"The second you hear anything else let me know."

"I will." McMahon hung up the phone and looked up in time to see a disheveled Peggy Stealey come storming through the Emergency Crisis Center. The near-permanent frown on his face deepened.

This particular legal eagle from the Department of Justice was one tough broad. Smart, aggressive, and pretty damn good-looking if you liked the Amazon type. Ten years ago he would have either clobbered her or slept with her, or maybe both. But now after three decades of working for the Bureau, a divorce, a spin dry through a rehab clinic, and retirement on the horizon, he'd mellowed enough to tolerate her, just barely.

He'd seen her type come and go with each passing attorney general. Almost all of them type-A personalities, they often exerted great control and pressure on the FBI with little concern for the overall effectiveness of the Bureau and its charter. Some wanted to make a name for themselves, while others simply wanted to make sure the FBI didn't embarrass their boss, and in the process stall their own meteoric rise. McMahon never lost sight of their ulterior motives, and he always kept a close eye on them. This particular hotshot was no exception.

Stealey never slowed, laying her shoulder into the heavy door of the bridge. She came up the steps and dropped her bag next to McMahon's desk. "What in the hell is going on?"

McMahon had his flat-panel monitor tilted up so he could remain standing and still read the reports that his team was sending him. He was momentarily relieved to see a flash message alerting all of his people to a link between al-Qaeda and the missing Pakistani nuclear scientists.

He didn't even bother to look up from the monitor. "Nice of you to join us, Peggy."

"You didn't answer my question," she said tersely.

They were not the only two people in the command room. McMahon had already warned Stealey about her obnoxious habit of speaking to coworkers as if she had them on the witness stand. He casually looked at his watch and said, "Peggy, you should have been here an hour ago." He then shifted his gaze from his watch to her deceptively gentle blue eyes. "We're in the middle of a crisis, so check your ego at the door and I'll bring you up to speed as time allows."

McMahon reached down and grabbed his secure phone, leaving Stealey fuming.

"Where is the attorney general?" she asked.

"He's in the secure conference room with Director Roach."

Stealey turned to leave and McMahon said, "You can't go in there right now."

"Excuse me?" snapped Stealey.

"They're about to start a National Security Council meeting, so unless you were given some promotion I'm unaware of, sit your ass down and wait for him to come out of the meeting."

VIRGINIA

The Ford Taurus made its way north on Interstate 95 with the cruise control set exactly two miles per hour under the speed limit. It exited on U.S. Highway 17 and continued northeast toward Charleston. At a small truck stop just west of the city it stopped for gas. Mustafa al-Yamani awoke when the car pulled under the bright lights of the pumps. He dragged himself up from the backseat and looked at the clock on the dashboard. He'd been asleep for nearly three hours. The nausea hit him almost immediately.

He climbed out of the backseat and headed into the store. Near the back, he found the men's room and entered and locked the door. He popped one of the pills that the doctor had given him in Pakistan, and began dousing his face with cold water. Al-Yamani leaned on the basin and surveyed his bloodshot eyes and irritated skin.

Mustafa al-Yamani did not have long to live. He figured he would be dead in ten days at the most. All he needed were six more days to see everything through. He was at complete peace with the prospect of dying. His faith was strong, so strong that he willed himself to ignore the nausea and intense irritation of his blotchy, burning skin and continue on his mission.

The radiation sickness was in its final stages. The doctor in Pakistan had told him how the disease would progress. At first it would be marked by fatigue and red rashes on the skin that looked like nothing more than a bad case of sunburn. After that would come severe headaches followed by vomiting and diarrhea. Next his hair and teeth would fall out, and if he stayed conscious long enough, he could watch himself bleed to death from the inside out.

He had no intention of letting it get to that point. He would hit the Americans with the ultimate surprise, and then when they least expected it he would hit them again. Al-Yamani left the bathroom and stopped to buy more water and a few soft foods that he hoped he could keep down. He'd already lost ten pounds and he had no appetite whatsoever.

This time he got in the front seat with his driver and they left for the port. The Kuwaiti driving the car was a student at the University of Central Florida. His family was well enough connected to get him a student visa during a time when most of the Arab men his age were being denied the opportunity to go to university in America. He had been instructed not to ask any questions, and so far he had followed his orders. For months the Kuwaiti, Ibrahim Yacoub, had been receiving surreptitious e-mails instructing him on intelligence that should be collected, and items to be purchased. Most importantly, he was told to stay away from his mosque.

Al-Yamani had given him a brief pep talk when they were leaving the nature preserve. He'd told the man they were on a glorious mission for Allah. Like al-Yamani, Yacoub was a Wahhabi, a proud member of Islam's most radical sect. The man had family in Kuwait and Saudi Arabia that would be thrilled with him when they discovered the path he'd chosen. Al-Yamani could see that his words had the right effect. The Kuwaiti's face beamed with pride as he thought of the reverence he would receive.

Al-Yamani told the student that when the time was right he would reveal to him the entire plan, but for security reasons he could not yet do so. The man was understandably nervous. A lot was at stake and he would just as soon be on his own than trust the mission to a dolt who didn't understand the seriousness of his mission. The boy had asked al-Yamani what he should call him. Al-Yamani told him to call him Mohammed, not because he felt he was the prophet, but because it was the most common of Muslim names.

They continued their drive through Charleston in silence. Every few minutes or so al-Yamani turned around and made a mental note of the types of cars that were behind them. It was only four in the morning and traffic was still light. They drove down near the water by the port. Al-Yamani was slightly surprised by how large the cranes that were used to off-load the cargo were and of the constant stream of ships that entered the port every day of the year. He had seen surveillance photos, but they didn't quite capture the immensity of the bustling port.

As they neared the main gate, al-Yamani asked, "Does anything look unusual?" Trucks were already lined up to enter the yard and pick up their containers.

Yacoub shook his head. "No."

"Have you ever been here at this time of day?" Al-Yamani knew what the answer was supposed to be, but he asked it anyway. He would continue to test the young man right up until the very end.

"Three times."

"And it always looked like this?"

"Yes."

They reached the main gate and Yacoub took his foot off the gas and put it on the brake.

"Don't slow down," al-Yamani said firmly. "We don't want to draw any attention to ourselves."

Yacoub sped up and they continued on. Al-Yamani had seen nothing unusual at the main gate. No extra security. "Take us to the spot you told me about, and we will watch."