"Yep." The port captain put a two-way radio up to his mouth and called the stevedore. "Hank, pluck it and have one of the longshoremen drive it over to 105 for inspection." The man in charge of coordinating the unloading confirmed the order and a few seconds later the big crane swung in over the red container.

While the others nervously watched from the observation deck, Hanousek grabbed the agent who had picked her up at the airport and said, "Let's go."

On their way downstairs the agent said, "Aren't you going to give my boss a hard time for wearing his colors?"

Hanousek laughed. "Nope, I know better than that. You guys get a little sensitive about that stuff." They hustled down the first flight. "I was thinking it would go much smoother if you called him, and told him what I said."

Hanousek had found out on the way from the air force base that the young agent was in fact only three months out of the FBI Academy. She could tell he was more than a little nervous about telling his boss to do much of anything but the urge to tease him was irresistible. "I sure hope this damn thing doesn't blow up when they move it."

The guy looked at her with wide eyes as he raced to keep up. "Are you serious?"

Hanousek just laughed and kept going. She could never understand why people got so nervous around nuclear weapons. In comparison to other bombs they were amazingly stable. Well, sort of.

The South Carolina Aquarium parking garage afforded the best view of the Columbus Street Terminal. Al-Yamani sat in the front seat of the car and watched what was going on below with great interest. The morning rush hour was in full swing, and the downtown area was teeming with traffic and action, which only served to conceal his presence. Ships and tugs were coming in and out of the port, trucks and trains were bustling through the yard, and the gigantic cranes were moving the omnipresent steel containers around like toy blocks. The sheer volume of commerce was both impressive and comforting to the Saudi-born warrior. In the face of all this frenetic movement, he could not see how the Americans could possibly detect one particular shipment. There was so much happening, so many things coming and going, that the odds were surely in his favor.

Al-Yamani knew that somewhere in the line of trucks waiting to pick up containers were two of his fellow warriors. They had no idea that he was watching them, and he had no intention of alerting them to the fact. So much was riding on this bold plan that he had decided to come to America himself to make sure it worked. None of the cells in America had been alerted to his impending arrival. The others had argued with him, they did not want him to go, but in the end they had relented. He knew it was in part pity for his terminal condition that had caused them to give in, and he felt no shame for that because he believed he was doing the right thing.

Several of them argued that it was too big a risk. If he was captured, the Americans could make him talk. The entire operation would be compromised, and for what? Al-Yamani had greeted this concern with laughter. He'd told the others that he was not afraid to die. The Americans could do their worst and he would not talk. Yes, if they had weeks or perhaps months to work on him they might break him, but al-Yamani would not live long enough for them to get their chance. He had forfeited his life months ago.

No, he had invested too much in this grand plan to simply turn it over to men who he had never met, to men who had proclaimed their devotion to the cause, but who were nonetheless untested. They were Muslims who had been living a much different life in America than their brothers in the cradle of Islam. Yes, they said all the right things and vociferously proclaimed their hatred for America and its lack of modesty and diluted moral behavior, but were they men who would be devoted enough to see the attack through to its glorious and fiery conclusion? It was on this point that the others eventually agreed with al-Yamani. The seriousness of the task at hand, combined with the personal sacrifices that he had made, left the others no choice but to grant his final wish.

Al-Yamani looked down at the yard through the binoculars. Now that the blue cranes were snatching containers from theMadagascar he should relax a bit, but he still couldn't quite shake a slight sense of unease. It had started over an hour ago when the ship had docked and then simply sat there. Something didn't seem right. Al-Yamani had asked his Kuwaiti accomplice if this was normal and the young man just shrugged his shoulders. Apparently no one had given him orders to watch how quickly arriving ships were attended to.

Al-Yamani's suspicions grew when a police officer took up position at the bottom of the gangway and then two men boarded the ship. Again the Kuwaiti failed to shed any light on this practice other than the fact that the two men were more than likely customs officials. After almost thirty excruciating minutes the cranes finally swung into action. Al-Yamani told himself all was well, but something was still bothering him.

Yacoub excused himself from the vehicle so he could go to the bathroom. Al-Yamani used the opportunity to get out and stretch. They were parked on the second to the top floor of the aquarium parking ramp. It afforded a good view of the Columbia Street Terminal and the surrounding yard. Al-Yamani leaned up against one of the outer structural supports of the garage and took a sip of water. From this new position he could see a bit more of the yard. He looked out at the endless sea of containers stacked in long rows waiting to be loaded onto either trains or trucks, and some he supposed, back onto ships.

A few hundred meters beyond where theMadagascar was berthed, al-Yamani noticed a squat three-story building. He raised his right hand to block out the rising sun and squinted to try and make out the details. It looked like the building had some type of observation deck on the top floor and there appeared to be several people up there. With a frown, al-Yamani grabbed the binoculars from the car. He held them up and began scanning the yard. A second later he found the building, and a split second after that he was looking at the group of people standing on the observation deck.

Al-Yamani swallowed dryly and counted five of them. Three of the men were in uniforms of some sort and two were in regular clothes. Several of them were talking on phones and all of them, it seemed, had their attention focused on theMadagascar. Al-Yamani chastised himself for not noticing them earlier. Lowering the binoculars he looked up and down Concord Street. There were no police cars or any other obvious signs that the Americans knew the lethal cargo had arrived at their doorstep. Using the binoculars he began to search beyond the immediate area of the dock.

He was at a slight disadvantage because he had very little idea what the normal operation of the port consisted of. Other than the policeman standing at the bottom of theMadagascar 's gangway and the men on the observation deck nothing appeared unusual, and those two things could be explained easily enough. Al-Yamani checked the men out again. They were still focused on theMadagascar. All of them turned around as a man and woman came outside and joined them.

Al-Yamani watched as the woman was introduced to the group. One of the men turned to talk to her and there on his back were three bright yellow letters that caused al-Yamani to grip the binoculars tightly. His breathing ceased as he watched the man wearing the FBI jacket point at theMadagascar. The woman listened to him for a moment and then shook her head. After checking out the ship with the binoculars she pointed at the stacks of containers that the cranes were off-loading. One of the other men said something to her, and then he pointed to another spot in the yard. The woman nodded this time and then went back into the building quickly.