Thriller (65 page)

He smiled. “More lucky for you.”

Malone was a navy commander turned lawyer turned Justice

Department operative, assigned to a covert division within Justice known as the Magellan Billet. Twelve specially trained

agents, all lawyers, working under a no-nonsense lady named

Stephanie Nelle. On the outside, Nelle reminded most observers

of their grandmothers, but inside she possessed the resolve of a

Roman centurion. When he was first assigned Malone had

thought the tour would be both limited and boring. But that was

ten years ago, and the past decade had been anything but dull.

Tonight was a good example. Here he was, standing on the balcony of a presidential palace beside a uniformed despot, while

an immense bonfire fueled by books roared below, each breath

from the cool, arid air laced with the scent of smoke and sorrow.

“You tell your government,” Sharma said, “that I’m doing

what I have to in order to survive. This nation is Muslim and

these people demand a strong leader.” The president motioned

below. “You think they’re burning those books because I ordered

it? Never. It’s because they want to.”

Malone was no stranger. Twice he’d worked here, both times

directly with Sharma. Malone had actually become interested in

the country—a mountainous region of over a hundred thousand

square miles, home to four million people, 8.5 percent of whom

were Sunni Muslims. He’d studied its history and knew about

its expansive tradition of writers, poets and composers, most dating back to the Middle Ages. But yesterday he’d painfully

watched while the entire national archive had been cleared. The

loss of so much knowledge was incalculable, but a United Nations protest had been swiftly rebuked by Sharma. Now Malone’s

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stomach turned. It was like friends were burning below. He was

a confirmed bibliophile. Books meant something to him. His

home back in Atlanta overflowed with them. He loved everything

about them, and many times lingered a day or two after an assignment to peruse rare-book shops.

In disgust, he allowed his gaze to drift away from the fire to

the picturesque remains of mosques and other architecture lining the plaza. He knew that many of the buildings had stood

since the nineteenth century, surviving the Soviet takeover in

1922, a Muslim rebellion in 1935, the fall of communism in 1991

and an Islamic revolution a year later. Finally, he faced Sharma

and said, “Why am I here?”

“To see this happening.”

He doubted that. And that, as far as he was concerned, was the

trouble with central Asia. Truth was an underrated commodity.

“And to give you this.”

Sharma reached over to a small table and lifted up a book. The

binding was tooled with brass fittings in excellent condition.

Malone accepted it and studied the cover. In English was written,
Canterbury Tales
.

“I thought you might like that.”

Sharma knew him well. One of his favorites. “After tomorrow,

I’ll go to prison if I have this.”

Sharma smiled. “For you, an exception. I know how much you

love them. It’s a seventeenth-century edition. For some reason

we had it shelved in our archive.”

He carefully balanced the book in his palm and was about to

open it when Sharma stopped him. “Not here. Later.”

He thought the comment strange.

“There’s another gift. Inside. Especially for you. So later, back

at your hotel.”

He knew better than to question. So he nodded in understanding, slipped the tiny volume into his jacket pocket and

turned his attention back to the bonfire.

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* * *

Malone returned to his hotel room. The fire was still burning

strong after two hours, when he and Sharma vacated the balcony.

He locked the door and removed his jacket. Its brown leather

smelled of ash.

He sat on the bed and studied the copy of
Canterbury Tales
. A

second Speght edition, dated 1602. A text read and owned by the

likes of Milton, Pepys, Dryden and Pope. Worth in the neighborhood of ten thousand American dollars, provided a copy

could even be found.

Yet he was now holding one.

Given to him by Yossef Sharma.

He opened the book and, toward the center of the dingy yellowed pages, found a scrap of paper. He freed it and read the feminine English script.

In the mountains, to the north, visit the ruins of Rampur.

Arrive at noon tomorrow. Someone wishes to speak with

you, alone.

Sharma had gone to a lot of trouble to pass him this message.

He apparently wanted Malone to go—which was the real reason

why he’d been invited to the country—but did not want any fingerprints of his on the effort.

Typical Sharma. The man was a friend of the United States, but

no one, other than a few with the highest security clearance, knew

that. To the world Yossef Sharma was an oppressive ruler of an

unimportant nation, but for years he’d quietly provided the West

with some of the best intelligence out of central Asia. He possessed

a superb spy network and the price for his services was the privilege to run his country as he saw fit. Of course, his efforts at generating utter chaos among his much larger neighbors was protected

by one lucky truth—none of them had time to bother with him.

But now this.

What was Sharma up to?

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* * *

Malone awoke early and prepared himself for the journey

north. He secured a car from the American embassy along with

a road map and noted that Rampur lay about two hours away,

across some of the highest ranges in the country. The drive from

the capital wound across Alpine terrain, through narrow passes

where snow still lingered even now, in August. Cave entrances

honeycombed many of the precipices.

He drove leisurely, taking care to ensure that he was not being

followed. He motored through flat-bottomed valleys that housed

compact villages, where he spotted more remnants of last night’s

carnage in piles of smoldering books.

He found Rampur.

Earlier, at the American embassy, he’d learned that Bactrians

in the first century, Arabs in the seventh, Turks in the tenth, then

Mongols, Afghans, Russians and Soviets had all, at one time or

another, claimed the site. Alexander the Great himself even laid

siege to its walls. Currently, the surrounding forested hillsides,

mountains and valleys were owned by the government, and a

sign a few miles back had warned about loitering. Another sign,

posted just off the pavement ahead, specifically forbade any entrance to the ruins. But Malone had been invited, so he stepped

out into the brisk thin air and stuffed his Billet-issue Glock into

a shoulder harness beneath his jacket. He knew that wild boar,

brown bears and snow leopards all patrolled these mountains.

