The FBI man tapped the four points of the compass around Richmond and said, "Everything was covered. This is one of the busiest traffic weekends of the year. People headed to the beach, people headed to the mountains, people headed up to D.C. for the memorial dedication. The roads are packed."

"I know. I was just out there."

"Well, there's something else that we didn't hear right away, but it went out over the police net. This Ford pickup was pulling a trailer. The head of the State Patrol tells me there's no way his people or the locals would miss something like that."

"Trailer?" Rapp repeated in a concerned tone.

"I know...I know what you're thinking. What's in the trailer? Paul and I have already talked about it."

"Has he heard back from the Russians?"

"They're at the test site and beginning their search."

Rapp stood and let out a long exasperated exhale. He studied the map. He thought about the trailer. "What if these assholes have another bomb?"

"We don't have any intelligence that would point to that. You know it yourself. You guys didn't find a thing in Pakistan that would point to a second bomb."

Rapp knew he was right, but he had to assume these guys weren't driving around in a pickup with a covered trailer for nothing. "How can the State Police be so sure they aren't already in Washington?"

"They had a plane patrolling ninety-five and Highway One when the call went out. They had a helicopter over Richmond within fifteen minutes, and they had over one hundred cops, deputies, and troopers on patrol between just D.C. and Richmond alone. They think these guys are holed up somewhere, and I happen to agree with them."

"Or they switched vehicles."

"Or we could have a jumpy deputy who got himself run over, and has no idea what he's talking about."

Rapp studied the map, and then glanced up at McMahon. "Then why'd you call me back here and ruin my vacation?"

"Because I don't believe in coincidences, and I think before the night's over I'm going to need you to do some things that...well let's just say...I can't."

"You mind telling me what they are?"

"Not yet, but you'll know soon enough."

"Have you kicked this up to the White House yet?"

McMahon shook his head. "I brought Brian up to speed on it, but that's it." McMahon was referring to his boss, FBI Director Roach.

Rapp looked surprised.

"Listen...I've got every cop in the five-state area looking for these clowns. Telling them," McMahon pointed to the ceiling, "means that I'll have to drop everything I'm doing and run over to the White House and brief the entire damn cabinet, and then the next thing you know the Department of Homeland Security will be trying to run the show, and we'll all be tripping over each other."

Rapp nodded in agreement. "So what's your plan?"

"The tape of the traffic stop is on its way up here right now. I want to review it, and I want to talk to this deputy when he wakes up. Other than that I want to stay out of the way of the locals and let them run these guys down."

"And would you mind explaining to me again why I missed my flight?"

"I told you already. Trust me, if we don't find these guys pretty quick, your talents are going to be very much needed."

VIRGINIA

Mrs. Hansen's first name was Julia. It turned out she was the mother of four kids, all of whom now lived in other parts of the country. Mr. Hansen's first name was Tom, and by the time he arrived home the vehicles had been stashed and they were waiting for him. The cab was parked in his spot in the garage and a riding lawn mower and several bikes and trikes were moved to make room for the pickup truck. The trailer was left outside on the far side of the detached three car garage.

It had been fairly easy to subdue Tom Hansen. He was after all seventy years old, and not accustomed to having to defend his home. This was civilization, not some remote frontier outpost back in the 1900s. He had driven down the hill in his big Cadillac, returning from the local hardware store where he'd gone off in search of a bolt to repair a loose section of the dock. Tom Hansen was a fastidious man, and with several of the grandkids coming tomorrow, he wanted things just right.

They got him when he opened his garage door, during that moment when he stared in perplexity, wondering why in the hell someone had parked a cab in his spot. They appeared quickly, one man on each side of his big Cadillac. The doors were yanked open, and he was pulled from the vehicle before he could do anything to defend himself. They handled him roughly, one man on each arm, dragging him toward the house and warning him to keep his mouth shut.

By the time they reached the front door, Tom Hansen was in cardiac arrest. He'd suffered his first heart attack at the age of fifty-two. Too many cigarettes and too much fatty food, his doctor had told him. He quit the smoking, but didn't give up the unhealthy diet completely. Eight years after that he underwent an angioplasty, and just recently he'd been told by his cardiologist that it was time to consider bypass surgery while he was still young enough to recover fully. That was never going to happen.

They dropped him on the floor of the kitchen at the feet of his bound-and-gagged wife of forty-six years. Tom Hansen looked up at her, clutching his chest, a bewildered expression on his face. Behind her, on the refrigerator, he could see the photos of their grandchildren, nine adorable faces, the center of their universe. Not his or hers, but theirs. They were a couple, a team who shared everything, especially a devoted and unyielding love for their children and grandchildren.

Julia Hansen struggled against her bonds frantically, but could not break free. She knew it was his heart. She had been subtly trying to help him for years, cooking healthier, engineering long walks together, giving him disapproving looks when he lit up those damn cigars with their two boys. Now she saw the agony on his face and knew that he would not make it. When the color began to drain from his face, as if his very life was being sucked from him, she began to weep.

Al-Yamani watched this with the detachment and moral clarity of a true believer. He'd had seen plenty of people die during his life, and compared to what he'd witnessed on the battlefield this was mild.

It was five in the evening, and according to the woman, she and her now-deceased husband weren't expecting any visitors until one of their children was to arrive from Philadelphia with her husband and kids in the morning. Al-Yamani wanted to know the details. How many and when?

There would be five of them and they were to arrive around ten in the morning. Al-Yamani had been in the kitchen and listened to the answering machine when the daughter had called to check in. The daughter's message confirmed the woman's story. She ended by saying there was no need to call back, and that they'd see them in the morning. So good was their recent turn of luck that it was as clear as always to al-Yamani that Allah himself was guiding their mission.

They left the old man on the floor in front of his wife and went into the living room. Al-Yamani looked at the scientist and asked, "How long will it take you to get the bomb ready?"

Zubair had already taken the packages out of the back of the trunk and examined both the fire set and the explosives charges that he had crafted during his brief, surreptitious stay in Iran. "Everything looks good. It should take no more than two hours to have everything assembled and ready for transport again."

"Can you do this by yourself?"

"No." Zubair shook his head nervously.

"Of course not." Al-Yamani could recognize a coward when he saw one. The Pakistani didn't want to expose himself to the poison. He looked to Hasan and Khaled. "Is the boat ready?"