the shower.”
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