The Bin Laden Plot

“Well, then,” Rolow said, “we’ll let you and Khalila get reacquainted.”

The four senior officials left the conference room, leaving Harrison and Khalila behind.

Harrison turned to his former — and present — partner, searching for the right words to begin. She spoke first.

“I’ll contact local law enforcement and have them meet us in Burke. Get your gear and I’ll pick you up at the entrance.”

Without waiting for a response, she headed toward the door.

So much for getting reacquainted.

16 BURKE, VIRGINIA

It had been a quiet ride to Burke, Virginia, only a half-hour drive from Langley. Khalila had just pulled her sleek blue BMW M8 coupe off I-495 onto Braddock Road, ten minutes from their destination. At the beginning of their trip, as Khalila waited outside the CIA entrance, Harrison had tossed a backpack filled with his new gear into the back seat of her car, then slid into the passenger seat. As she peeled away from Langley and accelerated onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway, a simple thought had flashed through his mind.

Fast cars and fast women.

Khalila’s M8 was fast, and so was she. While chasing the Russian attempting to evade them in Sochi, Khalila had almost kept up with Harrison. Whether she was fast in the proverbial sense, Harrison didn’t know. Their interactions thus far had been purely professional, with a distance between them created by her cold personality and ruthless behavior. By the end of their first stint together, Harrison had concluded Khalila was a sociopath, a label she hadn’t disagreed with.

Harrison’s first attempt at conversation during their trip to Burke, shortly after they pulled onto the parkway, had been short.

You look well, he’d said.

Khalila had also been wounded in the firefight with Mixell, but her injuries were worse than his, and she had almost died on the operating table. Even two months later, during his last day at the agency when both had been awarded the CIA Intelligence Star for saving the president’s life, she hadn’t looked well. She had lost a good bit of weight from her already lean build. Today, however, she looked fully recovered, back to her previous physical condition, and her personality hadn’t changed either. Her response to Harrison’s attempt to begin a conversation had been abrupt.

You too.

They were a few minutes from their destination when Khalila spoke again.

“You’re not happy about working with me again.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Why would I? You almost put a bullet in my head.”

“We made an agreement. As long as you keep whatever you learn about me to yourself, you have nothing to worry about. Besides, I took two bullets for you when Mixell had you pinned down. I saved your life and nearly lost mine. I think I’ve proven that I can be trusted.”

Harrison mentally added a caveat to Khalila’s words.

I think I’ve proven that I can be trusted — in certain circumstances.

“Fair enough,” Harrison replied, temporarily ignoring the qualification he had appended to Khalila’s statement. “I’ll concede that you can be trusted. But you need to concede the same — that you can trust me as well.”

There was no response from Khalila, but she seemed to be contemplating his proposal.

Harrison continued, “As part of our bargain, I’ve agreed to keep whatever I’ve learned about you to myself. So why don’t you tell me your real name and why the Syrians deferred to you?”

Khalila laughed. “Not a chance.”

“You already told me your first name.” Harrison recalled the moment after their encounter with Mixell, when Khalila was bleeding out on the warehouse floor as Harrison applied pressure to her wounds.

She looked away, but not before Harrison caught a sly smile on her face.

“You lied?” he asked. “You were practically on your deathbed and you still couldn’t be honest with me?”

Khalila didn’t answer, keeping her eyes fixed on the road instead. Harrison decided to press the issue anyway.

“Telling me your real name would be a nice token of trust. What harm can come from that? I figure you’re somewhere between Arabian royalty and the FBI’s most wanted. Or perhaps you could just tell me which end of the spectrum you’re on.”

“I have to admit, you’re persistent,” Khalila answered. “But my real name is something you will never learn. There’s a common saying when revealing classified information to someone unauthorized to receive it — I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. Let’s not complicate our relationship any further. Let me be clear — if you ever learn who I am, our agreement is void.”

“Really?” Harrison asked. “You just made a case about how you can be trusted, and now you’re adding a disclaimer.”

“My trust is conditional. I’m not the one who makes the rules.”

“Then who does?” Harrison asked, his thoughts already focused on the one person who could. “The DDO?”