Allah's Scorpion

EPILOGUE

Ten days later, on an early Friday evening, Rupert Graham was finishing dressing for dinner in the palatial bathroom in his suite at the super-luxurious Conrad Hotel on Queensway Road with its magnificent views of the harbor and the city. He had thought that after the Panama Canal, the York River, and finally Karachi, being beaten three times by McGarvey, that he would be filled with the overwhelming need to go after the bastard and destroy him. But it hadn’t happened. He was at peace with himself for the moment, though he knew that mood wouldn’t last forever.

He evened out his bow tie, and walked back into the bedroom to put on his Armani white dinner jacket. Four nights ago he had begun seeing Jillian’s face in his dreams again, and for the first time in possibly more than a year he had actually enjoyed a day of sightseeing as an ordinary tourist.

Ignoring the television that was tuned to CNN, he poured a glass of Krug champagne that the room service waiter had opened and put on ice, and went to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor. He raised the glass. “To Kirk McGarvey,” he spoke softly. “We will meet again in due time and when you least expect it.”

He smiled broadly, but then something intruded on his pleasant reverie. He turned back in time to see a photograph of a bearded bin Laden on the television screen. Three days ago a pair of U.S. Predator drones had fired two missiles into a compound in the Fish Harbor section of Karachi on a tip from unnamed sources that bin Laden had been attending a meeting there. It was presumed that he had been killed in the attack, but the Al Jazeera network had received an audiotape this morning that was identified as the voice of bin Laden, who claimed to be very much alive and planning the next major strike against America.

Graham raised his glass again, and drank. “But you are dead, old boy. There isn’t a chance that McGarvey could have missed.” He chuckled. “The king is dead, long live the king.”

There was no way of knowing what would come next, but it was a safe bet in Graham’s mind that the jihad was far from being over. Very far from being over.

“It’s not over, Mr. President,” McGarvey said. He and Adkins were having a teleconference with the president and Dennis Berndt, his national security adviser, in the Oval Office.

“But bin Laden is dead,” the president said. “The DNA from the blood you brought back is a match.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The problem we’re faced with now is how to handle the news,” Berndt cautioned. “There could be a tremendous backlash throughout the entire Muslim world if we announced that bin Laden is dead.”

“What do you think, Mac?” the president asked.

“I’m not a politician, it’s one of the reasons I made such a lousy DCI, but like I said it’s not over, and won’t be until we can find a political solution.”

“Like getting out of Saudi Arabia, or pulling our support from Israel?” the president asked, a touch of edginess in his voice.

McGarvey shrugged. “That might help, Mr. President, but I doubt it. The only way al-Quaida is going to be reigned in is for countries like Saudi Arabia and Pakistan and Syria and Iran to withdraw their support. Once they stop their funding, and close down the training bases, al-Quaida will feel the squeeze. But even more than that, we need to make sure they’ve got nobody to recruit.”

Berndt chuckled. “How do you propose we do that?”

“That’s your job,” McGarvey said. “But you might start with education.”

“Reforming their school systems is just not possible,” the president said.

“Not theirs, Mr. President, ours,” McGarvey said. “Half the people in our own country couldn’t have found Afghanistan or Iraq on a map until we invaded, and they were all over the news.”

“More than half,” Berndt said.

“Almost every ambassador we send out can’t speak the language of the country they’ve been assigned to. And damn few of them have the slightest idea of the cultures they’re expected to deal with on a rational basis.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” the president said.

“No, sir, you’re probably right.”

It was late and the safe house was finally quiet after Otto and Louise had gone home, and Todd and Liz had left with the baby. McGarvey stood at the open patio door looking out at the night. It was warm and humid, though not as bad as Karachi. And the Washington suburbs certainly smelled better.

Katy had stayed up here with him until he was finished with his debriefings. Lieutenant Commander Weiss turned out to be nothing more than a guy who had inherited a small fortune from an aunt. He was only guilty of being an asshole. Which left someone at Guantanamo who was on al-Quaida’s payroll. The FBI was working with the ONI on the problem, and it would only be a matter of time before they caught the bastard.

Two days ago, Gloria had come out to the Farm where McGarvey had been going through the three scenarios — the Panama Canal, the York River, and the M. A. Jinnah Centre — as a training exercise. She was being reassigned to the U.S. Embassy in Mexico City and wanted to say goodbye. They had gone for a walk through the woods by the river, the morning bright and beautiful.

“I just wanted to say goodbye, and thanks for everything you did for me,” she said. “McCann wanted to stick me on the Cuban desk.”

“You would have done a good job there,” McGarvey said. He wasn’t sure how he felt about her. She was a beautiful woman, bright, well trained, not a complainer, but there was something about her that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She had a chip on her shoulder, and she had a desperate need to prove herself, but he had worked with people like that before. It was something else.

“I’m a field officer,” she said. “It’s all I ever wanted to do.” She turned away for a moment, and when she looked back, her eyes were bright. “I love you, and that will never change. I just wanted you to know that I won’t make trouble for you. It’s my problem, not yours.”

There was nothing to say.

She reached over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Goodbye,” she said.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Katy said behind him.

McGarvey turned. “I didn’t hear you coming.” He drew her close. “I was thinking about Gloria Ibenez. She’s on her way to Mexico City.”

“She’s in love with you.”

“Yeah,” McGarvey said.

Katy smiled and gave her husband a squeeze. “Can’t fault the girl’s taste,” she said. “What’s she going to do down there?”

“I don’t know. I’m out of the loop now. I’m retired, remember?”

Katy laughed. “Yeah, right,” she said. “Just give me long enough to finally get settled in our new house. Deal?”

“Deal,” McGarvey promised, and he kissed her.