RICHMOND

It was the scanner that had saved them. The little black box attached to the underside of the cab's dashboard began squawking not more than two minutes after they'd left the scene. Al-Yamani hadn't even noticed it. He was too busy talking to Hasan on his mobile phone, but Mohammed had heard every word of the drama as it unfolded, and it nearly gave him a heart attack. Like a lot of cabbies, Mohammed carried a police scanner. At first he did it to help avoid traffic tie-ups when there was an accident, but after a while the scanner became a source of entertainment. When he worked nights, the police chatter was often more interesting than the radio.

The initial report was that a motorist had reported an officer down. Mohammed knew that nothing got the cops more riled up than hearing that one of their brethren was hurt. Not more than two miles away from the incident a police car zipped past them headed to the aid of the fallen officer. Less than a minute later, a second and a third police car passed them. Just when Mohammed felt that they were going to get away, the voice of the officer he had hit came over the radio, giving a description of the truck he had pulled over and rambling on about some man the FBI was looking for.

Mohammed had to think fast. The plan was to take Interstate 295 over to Highway 301 and then up to Dahlgren on the Potomac River. That was where he had chartered the boat, paying for it in advance. Mohammed knew from experience, though, that 301 was a heavily patrolled road. His other option was to take Interstate 95, but that was even worse. Mohammed was once caught speeding on that road by an airplane. There was no way they could make it all the way to Dahlgren without being caught.

Mohammed told al-Yamani that they had to abandon the truck. He was then informed very succinctly that this was not an option. Since they could not get rid of the truck and knowing for sure that they would be caught if they went north or stayed on the main roads much longer, Mohammed made a quick decision and told al-Yamani to tell the others to follow him. He led them at high speed over several lightly traveled and tree-lined country roads away from both Richmond and Washington, D.C. Mohammed liked to fish, and he knew of an isolated spot where they could regroup and sort things out.

Mohammed and al-Yamani hung on every word that was uttered over the scanner. By the time they reached the York River, additional information about their caravan was being reported. A description of the trailer as well as the truck was now out, and to make matters worse, the police were also looking for a green-and-white Metro Cab.

With every mile they traveled, they risked getting caught. Finally, after passing through the town of Plum Point, al-Yamani decided it was time to stop running scared and take a gamble. It was the sight of water through the trees that gave him the idea.

"What is that body of water on our left?" al-Yamani asked Mohammed.

"That is the York River."

"Where does it lead?"

"To the Chesapeake Bay and then the Atlantic Ocean."

"And these roads we keep passing...do they lead to homes on the river?"

"Yes."

"Take the next one."

Mohammed, obviously hesitant, looked over his shoulder.

Al-Yamani raised his voice and repeated the command. This time his friend followed orders, and they turned off the paved road onto a gravel drive and into the woods. Several hundred feet in, the drive split off in two directions. To the left there was a sign for two families and to the right only one.The Hansens. Al-Yamani told Mohammed to turn right. They followed the slightly rutted gravel drive for several hundred more feet. Intermittently they caught glimpses of the river as its surface sparkled in the afternoon sun, and then they saw the house.

It was a two-story Cape Cod with gray siding and white window trim. Next to it was a detached three car garage with a bunk house above it. Beyond both, there was a perfect carpet of lush grass that sloped down the river and a dock. Al-Yamani smiled when he saw the boat.

"What do you want me to do?" asked Mohammed.

Al-Yamani couldn't tell if anyone was home. It would be easier if they weren't, but either way he would get what he wanted.

"Stop in front of the house."

Mohammed brought the cab around the circular drive and parked it by the front door. Al-Yamani asked him to get out with him. Hasan and Khaled joined them on the front steps and al-Yamani told the scientist to wait in the truck.

"Go around back," he said to Khaled. "See if there is anyone down by the water." Then looking to Hasan he said, "Go with him and check the back door. If it's open wait a few seconds and then enter."

They nodded and took off. Al-Yamani tried the door. It was unlocked, but he did not open it. Instead, he rang the doorbell and waited to see if anyone was home. About ten seconds later a woman who looked to be in her mid-sixties came to the door in a pair of shorts and a tennis shirt. Al-Yamani was careful to stand back a few feet so as to not alarm her. Mohammed was standing by his cab.

The woman opened the door but not the screen. "Yes?"

"Hello, you must be Mrs. Hansen. I'm looking for Doctor Hansen."

The woman gave him a confused look. "I'm Mrs. Hansen, but my husband isn't a doctor."

"I must have the wrong house. Do you know of any other Hansens on the river?"

Mrs. Hansen thought about it for a few seconds and then said, "No...not that I know of, but it's a pretty big river."

Al-Yamani put a disappointed look on his face and took a step back as if he was leaving. "Would your husband know if there was a Doctor Hansen on the river?"

"He might, but he's not here right now."

Al-Yamani put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "That's too bad." He saw Hasan coming down the hall behind the woman and said, "Sorry to have bothered you." A second later Hasan was within striking distance. Al-Yamani made eye contact with his man and nodded.

WASHINGTON,D.C.

There was an accident on the expressway. Traffic was thick in both directions with people who felt the need to gawk at the crash, and it was nearly 4:00 by the time Rapp got back to the Joint Counterterrorism Center. He wasn't so sure he'd made the right decision to miss his plane. He wanted al-Yamani in the worst way, but at this point it was law enforcement that was going to have to catch him. There was something in McMahon's voice, though, that had been slightly pleading and very uncharacteristic for the thirty-plus-year veteran.

Rapp found McMahon standing in the elevated glass-enclosed bridge located at the rear of CT Watch. He was monitoring the situation in Richmond and trying to separate the facts from the white noise. Without speaking, McMahon signaled for Rapp to follow him, and the two men entered a small conference room at the back of the bridge and closed the door. Rapp plopped down in a gray fabric chair and rested an elbow on the shiny wood-laminate conference table.

"I assume from the look on your face that they haven't found the truck."

"No, they haven't."

Rapp glanced at his watch. "It's been what...almost three hours since the traffic stop? That's not good."

"You're not telling me anything I don't already know."

"Has the deputy come out of surgery yet?"

"He just made it out, but he's not awake yet."

Rapp tapped the shiny surface with his forefinger. "They're sure our guys are still in the Richmond area?"

"They're convinced."

Rapp looked at him skeptically. "I find that a little hard to believe."

"I know. I feel the same way, but let me show you." McMahon briefly left the room and returned with a map of Virginia. He laid it out on the table and said, "Here's Richmond and here's D.C. The traffic stop occurred over here on the northeast side of town. The State Patrol says they had all the major roads already covered when the call went out. They checked the traffic cameras on ninety-five and two-ninety-five and came up with nothing. That means they didn't get on the interstate, which is by far the quickest way to travel the hundred miles between here and there."