The Bin Laden Plot

Harrison checked to make sure she wasn’t watching him as she tried to handle her oversized burger, then he winked at Angie. She wiggled her toes and smiled.

51 LANHAM, MARYLAND

Seated at the desk in his hotel room a block from the Capital Beltway surrounding Washington, D.C., Lonnie Mixell took a break from planning the next al-Qaeda-sponsored terrorist attack on U.S. soil, an event that, if executed successfully, would exceed 9/11 in its impact. In the interim, another effort paid the bills, and he pulled up a status report on the shipment from Snyder Industries to Iran. Everything was proceeding as planned, and the equipment should offload at its destination port in two days.

He was about to return to the complicated but rather enjoyable al-Qaeda plot when a notification appeared on his computer display, indicating he’d received an encrypted transmission. He clicked on the note, which launched a portal to a secure messaging site.

Good work on the first four men. But you need to finish the job. Your friend Harrison is back in the U.S., staying at the Intercontinental in southwest D.C. You should pay him a visit. Sooner rather than later.

Mixell typed a response: “Understand. But I was hoping for something more dramatic, requiring the presence of his wife. Harrison working solo on the East Coast complicates things.”

His wife is with him at the hotel for the next few days.

Mixell took a moment to reconsider his plans, then replied: “Would tonight make you happy?”

Very.

“What’s his room number?”

Don’t know.

“Do you have any other helpful information?”

No.

Mixell signed off from the app, and the messages disappeared from his computer. He pulled up a map of Washington, D.C., zoomed in to the vicinity of the Intercontinental and shifted to satellite view, then studied the area.

It didn’t take long to devise a plan.

52 ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

Christine O’Connor entered the Carlyle restaurant in Shirlington fifteen minutes late for her 6 p.m. dinner date, reaching the second floor as a waiter brought Tracey McFarland and her husband another round of drinks. One of Christine’s protective agents took a seat at the bar, while another positioned himself at a two-person table reserved ahead of time, offering a clear view of the director and her dinner companions.

This was her third outing with Tracey, who had talked Christine into a double date this time. Christine had initially declined, with so much going on at work, then had reluctantly agreed to tonight’s date with a guy Tracey had highly recommended. Christine hadn’t let on, but Jake’s call today was fortuitous, since Christine had reconsidered and wasn’t looking forward to the event, giving her an excuse to cancel the date but still meet up with Tracey.

Tracey introduced her husband, Mike, who was an older but handsome guy.

“Sorry I’m late,” Christine said. “Got held up at the office. I also can’t stay too long. I’m taking Jake’s daughter to the gym tonight. She’s got a meet on Saturday and is having trouble with her beam routine.”

Tracy filled her husband in on Christine’s gymnastics pedigree.

“You certainly look the part,” Mike said.

His comment elicited a wry look from Tracey — commenting on Christine’s looks with the first sentence out of his mouth.

“What? I’m just offering a compliment. Christine looks great, especially for a woman her age.”

This time, his comment earned him an elbow in the side, since Tracey was a few years older than Christine.

The waiter returned with a cosmopolitan for Christine, and Tracey and Mike ordered dinner while Christine ordered just an appetizer, since she’d be heading to the gym soon. After the waiter took their orders, Mike headed to the bathroom.

“So, how are things going with double-O-seven?” Christine asked.

Tracey had found herself divorced a few years ago and, as an attractive woman in her forties, had enjoyed her newfound freedom, going through men like fashion accessories. Her friends had stopped learning their names and started giving them numbers. Tracey had eventually settled down and married number seven, and with Tracey being a CIA employee, it hadn’t taken long for her friends to nickname her husband 007. The moniker somewhat fit, since Mike was a retired CIA field officer, having spent twenty years in the Middle East.

“Things are good,” Tracey replied. “I’m jealous of his retirement. He’s staying busy, though, working forty-plus hours a week. But at least he’s doing something he enjoys instead of the daily slog at the agency. He’s building us a new house. General contractor and all that. Slow going, since he’s a perfectionist, but it’s almost done.