The Bin Laden Plot

65 MERRIFIELD, VIRGINIA

With the cold metal barrel of Khalila’s pistol pressed against his temple, Harrison decided his best chance of survival was to talk his way out. He’d been there before, in Syria, when Khalila had her pistol aimed at him from across the room.

“We have an agreement,” he said. “I keep whatever I learn about you to myself. I haven’t violated that agreement, which means you need to hold up your end of the bargain.”

“I included a caveat,” Khalila replied. “Our agreement holds as long as you don’t learn who I am. So… what did McFarland tell you?”

“You’ve got a pistol pointed at my head. What do you think my answer’s going to be? Plus, I’m driving down the interstate at seventy miles per hour. Do you really want to put a bullet in my head right now?”

He let his question sink in, then continued, “At this point, all I can do is reiterate our agreement — whatever your secret is, it’s safe with me. Put your pistol down and let’s talk.”

He pressed harder on the gas, accelerating the car.

Khalila glanced at the speedometer, then at the traffic they were speeding past.

Slowly, she lowered her weapon.

The pistol was still in her hand, but it was resting in her lap now instead of aimed at his head. There was a vacant look in her eyes as she stared directly ahead. It was quiet in the car as it sped down the interstate, until Khalila finally spoke.

“I was thirteen at the time,” she began. “I remember sitting in front of the TV, watching the replays of the aircraft crashing into the Twin Towers in New York City, staring in horror as the buildings collapsed. I remember being amazed at the destruction wrought by two aircraft and terrified by what the victims must have endured. The men and women crushed inside the buildings, and others trapped by the fires on the higher floors, choosing to leap to their deaths instead of being burned alive. In my dreams, I still hear the sound of their bodies hitting the pavement.

“After learning my father was responsible, I was overwhelmed with guilt and shame. Arabs value family honor, and my family has been dishonored by the murder of three thousand innocent men, women, and children. While some cheered what my father had accomplished, I vowed to do what I could to restore that honor. To repay America in some way for what my family had done.

“After I graduated from university, I joined al-Qaeda, using my status as Osama’s daughter to work my way into a leadership position, where I eventually proposed the plan I’d been plotting all along. I would offer my services to the CIA using the rationale I just explained — the shame and sorrow for what my father had done — hoping to make amends in some way. Al-Qaeda leadership approved, and I’ve been feeding them information ever since I became a CIA officer.”

Harrison pondered Khalila’s stunning revelation — that she was Osama bin Laden’s daughter — along with her backstory of shame and atonement. The rationale for her joining the CIA could be either true or false, depending on which side she was truly working for.

Khalila seemed to read his mind, or perhaps the issue was never far from hers. “Only I know my true motivation. But what matters is that both al-Qaeda and the CIA believe I’m working for them. Within that construct, I can achieve what I desire.”

“What if one side determines you’re really working for the other side?”

Khalila shrugged. “There’s a phrase for that — It’s been good knowing you. But I’ve already achieved much, saving the lives of hundreds, if not thousands. I can go to my grave knowing that I accomplished my goal.”

“So,” Harrison said, “how does this work out? Our agreement is — I stay alive as long as I don’t learn your true identity — but you’re the one who revealed it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, glancing at the pistol in her lap. “You know who I am now.”