Al-Yamani took the binoculars away from his face for a second and took in a deep, tight breath of humid air. He fought off a wave of nausea and brought the binoculars back up to his eyes. This time he zeroed in on the ground level of the building he'd been watching. Almost immediately he didn't like what he saw. A large black SUV was parked in front. One of al-Yamani's chief responsibilities for al-Qaeda had been to conduct research on potential targets. He had looked into assassinating the president and the director of the FBI along with several other key American figures. While checking news footage he found that the Secret Service and the FBI loved to drive these big black SUVs. Never having been to America before, al-Yamani had no idea how common these vehicles were, but there was something about this one and the sedan parked next to it that looked different from the other cars parked near the building.

The woman he had seen on the observation deck exited the building with another man, and they got into the black truck. Al-Yamani followed them as they drove across the yard to one of the warehouses. The car he had noticed followed closely behind. Both vehicles stopped in front of the warehouse and people started getting out. Al-Yamani counted nine total and noted that four of the individuals were carrying guns. Things got worse as he watched them unload a bundle of black cases.

Al-Yamani could scarcely believe what he was watching, but still he held out hope as he watched the people shuttle back and forth, bringing their equipment into the building. Hope was all he had. He had come too far, and sacrificed far too much, to watch things fall apart this late in the attack, but then in a single moment he saw his entire plan crumble.

A truck with a naked chassis pulled to a stop in the area where the cranes were offloading theMadagascar 's cargo. It was the first time al-Yamani had seen this done all morning. A rusty red container was plucked from the ship's depleted cargo area and delicately placed on the frame of the trailer. A group of men in hard hats locked the container down, and then the truck swung around and eased itself into the warehouse.

The woman with the curly brown hair stood in front of the open warehouse doors talking on a cell phone, watching the truck as it slowly made its way toward her. Once the truck was inside, she stepped out of the morning sunlight and gestured for the doors to be closed.

As al-Yamani watched the large doors inch toward each other, he knew with absolute certainty that the container they had just brought in was his. The very device that had stolen years from his life, the device that dozens of his men had died in the search for, was sitting in that building. Just like that, it was out of his control, and his plan was crumbling before him. For the first time in his adult life al-Yamani felt as if he might cry. How could this happen at his finest moment?

The footsteps of someone approaching from behind pulled him from his morose thoughts. He turned quickly, still holding on to the binoculars with one hand and reaching for the hilt of his knife with the other, but it was only Yacoub returning from his trip to relieve his bladder.

The Kuwaiti noticed the look of concern on the face of this man he had known for less than a day. "Is everything all right?"

Al-Yamani didn't answer at first. He was still reeling from the harsh realization that somehow his mission had been compromised. Then, concealing his fury and his sudden suspicion of the young man, he said, "Everything is fine."

Yacoub joined him at the wall and looked out across the yard. "It shouldn't be long now. The ship is at least halfway unloaded."

"I think you are right." Al-Yamani offered the man the binoculars. "What is that building over there used for?"

Yacoub took the binoculars and looked through them. "Which one?"

Casually, al-Yamani stepped behind him and pointed over his shoulder to the building with the observation deck on the top floor. "That building right there. The one with the men standing outside." With one hand still pointing, al-Yamani reached under his shirt and grabbed the hilt of his knife again, only this time he drew the weapon from its leather scabbard. The hand that had been pointing was gently placed on the Kuwaiti's shoulder and then without warning it clamped down firmly. Al-Yamani plunged the knife into the unsuspecting man's back with great force.

The binoculars crashed to the hard ground breaking into several pieces. The Kuwaiti's body went rigid in response to the unanticipated assault. He arched his back and his mouth opened wide to let loose a scream of agony, but al-Yamani was too quick, too schooled in the art of killing. His free hand moved from his fellow warrior's shoulder to his mouth, stifling the cry.

The struggle only lasted a few more seconds, and then the Kuwaiti slid to the ground, his eyes open and still seeing, his brain still registering images, struggling to comprehend why this fellow Muslim had just killed him. Al-Yamani loosened his grip and withdrew the knife as the body went limp. He let the man fall the last several feet to the ground and then in a crouch, barely peeking over the roofs of the cars, he quickly scanned the parking garage. He half expected to see a bunch of FBI men rushing toward him, guns drawn, screaming for him to drop the knife, just as they did in the movies. Al-Yamani's mind raced ahead for a way not to escape, but to kill himself before they got their hands on him. He could jump.

But they never came. The seconds passed, and he remained alone on the second to the top floor of the parking garage. Cautiously he bent down on one knee and wiped his weapon on the dead Kuwaiti's shirt. Al-Yamani took a moment to study the dark, innocent-looking eyes, having not the slightest clue if the man he had just killed was guilty of treachery, stupidity, or nothing at all. It didn't really matter.

Everyone was expendable in this just cause, from the greatest of Allah's warriors to the most inconsequential. The facts were stark. Something had gone wrong, what al-Yamani did not know for sure, but it only proved that he needed to be extra vigilant. He would not allow the Americans to capture him, and he couldn't take chances with the Kuwaiti. He was better off on his own. Al-Yamani dragged the body to a corner of the garage where it would be mostly hidden by a parked car. He grabbed the man's wallet and then ran back to the Kuwaiti's car. The most important thing for him right now was to get away from this forsaken city.

"Paul," said Hanousek as the yard tractor rumbled past. She couldn't hear her boss's reply, so she waited a few seconds and said, "We're about to start."

"What's the status?" asked Reimer who was still holed up at the Department of Energy's facility in Germantown, Maryland.

Hanousek walked into the warehouse as the big cargo doors began closing behind her. "The container was just off-loaded and brought into a Customs warehouse." She continued walking through the cavernous space to where her team was setting up their equipment.

Clasps were being popped, cases opened, and equipment unloaded. Hanousek's team had been together almost two years. The many drills, false alarms, and random searches had made this activity routine. Never in those two years, though, had they been given such specific information. They all understood, without saying it, that this one was different. All of Washington had its eyes on them right now, and she could tell by watching her people set up that they were a little tense.

As she neared her team, one of the techs tossed her a headset to plug into her secure satellite phone. Hanousek caught it with one hand and looped the tiny device over her left ear. After she plugged it into the phone she adjusted the lip mike and clipped the sat phone to her belt.