"Have we I.D.'d the guy?"

"No, but he's Middle Eastern."

Rapp's eyebrows shot up. "Any chance it's al-Yamani?"

"Not unless he figured out a way to grow his leg back."

Rapp remembered that little fact and winced at his own stupidity. "Any security tapes?"

"Yeah...but they're shit. We've got it narrowed down to about a dozen cars, based on the approximate time of death, and we're running them down right now."

"What else?"

"We think we know where your guy came ashore."

"Al-Yamani?"

"Yep. On Monday the Coast Guard plucks this guy out of the drink down near the Florida Keys. He's lost so much blood they don't even think he's going to live. Well, yesterday afternoon he wakes up and starts telling a pretty interesting story. The guy's a Brit who lives on Grand Cayman. He gets hired to captain this really expensive boat that just so happens to be owned by one of the five thousand members of the Saudi royal family."

Rapp shook his head. He could already see where this was going.

"The Brit," continued McMahon, "takes the boat over to Cuba and picks up a guy who he's supposed to take to the Bahamas. A couple hours out of port the Brit gets knifed in the back and thrown overboard for dead.

"The Coast Guard thinks this sounds like drugs, so they call in the DEA, and here's where we get lucky. The agent the DEA sends to talk to the Brit is part of the Joint Terrorism Task Force out of Miami. The DEA guy arrives at the hospital, just after reading the alert we sent out about al-Yamani, and he puts two and two together."

Rapp was now sitting on the edge of the chair. "He's sure it was al-Yamani?"

McMahon shrugged. "The only photos we have of the guy are shit. They're grainy, and he's got a big beard and a turban. You know the song."

Rapp did. "Let me guess...he was clean shaven with a high and tight haircut."

"Exactly."

"Did the guy remember a limp?" asked Rapp.

"He wasn't sure, but he did remember that the man stumbled a bit when he got on board the boat."

Rapp was already trying to come up with a way to lean on Cuba. They would have to trace this guy's steps, and hopefully catch him getting on a flight for Cuba that originated in a country they had a good relationship with.

McMahon wasn't done. "The Coast Guard put out an alert for the missing boat, and lo and behold, it had already been discovered on Wednesday morning by a game warden at the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge."

"Where's that?"

"Near Cape Canaveral."

"Great. We don't have a shuttle launch this week, do we?"

"No. I already checked on that."

Rapp frowned. "Why Cape Canaveral then?"

McMahon shrugged. "I don't know. We've alerted NASA and the local authorities, but so far nothing else has turned up. I do have something on another front, however."

McMahon started sifting through some files. He found the one he was looking for and opened it. Holding up a black-and-white photograph, he asked, "You recognize this guy?"

Rapp looked at the security photo. "No."

"Well, you should. We never would have found him without you."

He looked at the photo again. "I still don't know who it is."

"That young man who, incidentally, is passing through customs at LAX is none other than Imtaz Zubair, one of your missing Pakistani scientists."

"When did he enter the country?"

"On Monday."

"And you have him in custody?"

"Unfortunately...no."

Rapp sat back, a disappointed look on his face. "I thought you said you found him?"

"Discovered," said a tired McMahon, "that he entered the country would be more appropriate."

"Any idea where he is now?"

McMahon knew he was approaching an awkward point. "We have him boarding a Delta flight at LAX and heading to Atlanta."

"I assume you've got him getting off the plane in Atlanta?"

"Not yet. There's a problem with the surveillance tapes, but we expect to have it sorted out this morning."

"What about these two guys you picked up in Charleston?"

There it was. Things were about to get really uncomfortable. "We have them in custody," answered McMahon somewhat evasively.

"Where?" Rapp tilted his head suspiciously, sensing something in his friend's voice.

McMahon didn't look away, but he wanted to. Instead he got up and closed his door. "They're being held in the Fairfax County Adult Detention Center."

"You're not serious? They're here in town?" Rapp pointed at the floor.

"Listen...before you fly off the handle...there's a few things you need to know. For starters...both these guys are naturalized citizens."

"I don't care if they're the president's long-lost brothers!" yelled Rapp. "They should be in the Navy brig down in Charleston or down in Guantanamo, or better yet, you should have handed them over to me."

"Mitch, they have a lawyer."

"A lawyer!" Rapp was suddenly on his feet. "You're not fucking serious."

"He's not just any lawyer...he's a hotshot civil rights attorney from Atlanta with a lot of connections here in Washington. He went to the media with this late yesterday and..."

Rapp cut him off. "I don't care who he is! This is ridiculous!"

"It wasn't my call," McMahon said defensively. "Trust me."

"Let me take one guess. They're Arabs, aren't they?"

McMahon nodded.

"Saudi?"

The FBI man nodded again.

"So you're telling me that two Saudi immigrants, undoubtedly Wahhabis, showed up in Charleston yesterday to pick up a nuclear bomb and the FBI decides to back down because they hire a lawyer?"

"We're not backing down, and it wasn't the Bureau's call. This is coming down from Justice."

"The attorney general?"

"More or less."

"The attorney general takes his orders from the president. Are you telling me this was the president's idea?"

"No. I know for a fact it wasn't the president's idea. It started somewhere else."

"Where?"

McMahon hesitated, not out of fear that he could get in trouble, but out of caution. "I'm going to tell you how this all got started, but I want you to look at it from more than just your perspective."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Rapp fumed.

"You don't have to play by the rules," McMahon said firmly, "but the FBI does. All I'm asking is that you understand the legal and political implications of what happened yesterday. Hear me out and then do whatever you feel is right."

Rapp had neither the patience nor the desire to listen to one more word, but for the sake of finding out who was behind this monumentally stupid decision he was at least willing to keep his temper in check for a few more minutes.

The midnight blue BMW series five darted through the morning traffic at a near reckless pace. Although angry, the man behind the wheel was very much in control of the vehicle. Instead of crossing the Potomac on the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge, he shot across two lanes of traffic and followed the exit sign for the U.S. Marine Corps Memorial. The limousine was easy enough to find. Rapp drove around to the north side of the monument and brought his car to an abrupt stop directly behind the limousine.

As always, he quickly checked the surrounding area while throwing the car in park and unbuckling his seat belt. Then he grabbed his keys and got out. While walking to the limo he continued to survey the landscape. The back door was open and he climbed in.

Dr. Irene Kennedy had the TV on and was reading a file. She didn't even bother to look up at the CIA's top counterterrorism operative. Kennedy hadn't been there when they'd convinced the president of this course of action, but as soon as she found out, the first thing that came to mind was that Rapp would be furious.