Soldier of God

SEVENTY-SIX

It was three o’clock in the afternoon of the next day when the Swiss ambassador, Helmuth Schmidt, left Dennis Berndt’s office in the West Wing. Their meeting had been as short as it had been surprising to the president’s national security adviser.

But then, he thought as he gathered his files and headed down the corridor to the Oval Office, this had been nothing short of a stunning few days. We’d dodged another bullet, largely because of Kirk McGarvey’s actions. At the very least, Haynes was going to win the next election by a landslide, and Americans had gained a new confidence in their government that had been badly shaken by 9/11.

The fact was that although the terrorist Khalil and Prince Salman were not the same man, they in effect had been partners. Khalil set up the attacks, and Salman funneled him the money through a bank in Trinidad. Schmidt had been very precise about his facts. His government had been investigating the prince for nearly two years, and among other items of interest they had uncovered was that most, but not all, of Khalil’s money had come from the prince. Several hundred thousand euros and other hard currencies had been transferred to Kahlil’s account by Salman’s wife, Princess Sofia.

In many respects she was even more devious than her husband. As far as the Swiss could figure, not one person in the Saudi government knew about her involvement, though there were some at the highest levels who knew about her husband’s financial dealings with al-Quaida.

Schmidt described her as a loose cannon, who not only knew of her husband’s involvement with bin Laden, but who also encouraged him to travel at certain odd times. On this point the Swiss federal authorities were a little less clear; they had not come up with any solid evidence. But it was believed there was a strong likelihood that Khalil had even given her instructions to help coordinate his moves with Prince Salman’s.

It would make her an accessory to acts of terrorism and murder.

“We can’t prove it, yet,” Schmidt admitted, “but our evidence is strong enough to deport her.” The ambassador was an older man, with thick white hair and impeccable Swiss formality. “We thought that your government should be made aware of our investigation in light of the recent events at the Salman compound outside Lucerne.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” Berndt had said. “But what about Khalil? Do you know who he is? His DNA and fingerprints are not on any of our databases, nor has Interpol been able to help.”

Schmidt shook his head. “For a time it was thought that he was a resident of Trinidad and Tobago. This morning I was sent word that our inquiries there have so far turned up nothing.”

“He was an elusive man,” Berndt observed.

“Yes,” the ambassador said, rising. He took an accordion file folder secured with a string out of his attaché case and handed it across. “This is a precis of our investigation. Perhaps it will aid you in your hunt for bin Laden.” He shook his head. “This ugly business must be stopped.”

Indeed, Berndt thought, as the uniformed guards outside the Oval Office nodded to him. It would never be over until bin Laden was caught or killed. And even then, he had to wonder if there would be peace, or if some new Islamic fanatic with the same intelligence, charisma, and power would rise up. The war between Islam, Christianity, and Judaism had been going on for a very long time.

The Oval Office was abuzz with staffers coming and going, some of them on telephones or laptop computers, getting ready for the president’s talk to the nation this evening.

Haynes was sitting at his desk talking to someone on the phone and looking out the windows toward the Rose Garden. Secretary of State Eugene Carpenter sat next to the president, a handset to his ear.

Beckett spotted Berndt at the doorway and went over. He was animated. “How’d your meeting with Schmidt go?” he asked. “Did you manage to pour oil on troubled waters?”

Berndt smiled faintly. “I’m a persuasive man.” He nodded toward the president. “Who’s he talking to?”

“Prince Abdullah, the last big hurdle,” Beckett said. “Called to congratulate us on our victory.”

“Big of him, since Saudi money financed the operation,” Berndt said sharply. We had beat the bastards this time, but there would be others. He was getting too old for this. Once the dust settled, he was going to resign and return to academia. It was a decision he’d made some days ago, but now in light of the compromises that everyone was rushing to make, he found that he was sick of the business, and he didn’t know if he could or even should wait that long.

Beckett’s expression darkened. “We’ve already gone over that, Dennis. We don’t have the proof—”

“We do now,” Berndt said, holding up the Swiss file. “Salman and his wife have been pumping royal family money to Khalil for years. Couldn’t have been done without Prince Abdullah’s knowledge and at least his tacit approval.”

“You got that from Schmidt?”

