The Bin Laden Plot

61 LEESBURG, VIRGINIA

It was after 5 p.m. when Christine emerged from the Pentagon, having stopped by the Navy’s operations center coordinating the merchant ship attack, ensuring the CIA had provided all relevant information about the ship and its contents. As a former Pentagon weapons program analyst and national security advisor, she was interested in the planning — it was a part of her previous job that she missed.

By the time she departed the secure spaces in the Pentagon and retrieved her cell phone, a message from McFarland awaited: the address of the CIA facility in nearby Leesburg, Virginia, where the radio taken from the Abbottabad compound was stored.

It was rush hour on the Capital Beltway and its arteries, and the ninety-minute trip to Leesburg in the back of her SUV provided an opportunity for her thoughts to wander: the pending attack on the merchant ship transporting the gas centrifuges, Secretary Verbeck’s potential involvement in the scheme and its cover-up, the prisoner taken from Abbottabad and what had happened to him, and Khalila’s true identity.

Her driver followed the GPS directions to the agency facility, turning from a main highway onto a two-lane road delving into a heavily forested area in the Virginia wilderness, with trees leaning over a poorly maintained road. After a ten-minute trip, the vegetation gave way to a several-acre clearing containing a three-story building surrounded by an electric fence topped by barbed wire.

Christine’s SUV stopped by the single entry point, guarded by two armed men, and the driver showed his agency ID. The gate slid aside and after entering the compound, the driver parked near the entrance. There were only a dozen cars in the parking lot.

Christine left her protective agents behind in the vehicle, and after another ID check in the building lobby, she was directed to the basement, where a single person manned a large warehouse of row upon row of containers stacked forty feet high. Upon closer examination, she realized it was a sophisticated filing system with built-in drawers.

Following a third ID check and an entry into the visitor log, the man looked up with a surprised expression after realizing who she was. Christine provided the drawer ID and the man typed it into the computer. A robotic forklift nearby started moving, turning in to one of the corridors, stopping midway down the row. Its arms rose, then slid into grooves where they clicked into place, and a drawer was extracted.

The forklift returned to the front of the warehouse, where it deposited the drawer on a table off to the side.

“Let me know when you’re done, ma’am,” the man said as he handed Christine a printout with the container combination.

Christine punched the numbers into the drawer’s electronic lock and lifted the lid. She sorted through the container’s contents, which appeared to be all of the electronic equipment taken from the third floor of the Abbottabad house. However, there was no radio. She searched the contents again and located the charger, but no radio.

She spotted a sheet of paper in a holder inside the container, which was an itemized list of the drawer’s contents. Christine went down the list, her finger stopping when it came across the desired item — handheld transceiver.

Christine turned to the warehouse attendant. “Do you know what happened to the transceiver that’s supposed to be in this drawer?”

“I can check the logs to see if it’s been checked out.” He began typing on his computer. “By the way,” he said, “why all the sudden interest in that drawer?”

Christine was surprised by the man’s question. “What do you mean, all the sudden interest?”

“You’re the second person who’s searched through its contents today.”

“What?” Christine said reflexively. There were only five others who knew about the drawer. “Who was the other person?”

The man pulled up the visitor log. “Khalila Dufour.”

Christine wondered why Khalila would want the radio, if she’d even taken it in the first place. Perhaps it wasn’t there to begin with.

“Did she take the radio?”

“She didn’t check anything out, but I can’t say for sure that she didn’t pocket the radio while she was here. I didn’t watch her the whole time. That’s not my job,” he added defensively. “I just retrieve and store the drawers.”

Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he spoke with the director of the CIA, who seemed upset with the performance of his duties.

Christine gave a terse nod, determined not to take her anger out on the man standing before her. By the time she exited the facility, however, the sun had begun to set, and the darkening skies matched her mood. She was fuming. Why would Khalila have taken the transceiver? Christine had no answers because she knew too little about Khalila. She’d had enough of the DDO’s secrecy concerning Khalila’s identity. He was going to come clean about who she was — tonight.

She called Rolow’s office phone in case he was still at work, but it went to voice mail. When she called his home phone, he answered.

“PJ here.”

“This is Christine,” she said, tamping down on her anger for the moment. “We need to talk — tonight.”

“About what?”

“We’ll discuss it when I get there.”

She checked his address in her phone, filed under an alias since the DDO’s residence was a closely guarded secret, even within the agency. He lived near Fairfax, Virginia, not far away.

“I’ll be there in a half hour.”

Christine hung up, and as she walked to her car, she decided she wanted the entire cast of characters present tonight, especially Khalila. She dialed Harrison.

When he answered, she asked, “Do you know where Khalila is?”

“She’s sitting beside me in the car. We just left the NCTC,” he said, referring to the National Counterterrorism Center in McLean, Virginia. “We’ve been running down potential leads on Mixell.”

“Bring Khalila to the DDO’s house, now. There are a few things we need to discuss.”

Harrison must have noticed Christine’s tone, because he didn’t inquire about the details. His only question was a simple one.

“What’s the address?”