The Bin Laden Plot

“No, that’s quite all right,” Brenda replied. “I’d rather not become consumed with the investigation details. I trust you’ll track Mixell down.”

Christine agreed. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“By the way,” Brenda said, “my husband had impressive things to say about you during your time at Ice Station Nautilus.”

Brenda’s statement caught Christine off guard, then she made the connection. Brenda’s husband was Vance Verbeck, the technical director of the Navy’s Arctic Submarine Laboratory, who had been the officer in charge of Ice Station Nautilus, established during their search for American and Russian submarines that had collided and sunk beneath the polar ice cap.

“You’re married to Vance,” Christine replied. “I should have realized sooner; Verbeck isn’t a common surname.”

Brenda leaned slightly toward Christine. “Is it true you killed two Russian Spetsnaz?”

Christine nodded. “I had help: an ice pick and a lot of vodka.”

She recalled the deadly encounter, particularly the struggle with the second Spetsnaz. He’d had a choke hold on her, cutting off her airway as she was pinned against the wall, while she had driven an ice pick through his neck. It had been a race against time; whether she would run out of oxygen first or he ran out of blood.

Brenda must have noticed the distant look in Christine’s eyes as she recalled the encounter. “I’m sorry I brought it up. It must have been traumatic.”

Christine nodded, then forced a smile. “I did what I had to.”

“I understand,” Brenda replied. “I’ve been there myself a few times.”

It seemed like a good time to bring their visit to a close, so Christine reiterated her offer as she stood. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help in this matter.”

“Absolutely,” Brenda replied. “I won’t hesitate to call.”

18 ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

The morning’s dark clouds to the west had moved over the city, and a light rain was falling from an overcast sky as a sentry waved Khalila’s car into Arlington National Cemetery. He saluted Harrison as he passed by, since the former SEAL was now wearing a Service Dress Blue uniform. Following their trip to Nagle’s murder scene, Khalila had stopped by Harrison’s room at the Intercontinental in D.C., waiting in the car while he changed into his Navy uniform for this afternoon’s funeral. Khalila had stopped by her town house as well, also changing into something more appropriate: a black business suit paired with a white blouse.

Khalila was continuing down Eisenhower Drive past the Tomb of the Unknowns, headed toward McNeil’s burial site, when Harrison spotted a black SUV in the distance and a woman standing among the grave sites not far away. Based on the location, Harrison had a fair idea of who it was, and since they were thirty minutes early, he decided to swing by.

“Take a left up there,” he said to Khalila. He pointed to the SUV. “I think that’s Christine.”

“On a first-name basis with the director?” Khalila asked. “It’s obvious there’s something going on with you two. What’s the deal?”

Harrison considered filling Khalila in, but it was a long backstory and he decided otherwise, repeating Khalila’s earlier response when he had asked about her name.

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

Khalila smiled. “Fair enough.”

She turned left on Patton Drive as directed, then stopped behind the SUV. The woman standing among the graves was definitely Christine.

As Harrison opened the car door, Khalila retrieved an umbrella from the side pocket of her door. “Take this.”

It was Harrison’s turn to smile. “I’m a former SEAL. A little rain isn’t going to bother me.”

Harrison headed across the wet grass toward Christine, who stood before headstone 1851. DANIEL O’CONNOR was engraved on the front, and Harrison didn’t look, but he knew TATYANA O’CONNOR was inscribed on the back. He had still been dating Christine when her mother died and had been with her at Tatyana’s funeral.

That Christine had grown up without a father had always been a sensitive subject, and he wondered if her tomboy persona as a kid was compensation for the lack of a male influence at home. Her father had been killed in action while Tatyana was pregnant, and Tatyana had never remarried, dying from cancer when Christine was in her early twenties. In accordance with policy at Arlington National Cemetery, she’d been buried atop Daniel in the same grave, her name inscribed on the back of the headstone.

Harrison stopped beside Christine, and with neither saying a word, she instinctively moved closer and placed her umbrella over both of them. There was something natural about being with Christine. He wanted to put his arm around her, pulling her close to comfort her, but didn’t want to send the wrong signal. He knew she was still in love with him. It had become apparent aboard USS Michigan, when she had asked him a simple question.

How’s home?

He had seen the disappointment in her eyes when he’d replied, It’s good.