“Yeah,” Berndt said, tiredly. “But they won’t do a thing except to deport Salman’s wife and children. The Saudi money is too important to them to upset the applecart by making what Schmidt called ‘wild accusations.’”

“It’s the same thing a spokesman for the Rainier family told us,” Beckett said. “And the French. It’s the real world.”

“Yes, it is.”

Beckett smiled. “The good news is that no one got hurt, except for the kid in Colorado who blew himself up. But it was close.”

Berndt really looked at Beckett, and then at the others doing their thing around the president of the United States. They were happy and excited, of course. They had dodged a bullet that would have been even larger than 9/11. But the president’s staffers were behaving as if it were they who had stopped the suicide bombers. They lived in an isolated environment here. No matter how often they traveled with or for the president around the country or around the world, they were still tethered to this one place.

“Dennis?” Beckett prompted.

“It wouldn’t have been so close if we’d listened to McGarvey in the first place.”

Beckett nodded. “And the president is willing to forgive his insubordination. There’ll be a Senate investigation, of course, but the president will stand behind him.” Beckett lowered his voice. “Maybe even give him the Presidential Medal of Freedom. It would put a nice cap on Mac’s career.”

“Yes, it would,” President Haynes said, finished with his phone call. He got to his feet, a warm smile on his face. “And the Saudis have agreed to cooperate with us. We’ll drop the issue of Prince Salman’s money, and in turn there’ll be no formal protests over the damage we caused at their embassy and think tank.”

Berndt was struck dumb.

“How are our Mr. McGarvey and his wife?” the president asked.

“Recovering,” Berndt said. “But what are we supposed to say to the families of the two firemen whom a Saudi citizen murdered?”

“We don’t know that he was a Saudi,” Haynes replied, mildly. “But be that as it may, those two men are heroes. They blocked Khalil’s escape long enough for McGarvey to reach him. Their families can be proud that they didn’t die in vain. And I’ll tell that to the nation this evening.”

“Yes, they were heroes,” Berndt mumbled. Beckett’s assessment of the real world politik was on the mark. This was political expediency in just about its most aggressive form. Oil for dollars. It had been all about that, even before World War II. It’s why the politicians had divided the Middle East not along ethnic or religious lines, but along oil deposits.

Haynes was watching him. “Are you okay, Dennis?”

Berndt realized that he’d been wool gathering, something he’d been doing a lot of lately. And his disappointment probably showed on his face. He nodded. “Just tired, Mr. President. It’s been a hectic few days.”

“That it has,” Haynes said. “I’m going to need you until we go on the air tonight, and then I think that you and Joyce should get away for a few days or a week. Linda and I are taking Deb out to Keystone. Maybe I’ll catch a few trout.”

“It’s not over yet,” Berndt said. “They’ll try again.” If he resigned he would be deserting his president at a very difficult time. He didn’t know if he could do that. He was torn with indecision, something that had never seemed to bother McGarvey.

“They most certainly will,” Haynes said, “which is why I’m going to form a task force to deal specifically with finding and capturing or killing al-Quaida’s top leadership anywhere in the world they choose to hide. Just like we did in Iraq. And when McGarvey recovers, I’m going to ask him to head it.”

“I don’t know if he’ll take the job—”

The famous Haynes campaign smile lit his face. “I think I’ll be able to convince him, especially if we can hand him bin Laden’s head on a platter.”

Berndt felt a little thrill in his stomach. “Do we have a new lead?”

“Weissman’s people did a quick sweep of the Saudi think tank in Georgetown before they had to let the Saudis back in. They found some credible documents pointing to a very specific area on Pakistan’s border with Afghanistan.”

“We’ve suspected all along that he’s been hiding out up there,” Berndt said, “but it’s a tough place to operate in without Pakistani support.”

“Well, we’ve got it now,” Beckett said. “Musharraf has agreed to let us in on an all-out manhunt.”

“Which is getting under way within the next twenty-four hours,” the president said. “This time we’ll get the bastard.”

Berndt nodded uncertainly. He didn’t share the president’s optimism, and even if we did capture or kill the man, the terrorism probably wouldn’t stop. “All we can do is try, Mr. President,” he said. That’s all any of them could do.

