The Bin Laden Plot

A black Rolls-Royce Phantom turned the corner of an adjacent warehouse and angled toward Mixell, gliding to a halt nearby. The driver emerged into the misty rain and hurried to the back door, opened it, then gestured for Mixell to enter. It was dark inside the Phantom’s privacy suite, but Mixell spotted the figure of a man seated on the far side.

Mixell slid into the back seat, and the heavy door thudded shut. The lights in the rear suite illuminated, dim at first, growing slowly brighter until the cabin was fully illuminated. Beside Mixell sat an older gentleman, impeccably dressed in a dark gray three-piece suit and burgundy tie. The man pressed a button on his door console, and an electrochromic glass panel behind the front seats switched from transparent to fully opaque, isolating the rear cabin in privacy. Dan Snyder, CEO of Snyder Industries, turned toward Mixell.

“Mr. Larson, I presume?” he asked.

Not only had Mixell altered his appearance for this venture, he was also traveling under a new alias: Mitch Larson.

Snyder continued, “I wanted to meet the man to whom I have entrusted so much. You come highly recommended by your previous business associates,” he said, “despite your shortcomings.”

Mixell did his best not to show his displeasure at Snyder’s insult — his shortcomings.

“What might those be?”

Mixell assumed Snyder was referring to the U.S. Navy hunting down the submarine Kazan before it destroyed twenty of America’s largest cities. Or perhaps the discovery of the missile launcher as Air Force One was taking off. Neither of those plots had been guaranteed to succeed; the obstacles were numerous and difficult, but each plot had been thwarted only moments away from success.

“Your failure to deliver,” Snyder answered. “In this venture, you don’t get points for running a good race. The only thing that matters is if you cross the finish line. Anything less will be viewed unfavorably.”

Mixell surveyed Snyder. He wore shined oxford shoes and a fifty-thousand-dollar Desmond Merrion suit with a jacket pocket square that matched his tie, complemented by manicured fingernails and trimmed eyebrows. Mixell suppressed a laugh. Snyder was trying to play tough guy. A pampered billionaire who had probably never had a callus on his hand or blister on his foot and had likely never made a meal for himself in his life. A man whose attempt to intimidate him was probably derived from watching Mafia movies.

He had no idea about the type of men Mixell had sat beside. Men like the leader of al-Qaeda, whose ruthless nature was hidden beneath a veneer of pleasant questions, not tough-guy theatrics. Mixell decided to play along.

“Will be viewed unfavorably? Could you explain?”

“I’ll spell it out for you, Mr. Larson. No one can discover what I’ve agreed to ship, and it must be delivered to my clients.”

“Then I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“For my education,” Snyder said, “could you provide an overview of your arrangements?”

“Certainly. Tonight, all ten shipping containers will arrive at the Port of Baltimore, where they’ll be loaded aboard a merchant ship first thing in the morning. By this time tomorrow, they’ll be at sea, on their way to your requested destination.”

“How long before they arrive?”

“A few weeks.”

“How have you ensured that what’s inside these containers won’t be discovered by customs inspectors?”

Mixell was quite familiar with the measures required to smuggle highly sensitive equipment into and out of various countries. After all, only a few months ago, he had shipped prohibited Russian military equipment into the United States.

“The necessary precautions have been taken and bribes made so that no one will discover what is being shipped. From tonight on, that is. What occurred up to this point and who knows about it, however, is your concern.”

“I understand,” Snyder replied. “I assure you that no one on my side can put all the pieces together.”

“That’s very comforting,” Mixell replied.

Snyder nodded. “Then I’ll leave you to your work.” He extended his hand.

“It’s a pleasure working for you,” Mixell said as they shook.

Mixell stepped from the Phantom and closed the door, then the vehicle sped from the complex.

He returned his attention to tonight’s task. One by one, the shipping containers were filled, the doors closed and sealed, and the trucks pulled away from the loading docks. As the last of the eighteen-wheelers vanished into the darkness, Mixell’s thoughts shifted from his current task to his next.

Five men to kill.

7 NSA BAHRAIN

As the sun climbed into a clear blue sky above the Persian Gulf, Secretary of the Navy Brenda Verbeck peered out her window aboard the C-32 executive transport, the military version of Boeing’s 757. The C-32, normally used by the vice president and designated Air Force Two when he was aboard, lacked the official moniker for this trip, since only Verbeck and her military aide, Captain Andy Hoskins, seated beside her, were passengers on this flight.