The Bin Laden Plot

The president interjected, “You have my authorization to provide whatever information is in that file to Christine. She has my complete confidence. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Christine,” the president added, “brief me on the contents of the file at the earliest opportunity.”

“Yes, sir.”

The president hung up and Christine placed the phone on the hallway table. After returning to the study, Rolow closed the door again and gestured toward a chair.

“I’ll tell you what I know.”

Christine refused the proffered chair, standing with her arms folded across her chest.

“I’m waiting.”

63 LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

Tracey McFarland, working late in her office, was wrapping things up for the evening when she noticed an email arrive in her in-box. It was from the translation section of the CIA Office of Terrorism Analysis, where she had sent Harrison’s video of Khalila meeting Abdallah bin Laden and his three companions outside the Al Hamra Tower in Kuwait City.

She opened the email and reviewed the identity of the four men: Harrison had been correct — one of them was Abdallah bin Laden, Osama’s son. She then reviewed the transcript of the conversation between Abdallah and Khalila, derived from audio they were able to pull from the video. She read the transcript, confused from the outset, then returned to the beginning.

This can’t be right.

The audio must have been of poor quality and misunderstood. Her thoughts went in several directions as she debated how to proceed, then she picked up the phone and called the linguist who had translated the audio and sent the email.

When he answered, she said, “This is McFarland. I’d like a backup translation of the audio file you just sent me.”

“I’m confident it’s correct,” the man said.

“I didn’t ask if you thought it was correct!” Tracey yelled. “I said I want a backup translation! And I want it in the next five minutes!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I also want you to lock that file down, with my authority or higher to access.”

Tracey slammed the phone down, then debated what to do next. Christine needed to know. She picked up the phone again and dialed the director, but the call went directly to voice mail. Her phone must be off.

She tapped her desk, waiting for the second translation to come in. She’d given the man five minutes, but she had no idea how long it would really take. She then decided to call the person who really needed to know.

* * *

Jake Harrison was driving west on Interstate 66 with Khalila sitting beside him, headed to the DDO’s home outside Fairfax, when his cell phone rang. When he brought it to his ear, it was McFarland on the other end.

“Jake, this is Tracey,” she said. Her voice seemed unsettled. “I received the report on the video you took of Khalila meeting bin Laden’s son. I know who she is.”

Harrison glanced at Khalila, then replied, “Please, share the news.”

“I need to discuss this with the DDO and Christine first. But what I can say for now is — do not trust her.”

“I see,” Harrison said, answering succinctly to conceal the topic of his conversation with McFarland. “Anything else?”

“I’ll get back to you soon, but be careful,” McFarland said, then hung up.

“Who was that?” Khalila asked.

She had noticed the glance in her direction, followed by his cryptic response to McFarland. Despite his best attempt, her suspicion had been raised. After a moment of hesitation, he decided to reveal a portion of their conversation.

“McFarland,” Harrison replied. “She says not to trust you. Should I be worried?”

Khalila laughed. “Hardly.”

Earlier in the day, Khalila had left on an errand, and after she had returned, she’d been in a dark mood the rest of the afternoon. For some reason, it felt good to hear her laugh.

Harrison grinned, then returned his focus to the road.

He caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye, then felt cold metal against the side of his head. He glanced at Khalila; her pistol was pressed against his temple.

Harrison clenched his hands on the steering wheel as he assessed his options. There weren’t many, and they were all bad. They continued down the road in silence, with Khalila neither pulling the trigger nor putting her weapon down.

He sensed her indecision, then asked again, adding more emphasis to his words.

“Should I be worried?”

“That depends on what else McFarland told you.”

* * *

Another email from the Office of Terrorism Analysis appeared in McFarland’s in-box, followed immediately by her phone ringing.

She picked up the phone. “McFarland.”

“I’ve obtained an independent translation,” the man said. “The original translation is correct.”

“Thank you,” McFarland said, then hung up the phone, her mind going numb for a moment.

She reread the audio translation, focusing on Abdallah’s greeting when he had met Khalila.

Welcome, sister.

If Abdallah was bin Laden’s son, that meant Khalila was — Osama bin Laden’s daughter.

64 FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA