* * *
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 deep-set 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. 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?”
“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.
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 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 military-personnel 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 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.”