Thriller (66 page)

and six hours later he was informed that an army special forces

unit would covertly enter the country from Afghanistan by

7:00 a.m. the following morning. He had no intention of taking

possession of bin Laden alone, nor did the military want to be

absent when that happened. So he’d made, as bin Laden had said,

arrangements.

Malone met the unit at a prearranged point on the highway

north of the capital. It consisted of six soldiers and two officers,

all dressed in nondescript civilian clothing. Colonel Rick Cobb

was in charge, a slender man with reddish-blond hair and deepset green eyes. Malone explained what he wanted the unit to do,

then left them on the side of the road as he drove off for Rampur.

At precisely noon Malone strolled back into the ruins. A pall

of impenetrable mist shrouded the precipice and shielded the

cliffs overhead. He stepped with caution, waiting to see what

would happen.

Bin Laden appeared, just like yesterday. Today, Malone wasn’t

going to chitchat. “Ready to go?”

“As promised.”

He withdrew his Glock.

“That’s not necessary.”

“Makes me feel better.”

His prisoner shrugged. “Then, by all means.”

“Your friends here today?”

“Until we’re safely away. Then they’ll be gone.”

It took twenty minutes to hike down to Malone’s car, the going

slow because of bin Laden’s cane-assisted gait. Before loading the

Arab into the passenger’s seat Malone frisked him. Bin Laden

seemed to expect the violation and did not resist.

They left Rampur and started the drive back for the capital.

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About halfway, Malone spied the same battered cars on the

side of the highway. He eased onto the shoulder and parked behind them.

The doors to both opened and the American unit poured out.

“Friends of yours?” bin Laden calmly asked.

“Your keepers.”

“The deal was I surrendered only to you.”

“I lied.”

Malone left the following day. President Sharma attempted no

contact, but he expected none. The announcement that Osama

bin Laden had been captured would come through the White

House, and the American military would receive full credit. Contrary to what bin Laden may have thought, Malone neither expected nor desired public acknowledgment.

Nor, he knew, did Sharma.

Both their jobs were done.

Two weeks passed with no announcement. Malone was dispatched to Germany, then to Bulgaria, Australia and Norway.

After another two months and still nothing, he decided to see

what was happening. Stephanie Nelle was likewise curious, so

she made an official inquiry.

“Cotton, they don’t know what we’re talking about,” she told

him over the phone from Billet headquarters.

He was between planes in London. “Stephanie, I drove the

SOB in my car. He was sitting beside me. I turned him over to

an army colonel.”

“I gave them the name of the officer. Rick Cobb. He’s a colonel,

assigned to special forces, but that day he was on leave in the

United States. Nowhere near you. That’s been verified.”

“You get a description of him?”

She told him, and it in no way matched the man to whom he’d

handed over bin Laden. “What the hell’s happening here? They

playing games with us?”

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“Why? The president would give his left nut to have bin Laden

in custody.”

Malone heard what bin Laden said to him
. These others want

to prevent such a glorious ending for me.

“I need to talk to Sharma. I’ll get back to you.”

Malone found an Internet portal in a business alcove of the

international terminal. There, he connected his laptop and sent

an e-mail, which he knew was precisely how Sharma liked to

communicate. The president hated telephones—
uncontrollable—

and preferred to retain a hard copy of all his messages. So Malone kept his message simple:

MY GIFT IS GONE.

His plane was not for another two hours, so he sat and waited.

Interestingly, the response came in less than ten minutes.

REVISIT THE RUINS.

Malone knew that was all he was going to get. Obviously,

Sharma had been expecting contact. Malone had been on his way

back to Atlanta for three days of rest before his next assignment.

Not anymore.

Late autumn had a firm grip on the Pan Mountains as Malone

parked at the base of the ridge that led up to the Rampur ruins.

The air was a solid forty degrees cooler than it had been three

months ago, and snow draped the surrounding peaks in long veils.

He reached beneath his parka and withdrew his Glock. He

had no idea what was waiting for him, but he had to follow

Sharma’s lead.

He climbed in measured steps, careful on the frozen earth. He

entered the site and allowed his senses to absorb the same barren desolation. He pressed on and explored, his mind alert.

Automatic gunfire startled him.

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Bullets ricocheted off boulders.

“Far enough, Malone,” a man said in English. “Let your gun

hit the ground.”

He released his grip and turned. “Colonel Rick Cobb” hopped

down from a narrow cliff and descended the stacked boulders.

“I was told you returned to the country yesterday,” Cobb said.

“So I knew you’d be here today.”

“I like to be punctual.”

“Funny, too. What a guy.”

“And you are?”

“Colonel Rick Cobb. Who else?”

“You know I don’t buy that.”

“That’s all you’re going to get.”

“Okay, Colonel Rick Cobb, you plan to tell me what happened to bin Laden?”

“How about I show you?” Cobb motioned with the rifle.

“That way.”

Malone walked past more mounds of rubble and turned a corner. A cold breeze raked his limbs and dried his lips. He spotted

a blackened splotch of earth near where an outer wall once stood.

Weather was rapidly erasing the traces, but it was clear something had been burned there recently.

“All that’s left,” Cobb said. “Shot him myself, right about

where you’re standing, then we burned the murdering asshole

till there was nothing left.”

“And the purpose of that?”

“Damn, you have to ask? He killed Americans. He was an

enemy of the state.”

“You’re no soldier.”

“Soldiers have rules, and rules have a nasty way of interfering

with what’s right. I work outside the rules.”

“Bin Laden said you were after him. He told me you wanted

him dead, but for no one else to know. Care to tell me the point?”

