As Hornig approached the foot of the stairs, she looked up and said,

"Hello, Mr. Kruse." Very few people at Langley knew Rapp's real name. To them he was Mr. Kruse, a case officer who specialized in the Middle East. People in the intelligence business knew not to ask too many personal questions when dealing with field personnel.

Indiscretion usually guaranteed an official reprimand from one's superior.

Rapp greeted the doctor and stepped back, allowing her room to enter.

Hornig looked to the rear of the plane. "How is he doing?"

"Fine. I gave him the exact doses you prescribed."

"Good." The doctor set a silver ballistic briefcase on the nearest seat and turned to the door.

"These are my assistants, Sam and Pat."

Rapp looked at the two men and nodded. Both were carrying two larger silver ballistic briefcases.

"There is a bedroom at the rear of the plane." Rapp pointed.

"It's probably the best place to get set up."

Hornig agreed, and she and her two assistants continued single file toward the rear of the jet.

Rapp watched them move Harut into the bedroom and decided it would be a good time to get some fresh air. As he stepped down onto the tarmac, he felt the rare urge to smoke a cigarette. It was a nasty little habit he had picked up while working undercover, and from time to time he still found himself craving one. He looked to his left, where an airman was busy refueling the plane. Rapp almost made the stupid mistake of asking the man for a cigarette, but he saw the flammable insignia on the side of the green truck. Rapp stood awkwardly next to the plane and looked to his left and then right. The low gray skies and rows of sterile military hangars gave the morning a depressing and dirty feeling.

Rapp sensed the oncoming downturn in his emotions and fought it. There was the tinge of self-pity, triggered by either the dreary surroundings or the arrival of Hornig, or probably both. These little mood swings had become more and more frequent over the last year. Rapp thought he knew what was causing them. When you spent as much time alone with your thoughts as he did, self-diagnosis became as normal as eating.

He was nowhere near the pain and anguish that he had suffered almost a decade earlier. This wasn't like that; it was different.

This was more like a warning that if he didn't do something, he would be stuck on a certain path for the rest of his life. A barren path marked by loneliness.

Before leaving on the most recent mission, he had talked to Kennedy about it. His parents were both gone, and although he still had friends outside of work and a brother in New York with whom he was very close, it wasn't as if he could pick up the phone and talk about his day at the office.

He could talk about his computer-consulting business all he wanted, but Langley was off limits. Officially, Rapp didn't even work for the CIA.

He was what they liked to refer to in the business as a private contractor. Rapp lived a life completely separate from the Agency. With the help of Langley, he ran a computer-consulting business on the side that just happened to do a fair amount of international business, which of course gave him the cover to travel. His only passion in life, outside of work, was competing in the annual Ironman competition in Hawaii—an event that the former all-American lacrosse player from Syracuse University had actually won once.

During these dark, brooding moments, Rapp had wondered how screwed-up his life was or, worse, how screwed-up it might get. He would continually ask himself if it was normal to want with such determination to kill another human being.

He knew this was the crux of his problem and had once joked with Kennedy by saying, "Most people have lists of things they want to do before they get to a certain age, like go skydiving, travel to China, have a kid ..

. not me. At the top of my list of things to do before I turn forty is kill Fara Harut and Rafique Aziz. How healthy do you think that is?"

Laughing and making jokes were all part of therapy for Rapp; without humor, he would never make it. In his job he needed to stay loose or, like a watch wound too tight, he would explode. Rapp had studied it from every angle, and he believed that his position was both moral and just.

The problem, however, lay in the fact that Rapp knew the hunt was destroying him. He was increasingly losing touch with that segment of society that was labeled normal. His friends from college were all married and having children, and for him there wasn't the hope of either on the horizon. He knew that to have a normal life he would have to finish what he had set out to do. He could not have a family and continue to work for the CIA. The two would not mix.

Rapp thought back to how nice his life had been just ten years earlier and to the weird twist of fate that had led him to this point in life, to this dreary military base in Germany.

"No one ever said life would be easy," his father used to say. Rapp laughed at the thought of his father telling him to "Suck it up," as he had done countless times throughout Rapp's youth. It had gotten to the point where Rapp's father would say the three short words with a smile on his face. The short phrase had grown from words of criticism into words of encouragement.

The roar of a jet sounded in the distance, and Rapp stepped away from the plane to search it out. Looking down the long runway, he saw a lone F-16 racing in the opposite direction, its single engine on afterburner, glowing bright orange. The agile jet lifted into the air, above the mirage of dancing runway heat, and instantly retracted its landing gear.

As the plane climbed, Rapp watched it gain speed. He followed it for a minute or more until it was a speck in the expansive gray morning sky. A second jet pulled onto the runway and screamed into the air, chasing after the first.

Rapp gazed at the second jet and knew he was a possessed man. He would pursue Rafique Aziz wherever he went, even if it led to his own destruction. The trick would be to catch Aziz before he himself reached the point of no return, and Rapp could sense that point nearing, hovering just over the horizon.

Rapp watched the airman detach the fuel hose and climb into the truck.

As the tanker pulled away from the Learjet, the plane's twin engines began turning. Rapp took one last look at the dreary scenery and climbed into the jet. As he pulled the door up and secured it, he smiled and whispered to himself his father's words of encouragement.

Washington, D.C.

8:05 a.m.

THE TAN, WELL-KEPT man was shown into the oakpaneled office of the chairman of the Democratic National Committee. The rotund and jovial Russ Piper stood from behind his desk and walked over to greet his wealthy visitor.

Extending his hand. Piper said, "Prince Kalib, it is a pleasure to finally meet you."

Rafique Aziz extended his hand with the proper amount of aloofness and took Piper's hand in a light grip.

"How was your flight?" asked Piper.

Aziz looked around the room, gazing at the framed photos hanging on the paneled walls.

"Fine." Aziz planned to keep conversation to a minimum. The real Prince Kalib was a recluse, and the characteristic fit his needs perfectly.

"I understand you're enroute to the Mayo Clinic to visit your father."

"That is correct." Aziz nodded.

"How is the sultan doing?"

"He is fine." Aziz extracted a gold cigarette case from his jacket pocket.

"The doctors at the Mayo Clinic are the best in the world." Aziz lit the cigarette with a matching gold lighter, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and walked over to the window.

Piper watched his guest light up with his mouth slightly agape, words of admonishment ready to spill forth. The chairman almost informed his royal guest that smoking was not allowed in the building, but after a brief moment he thought better of it. Piper ran his hand down his tie and checked to make sure it was straight.