But he was more concerned with two-legged predators, the kind

that toted automatic weapons.

A gravelly path wound upward and required a steady foot and

the practiced head of a mountaineer to negotiate. Thunder rumbled in the distance and he stopped to grab his breath, admiring

distant snow-covered peaks that matted the horizon.

Another sign noted the beginning of the archeological site and

again warned of no entrance. Beyond, an aimless accumulation

of limestone slabs, most of which were once walls and towers,

lay piled upon one another. Thorny bushes grew in clumps

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among the weathered stone, colored by summer irises and edelweiss. No evidence existed of any recent archeological exploration. In fact, the desolate spot, overhung by cliffs, appeared

long abandoned.

He checked his watch.

11:57 a.m.

“Mr. Malone,” a male voice called out.

He stopped walking and touched the Glock inside his jacket.

“I was told you speak this language,” the voice said in Arabic.

“You were told right.”

“I was also told you’re a man to be trusted.”

He knew that honor, however misguided, was important to the

central Asian culture. “I try to be.”

Twenty feet ahead, a man stepped into view. He was tall, maybe

six and half feet, with an olive complexion. He wore a dingy

white robe that draped his lanky frame. Wrinkles scored his

forehead, as straight as if drawn with a ruler, and his dull, silvergray hair and beard hung shaggy. A black turban wrapped his

scalp and he hobbled forward with the aid of a long stick.

Malone aimed the Glock.

He knew the man’s full name. Usamah bin Muhammad bin

Awad bin Laden. But the West called him simply Osama bin

Laden. What had Sharma said?
Someone wishes to speak with you.

Someone, indeed.

“I assure you, Mr. Malone. I’m no threat.”

He was actually wondering about others.

“And I’m alone.”

He kept the gun level. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

Bin Laden shrugged. “Believe what you wish. I asked for this

meeting and I came alone, as I asked you to do.”

He decided that if the goal was to kill him he’d be dead already,

so he lowered the Glock. “Why am I here?”

“I’d like to surrender myself to you.”

Had he heard right? The entire United States military was

looking for the fugitive standing before him. At last count, re-
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wards of over twenty-five million dollars had been offered. And

bin Laden simply wanted to surrender?

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“I’m tired of running.”

“Since when?”

Bin Laden grinned. “I learned about you. We’re about the

same age. I’m forty-nine, you’re five years younger. Haven’t you

ever wanted to stop what you’re doing?”

Actually those thoughts were occurring to him more and more

of late, but he wasn’t going to discuss his doubts with a murderer.

“What do you want?”

Bin Laden shuffled over to one of the boulders and sat. Malone came closer, but kept some distance, still wary.

“Your military. Your president. They want me dead. They

want to show photographs of my corpse to the world. That

wouldn’t be so bad. I’d be at peace and my followers would

have my death to avenge. I’d continue to lead them even from

the grave. Not a bad fate. There are others though with different plans. These
others
want to prevent such a glorious ending for me.”

Malone couldn’t care less.

“They want me dead, but they want no one to know. In fact,

they actually want to keep me alive, even after I’m dead. You see,

my continued existence, even if only a perception, is far more

valuable to them than my public death.”

Malone had read briefing reports of how bin Laden was a master at oratory, so he told himself to listen with care—debating

with the devil had never been productive for anyone.

“I want to cease my wanderings. I want to become your prisoner. I’ll be tried in a court. That’s your way. There, I’ll have a

forum from which to speak. More important, my followers will

know I’m alive. And when you finally execute me, they’ll know

I’m dead. Either way, I win.”

“We may not execute you.”

“But those
others
certainly will.”

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He flushed the poison from his ears. “Sharma knows you’re

here?”

Bin Laden nodded. “These ruins have been a great refuge. No

one has ever looked in this country for me. Sharma is
your
friend.

You trust him, though you want no one to know that. So I chose

this as my haven. Now, with my blessing, Sharma offers me to

you. But he wants no credit. You found me. You captured me.

That’s the way it will be. I’ve sent many martyrs to die for our

cause—”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

Bin Laden seemed unfazed by the interruption. “Look around

you, Mr. Malone. Ancient battles occurred here. Mainly with

bows, spears and stones. The custom was, after a battle, for warriors to bring the heads of the slain to their officers for a reward.

Great honor came from having the most heads.”

“You should know.”

His enemy’s stern face melted into a grin. “Many heads have

been brought to me. Now it’s my turn to do the bringing.”

“But you want your death to be a spectacle.”

“No leader wishes to die in obscurity.”

“Why me?”

“Sharma says you’re…a good man.”

His mind swirled with possibilities as he tried to decide what

to do next. Bin Laden seemed to read his thoughts.

“You have arrangements to make. I understand. Do so. But

know this. I’ll surrender to you tomorrow, here, at noon. And

only to you. Alone.”

He raised the Glock. “Why not now?”

“Look around you, Mr. Malone.”

His gaze strafed the ruins. On the cliffs above him he spotted

eight turbaned men with automatic rifles.

“Thought you said you came alone?”

“I lied. But you’re still breathing, which shows that I’m telling

the truth about surrendering. Tomorrow, here, noon. Alone.”

And the devil shuffled away.

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* * *

Malone returned to the capital and, from the American embassy, immediately made contact with Stephanie Nelle at the

Magellan Billet offices in Atlanta. He told her what happened,