The Bin Laden Plot

When Rolow finished explaining, Christine stared at him in stunned silence for a moment, then sank into a chair.

“I’ll take that drink now.”

Rolow poured one in a crystal glass and handed it to her.

She took a sip, then asked, “How the hell did you get your hooks into her?”

“She came to us.”

“Oh, that’s a red flag.”

“Agreed. It took a while to sort through things, and we’re still not sure what to make of it. We ended up keeping her at the farm for two training cycles as we tried to convince ourselves she’d come forth with a genuine aim to help us, rather than to work her way into a position where she could feed information to al-Qaeda and other terrorist organizations.”

Rolow explained, “To exploit her connections, Khalila pretends to be a double agent, providing screened information to Middle Eastern contacts in exchange for actionable information for us.”

“What’s your assessment? Do you think she’s truly working for us or someone else?”

Rolow shrugged. “She’s always obtained the information we desired and has never revealed anything unauthorized as far as we can tell, but she’s also lost a few partners in the process. We’re not sure if it’s a string of bad luck or she’s covering her tracks, eliminating anyone who learns too much.”

“And you teamed her up with Harrison?”

“The president said to pull out all the stops on the SecNav assassination attempt, so that meant we assigned Khalila. Harrison’s not an irreplaceable asset like she is; his loss wouldn’t be significant.”

Christine didn’t agree with Rolow’s assessment. Harrison would be a significant loss, at least to her. But she had to keep her personal interests from interfering with her job. Rolow was correct; compared to Khalila, Harrison was disposable.

“If any of our political enemies find out who we’ve let into the agency…” she said.

“As you can see,” he said, “this is a sensitive issue from several angles. The maximum secrecy regarding her identity is required.”

Christine agreed, then considered what she had learned today, suddenly realizing that Rolow didn’t know about bin Laden’s radio. In her mind, what Khalila had done was a telltale. She was protecting whoever had been aiding her father while he was on the run. She explained to Rolow that the radio was missing and that Khalila had visited the facility earlier in the day.

“That tells me,” she said, “that she’s not on our side.”

The revelation created a concerned look on Rolow’s face.

65 MERRIFIELD, VIRGINIA

With the cold metal barrel of Khalila’s pistol pressed against his temple, Harrison decided his best chance of survival was to talk his way out. He’d been there before, in Syria, when Khalila had her pistol aimed at him from across the room.

“We have an agreement,” he said. “I keep whatever I learn about you to myself. I haven’t violated that agreement, which means you need to hold up your end of the bargain.”

“I included a caveat,” Khalila replied. “Our agreement holds as long as you don’t learn who I am. So… what did McFarland tell you?”

“You’ve got a pistol pointed at my head. What do you think my answer’s going to be? Plus, I’m driving down the interstate at seventy miles per hour. Do you really want to put a bullet in my head right now?”

He let his question sink in, then continued, “At this point, all I can do is reiterate our agreement — whatever your secret is, it’s safe with me. Put your pistol down and let’s talk.”

He pressed harder on the gas, accelerating the car.

Khalila glanced at the speedometer, then at the traffic they were speeding past.

Slowly, she lowered her weapon.

The pistol was still in her hand, but it was resting in her lap now instead of aimed at his head. There was a vacant look in her eyes as she stared directly ahead. It was quiet in the car as it sped down the interstate, until Khalila finally spoke.

“I was thirteen at the time,” she began. “I remember sitting in front of the TV, watching the replays of the aircraft crashing into the Twin Towers in New York City, staring in horror as the buildings collapsed. I remember being amazed at the destruction wrought by two aircraft and terrified by what the victims must have endured. The men and women crushed inside the buildings, and others trapped by the fires on the higher floors, choosing to leap to their deaths instead of being burned alive. In my dreams, I still hear the sound of their bodies hitting the pavement.

“After learning my father was responsible, I was overwhelmed with guilt and shame. Arabs value family honor, and my family has been dishonored by the murder of three thousand innocent men, women, and children. While some cheered what my father had accomplished, I vowed to do what I could to restore that honor. To repay America in some way for what my family had done.