SEVENTY-SEVEN

Kathleen McGarvey stood at the window in her husband’s hospital room and stared out toward the city that was coming alive with the dawn. The entire nation had breathed a sigh of relief, and she could feel it.

There had been a steady stream of visitors ever since Mac had been moved down from the ICU. He was a national hero once again, and half of Washington wanted to shake his hand. But Kathleen had managed to hold most of them off. He had lost a lot of blood, especially from the knife wound in his shoulder. There would be no lasting damage other than a new set of scars, but he was still weak, and the shrapnel wounds to the bottoms of his feet were causing him a lot of pain.

Kathleen had been treated and immediately released, and since then she had not left her husband’s side. Except for a chipped tooth, a couple of broken ribs, and a lot of bruising, she’d not been seriously hurt. No damage had been done to the baby; as the Saudi doctor had told her, the bleeding had not been a result of her beating, but she’d been very frightened.

She felt her husband’s eyes on her, and she turned around.

“Good morning,” he said. He’d fallen asleep after Dick Adkins had left last night with the news that the president wanted him back, and he had not awakened the entire night.

“Good morning, darling,” Kathleen said, kissing his cheek. “How are you feeling?”

McGarvey took a moment or two to answer. “Better,” he said. “Hungry.”

For the first time since the incident he seemed to be his old self. Alert, not so groggy and disconnected around the edges. “Breakfast is in an hour, unless you want something now. I can get it from the cafeteria—”

He shook his head. “Don’t leave. I can wait.” He seemed to study her face as if he hadn’t seen it for a very long while. “How about you?”

“Sore as hell, but the baby’s going to be okay.” He had asked the same question a dozen times since he’d come out of surgery, and each time he was visibly relieved; the muscles around his mouth and eyes relaxing, he smiled. She wasn’t tired of giving him the same answer.

“That’s good to hear,” he said. “I was worried about you.”

Katy squeezed his hand, and a surge of emotions, from love to thankfulness for his presence in her life, filled her heart. She didn’t want to go through this sort of thing ever again. She didn’t know how she could take it. “Do you remember Dick being here last night?”

McGarvey nodded. “Do you remember what I told him?”

“Did you mean it?”

“Hundred percent, Katy,” he said. “I’m quit and I’m staying quit.”

She searched his eyes for any hint that he might be regretting his decision, that he might just be telling her what she wanted to hear. But she saw only warmth, and sincerity and love. Again her emotions surged, and her eyes wanted to fill, but she fought back the tears. “That’s fine, darling,” she said. “Really fine.”

The door was open and the hospital was coming up to speed for the morning, nurses and orderlies passing in the hall. Katy hated hospitals, and the sooner she could get her husband home, the sooner they could start putting their lives back together. It would be a month or two before he could walk without crutches, and by then he would be irascible because of the enforced inaction, but she found that she was actually looking forward to his mood swings.

“When do I get out of here?” he asked.

“They said this afternoon, if you’re up to it. But you’re going to be on crutches.”

“I figured as much,” he said. “After breakfast I want to see Otto, and at some point my secretary, and probably Dick again.” He smiled. “I don’t think I had it completely together last night.”

Something clutched at Kathleen’s stomach, but it wasn’t the baby. “Do you remember the president’s speech? The Pakistanis think they’ve got bin Laden cornered, and they’ve asked for our help this time.”

“That’s why I want to see Dick and Otto. I’ve got a few ideas.” He smiled at his wife. “Don’t worry, Katy; I’m not going back. But I’ll have to be debriefed, and that’s probably going to take a couple of weeks, and there are a few loose ends I’ll have to take care of. Including apologizing to the president.”

His words were music to Kathleen’s ears. “Don Shaw called; he’s doing fine now. He and Karen want to have us to their house for dinner as soon as you’re up for it. And of course the media have been camped outside from day one, wanting to interview you as soon as the doctors gave the okay. But I told them no, for now.”

“I’m not talking to anybody.”

Kathleen smiled. “You’re not going to get away with it for long,” she said. He started to protest, but she held him off. “You’re a national hero, practically a saint. Not only did you rescue Shaw and the rest of us from the Spirit, you stopped the suicide bombers. No children were hurt. There isn’t a parent in the country who isn’t grateful as hell to you, and all of them want to thank you personally. Otto said he’d gotten word that there was going to be a Senate Intelligence Committee hearing on what you did. They wanted something to give the Saudis, but they wouldn’t dare now. Besides, Haynes is behind you all the way.”

McGarvey looked past his wife to the window. “We were wrong about Salman.”

“That’s the point; you weren’t completely wrong,” Kathleen said. “He wasn’t a terrorist, but he and his wife were funding Khalil. Otto figures they’d probably supported others too, and maybe even fed money directly to bin Laden.”

McGarvey’s mood deepened.

Kathleen knew what he was thinking, but it no longer bothered her. “Liese was badly wounded, but she’ll come out of it okay.” It’s what Otto had told them last night, and Mac was still beating himself up over what could have been a tragedy.

“I screwed up,” he said, softly.

“We all do from time to time. But you did the best you could with the information you had.” She wanted to make it better for him, even though she knew he would have to work out his guilt for himself. “In a few days you can give her a call, see how she’s doing. I think it’ll mean a lot to her.”

He looked away again. “She’s in love with me, and I used her.”

“Yes, you did. And now you have to live with it,” Kathleen said. “No one was killed, and she will recover. And think about what you and she together prevented. You stopped Khalil.”

“A smart man,” McGarvey said.

“But not as smart as you.”

McGarvey laughed. “You’re prejudiced.”

“Yes, I am,” Kathleen said, and she finally knew for a fact that everything was going to turn out fine. Just fine.

She kissed her husband, this time deeply and with a hundred years of love and passion and friendship, because he was finally coming home.

SEVENTY-EIGHT

Liese awoke to bright sunlight streaming through her hospital window, a terrific pain pounding at the back of her heavily bandaged head. Raising a hand to her face, she blocked the sun so she could see what kind of day it was. Only a few puffy summer clouds, but they were beautiful to her.

She had survived. By dumb, blind luck, according to Claude LeFevre, who’d come up to see her yesterday afternoon. Had the bullet entered her head one centimeter to the left, she would have been killed.

“We were picking up everything, but Gertner wouldn’t let us go for the rescue,” LeFevre said. “Not until we heard the gunshot. Then we had to get you out.”

Liese tried to smile, but the effort sent a sharp pain through the middle of her head.

“Take it easy, Sarge. The docs say you’ll come out of this with nothing more than a scar in your thick skull.”

“And a lot of years behind bars to think about what I did,” she’d told him. “I’m sure Gertner is beside himself with joy that he’s finally able to get rid of me.”

LeFevre shook his head. “You’re wrong about that. Your Kirk McGarvey killed Khalil, stopped the al-Quaida attacks, and we got the proof that Salman and his wife were part of the money behind bin Laden. Wouldn’t have been possible without your help. You’re Gertner’s star pupil.”

She didn’t want to believe it. “What about Salman?”

“Khalil killed him.”

“How about the princess and the children?”

“They’ve been deported,” LeFevre said. “But why don’t you ask me about McGarvey?”

She hardened her heart for the bad news.

“He’s okay, Sarge. He was hurt, but he’ll pull through.”

Liese closed her eyes for a moment, relief washing through her body. It was finally over. No matter what happened now, this was behind them. Time to go forward.

LeFevre touched her arm. “Hey, are you okay?”

She opened her eyes and managed a small smile. “Do me a favor, would you, Claude? Don’t call me Sarge. I don’t like it. My name is Liese.”

“Anything you’d like, Liese.”

Time to go forward, she told herself again. But she was tired. “Would you stay a little longer? I don’t want to be alone.”

“I will,” LeFevre said, a warm, honest smile creasing the corners of his eyes.

It was the last thing she had remembered from the previous night: his eyes. Someone came into the room, and she turned slowly to see who it was.

LeFevre, all smiles, carrying a vase of pretty flowers, came around the bed to her. “You had a good night’s sleep?” he asked. He set the flowers on the broad windowsill. “I wanted to get these up here before you woke up, so they’d be the first thing you saw.” He looked closely at her. “They’re okay?”

“Just fine, Claude,” Liese said, and for a moment, looking at LeFevre and the flowers he’d brought her, she couldn’t bring a clear image of McGarvey’s face to mind.

She didn’t know what that meant, because she had dreamed about Kirk every night for the past ten years, but she was willing to accept it.