Al-Yamani glanced over at the young scientist and smiled. "No, we do not go back, Imtaz. Allah still has work for you. The Americans may have scored a victory, but we are far from done."

Zubair was more than a little surprised to hear this. "What is your plan?"

Al-Yamani shook his head. "I am done discussing my plans. Too many good Muslims died digging up that cursed weapon. I should have never allowed so many people to know about it." He shook his head again. "No...you will see soon enough, and until then you will just have to trust me."

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Rapp hadn't slept all that well, and he thought he knew why. After tossing and turning for most of the short night, he gave up on sleep and got out of bed at 6:00 a.m. His mind wouldn't shut down and his body, which was used to working out at least six days a week, was screaming for exercise. So he left his air-conditioned house on the Chesapeake Bay and went for a run.

He had no problem loosening up in the humid morning air, and his shoes pounded out their rhythm on the gravel shoulder of the county road at a pace that was closer to a sprint than a jog. Sweat poured down his shirtless chest, and he could literally feel the toxins leaving his body. Before the run, he'd considered going for a swim instead. It was easier on his joints, and lately he'd begun noticing some new aches and pains. The years of sports and competing as a world-class triathlete, not to mention his work for the CIA, had taken their toll on his body.

He was glad he'd decided on the run, though. When he reached his midway point he felt strong. He looked down at his watch and noted the split. He'd maintained a six-minute pace, despite the travel and lack of sleep. It wasn't too long ago that he could keep a five-minute pace, but those days were gone forever. Paces like that were meant for younger lungs, younger hearts, and most importantly, younger knees.

The second half of the run didn't go as well. His energy waned and his splits steadily worsened, to the point where the sixth mile was twenty-two seconds off his pace. As was his habit, he sprinted to the finish line at his driveway and then continued past it for about fifty yards slowing to a jog and keeping his clasped hands behind his head and his elbows up so he could breathe better. He walked down his long driveway cursing himself. He was starting to slip a bit.

Rapp went down to the dock and took off his shoes and socks as well as his fanny pack, which contained a water bottle and a compact Glock 30, 45 ACP. He dove in and after relaxing in the water for a good five minutes and allowing his body temperature to cool down, he decided to head into the Joint Counterterrorism Center before his meeting at the White House. He went back up to the house, showered and shaved, and put on a light-gray summer-weight suit. Before leaving the house, he had a quick breakfast and filled his travel mug to the brim with piping hot black coffee.

By 7:40 a.m. he was standing in the office of the FBI's Deputy Director for Counterterrorism. Rapp and Skip McMahon had known each other for only a few years, but they understood one another well. Certainly well enough for Rapp to see that McMahon was behaving a little oddly.

Rapp sat down in one of the two nondescript chairs in front of McMahon's desk. The space smelled like fresh paint and new carpeting. Rapp was not surprised, but nonetheless amused, to see that McMahon was wearing a short-sleeved white dress shirt and a loose tie. Fortunately, his fashion sense had no bearing on his abilities as a federal agent.

"You're back," was all McMahon managed to say.

Rapp nodded and took another sip of coffee. He noticed an uncharacteristically nervous expression on the FBI man's face. Something was going on, and he thought he might know what, but first they would have to indulge in some ritual ribbing. Rapp remembered what Khan had said to him last night.

"Skip, you don't look so hot."

"Well...we can't all be pretty boys."

Rapp laughed. "Yeah, right." The counterterrorism operative turned his head and drew his finger down the thin vertical scar on his cheek.

"You still whining about that thing?" McMahon shook his head in feigned embarrassment for the younger man. "That's nothing. You should see the scar from my vasectomy. It's at least a foot long."

Rapp laughed and said, "Any truth to the rumor that you're leaving?"

"Where'd you hear that?" McMahon asked cautiously.

"We have all your phones tapped." Rapp kept his poker face on. "I've known about your vasectomy for years."

McMahon smiled for a second but then asked, "Seriously?"

"Irene told me."

McMahon turned and looked at the blank undecorated wall. It was obvious he had asked her not to tell anyone about his plans for the future.

"Don't worry," Rapp offered. "It came up because I heard Reimer over at DOE was thinking about taking a job in the private sector."

"Really?" McMahon looked both comforted and surprised at the same time. "Who with?"

"I'm not sure."

Their situations were similar. Both men had put in thirty-plus years of service to the government, and even though mandatory retirement was right around the corner, they'd both been promised extensions due to the importance of their jobs, "Well...I can't say I'll blame him if he gets out." As an afterthought he added, "He sure will be missed, though."

"You both will be," Rapp said with sincerity.

McMahon dismissed the comment with a doubtful expression. "A month after we leave, you guys will have forgotten all about us."

"That's not true and you know it. We would all prefer you guys to stay right where you are, but we'll certainly understand if you decide to grab the golden ring."

Rapp knew McMahon had been offered a job as the head of security for a casino syndicate based out of Las Vegas. His expense account alone would be twice that of his government pay, not to mention all the other perks and a significantly increased salary. The guy deserved it.

"Yeah well, I haven't decided anything yet."

"You wanna know what I think?"

McMahon leaned back and placed a hand under chin. "Sure."

"As I said, I'd like you to stay. There's very few people at the Bureau as talented as you are. At the same time, however, there's a part of me that hopes you take the job. You've put up with enough bullshit. I'd like to see you get a little taste of the good life while you can still enjoy it."

McMahon smiled. Those were his sentiments exactly. "I appreciate that. It's not an easy decision."

Rapp shrugged. "It'll be easier than you think." Changing the topic he said, "As long as you're still employed by the government, would you mind bringing me up to speed?"

"Sure. You got in late last night?"

"Yep."

"Well...I've been up all night trying to sort this mess out, and it just keeps getting better."

"How so?"

"How much do you know about what happened stateside yesterday?"

"I've got a handle on the big picture. We found a fire set and cash on the two ships bound for New York, and the explosives on the ship bound for Baltimore. The consensus is that they were going to bring all this stuff together in one place and then assemble the device."

"That's right."

"The nuclear material," added Rapp, "is out in the desert getting tested, and the two men who tried to pick it up are hopefully in a dark cell somewhere having very bad things done to them." Rapp said this last part with a false smile on his face, doubting, as he did, that this was what was actually happening.

McMahon nodded tentatively, not quite knowing where to start. "Last night Charleston PD got a call on a John Doe who had been stabbed to death in a parking garage. This parking garage just so happens to look down on the dock where our little package arrived yesterday."