“Come on, you’re a bright guy. America is spending tens of billions of dollars on the war on terror. More money than anyone

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can even comprehend. It’s like manna, my friend—straight from

heaven.”

Malone was glad his suspicions now seemed confirmed. “And

there are a lot of corporations getting rich.”

“Now you’re thinking. Have you looked at the stock prices for

some of the defense contractors? Through the roof. Lots of

smaller companies are making a fortune, too. Can’t let that end.”

“And you work for them?”

“They all got together and decided to hire one team. The best

in the business. Hell, we developed a better intel network than

the government. Took us over a year, but we finally got close to

bin Laden. We damn near got him twice. About eight months

ago, though, he dropped from everybody’s radar. Gone. We were

beginning to worry, until you called in.”

“We contacted the military that day, through official channels,

not you.”

Cobb nodded. “That you did. But we have friends real high

on the food chain. After all, this is a gold mine for the military,

too.
Nobody
wants this gravy train to end. So they called us and,

luckily, we were nearby.”

“So you brought him back here and killed him.”

“Good a place as any. His people ran like scalded dogs after

you two drove off. I sent a few additional men to keep an eye on

this place. So instead of driving south to the Afghan border, we

just doubled around and came here. Over and done with it in

two hours. His body burned fast.”

Something else he wanted to know. “Why use real militarypersonnel names? We checked, there’s a Colonel Rick Cobb.”

The man shrugged. “Makes it easier to move around. Damn

computers allow everybody to be monitored. We choose the

guys on leave. Our friends at the Pentagon kept us informed. Like

I said, can’t let the gravy train end.”

“Why would it?”

“Get real. You know the answer. Americans have short memories. They get blown up on 9/11, they invade a few places, kick

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some butt, then capture Saddam. Next thing they want is it all

to end. Public opinion is already fading. Politicians are feeling

the heat. That means budget cuts, priorities shifting—all bad

things for my employers. Last thing they need is for bin Laden

to be corralled. No. Keep him out there. Make him a threat. Let

’em wonder. Stalin did the same thing with Hitler after World

War II. He knew the bastard was dead, but fueled everyone’s fear

that the devil may still be alive and kicking. All to keep his enemies off guard.”

“So you now control bin Laden’s existence.”

“Every damn bit of it. And we plan on making him quite the

badass.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you. I have a message. My employers want you

to stop snooping around. Leave it be.”

“Why would I?”

“’Cause you got squat to show for anything. What are you

going to do? Claim you captured bin Laden? You’d sound like a

nut. No body, no photo. There’s nothing left of him for any DNA

match with one of those twenty or so kids he supposedly fathered. It’s over. Let it be. Move on.”

“And if I don’t?”

“We’re not in the habit of killing our own, but we’re not opposed to it either.”

“You’re no better than he was.” He started to leave, but Cobb

quickly blocked the way. “I’d move if I were you.”

The gun came level. “You a tough guy, Malone?”

“Tough enough I don’t need a rifle to protect myself from you.”

He stood rock still. He wasn’t going to let Cobb know for a

second he was scared. But who wouldn’t be? The dark end of a

rifle barrel was not a pleasant sight.

Cobb lowered the gun.

Malone had guessed right. They wanted him alive. Who better to start the ball rolling than some American agent who

claimed bin Laden surrendered to him and that there was some

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sort of conspiracy designed to conceal bin Laden’s death. The

military would deny the assertions and, in the process, supercharge the world’s fear of bin Laden. He’d have nothing for proof

and they’d have the terror of the past.

Easy to see who’d win that battle.

“Go on, Malone. Get out of here. Go tell the world what you

know.”

Not a chance.

He slammed the heel of his boot into Cobb’s right knee. The

move clearly caught the man off guard. Maybe he’d thought him

incapable? He heard bone break and he planted a fist into the

jaw. Cobb cried out in agony as he crumpled to the ground,

clutching his wounded leg. Malone lifted the rifle from the

ground.

“I’ll say it again. You’re no better than he was. He killed for

Allah. You do it for profit.”

“The…devil…got his due.”

Malone slung the rifle out into the open air, beyond the crumbled wall, and left.

Malone zipped his suitcase shut and checked out of his hotel.

Downstairs, he stepped out into the frigid evening and searched

the crowded street for a taxi to the airport. One appeared and he

quickly climbed into the back seat. The driver eased his way

through stop-and-start traffic. Darkness came quickly this time

of year to central Asia and night had enveloped the city by the

time they stopped at the terminal. He handed the driver forty

rubles and was about to leave when the man said in Russian, “Mr.

Malone, my president has something for you.”

He stared at the driver from the rear seat as the man handed

him a brown envelope.

“He also said to wish you well.”

Malone thanked the man and added another twenty rubles for

his trouble. Sharma’s reach was extensive, he’d give the man

that. Through the envelope he felt the distinctive outline of a CD.

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Inside the terminal he checked his bag, then, with his carry-on

draped over his shoulder, headed for the gate. There, he opened

the envelope and saw that it contained a disk, along with a note.

He read the message, then inserted the CD into his laptop.

On the screen appeared a video. He watched while the phony

colonel named Cobb shot Osama bin Laden. Then, with the help

of the other paramilitary members, whose faces Malone recognized, Cobb burned the body. The screen went dark, then a new

video began. This one featured him and Cobb hours earlier. Malone found his earphones and switched on the audio. The sound

of their voices was excellent and their entire encounter, including Malone’s assault, was recorded.

Then the screen went black.

He shook his head.

Yossef Sharma had been watching. Though he was the head

of a nation that possessed no means of adequately protecting itself, the president was a clever man. He’d wanted the United