30,000 Feet,

Eastern Atlantic Ocean

MITCH RAPP STOOD over Harut, his eyes widening, not quite sure he was hearing what he was hearing or, if he really was, if he could believe it. Dr. Hornig asked the same question, worded in a slightly different way. Harut, his eyes glassed over, mumbled the same answer—an answer that seemed to stop time. Rapp was absolutely shocked, frozen with indecision as his mind tried to absorb the unbelievable.

He finally turned to Hornig and asked the only question he could think of, "Is he telling the truth?"

Hornig motioned to an array of equipment that one other assistants was monitoring.

"I'm pretty sure. All of his baselines match up. I have asked him the same question a half dozen ways"—Hornig looked down at her notes—"thirty-two times.

He's telling the truth. The only way this information could be wrong would be if. Aziz had lied to him with the forethought that he might be interrogated, and"—Hornig began shaking her head—"the odds of that would be astronomical."

"Fuck." Rapp ran a hand through his hair.

"When is this thing planned? Do they have a specific date?"

Hornig brought her hands up, motioning for caution.

"I haven't been able to pursue that specific line of questioning as far as I would like, but as of right now, it looks like it is planned for today."

Rapp lowered his chin.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!"

"I'm afraid not."

Rapp started for the main cabin and then stopped abruptly.

"What type of an attack are we talking about?"

"All he keeps saying is, "An assault."" Rapp cursed again and banged his fist against the doorframe while he tried to decide what to do.

Incomplete information or not, he knew he had to make the call. Rapp left the bedroom and grabbed his backpack. Turning it upside down he dumped all of the contents on the couch. After throwing some clothes and papers to the side, he found his SATCOM unit and pressed the power button. Clutching the black object with both hands, he stared at the small screen and cursed the signal indicator. In frustration, Rapp squeezed the object tighter in an effort to speed up its link with the nearest U.S. satellite.

Langley, Virginia—CIA Headquarters DIRECTOR STANSFIELD'S OFFICE was located on the seventh floor of the main building. The office itself was conservatively decorated. Stansfield was not one to display his awards and achievements, so his paneled walls were sparsely decorated with photographs of his deceased wife, their daughters, and his grandchildren. His desk was so organized that even the Post-it notes had their own place. Six of them were lined up symmetrically in the left-hand corner.

Stansfield sat in his chair with his elbows on the armrest and his hands folded under his chin. Irene Kennedy sat across from him in one of two chairs and wrapped up a summation of her breakfast meeting with President Hayes. Stansfield listened intently and nodded from time to time. He would wait until Kennedy was finished before he asked any questions.

After another five minutes, Kennedy closed the file on her lap and said,

"The president stressed that he wanted complete cooperation by all agencies, and a full disclosure of information."

In response to the statement, Stansfield raised an eyebrow.

"Hmm."

"How do you want me to handle it?"

Stansfield lowered his hands and thought about it.

"Use your best judgment. I'm all for sharing information, as long as our sources and operations aren't compromised in the process."

"And, of course, as long as we get something in return."

Kennedy smiled.

The right side of. Stansfield's mouth turned ever so slightly upward.

"Yes."

Kennedy nodded and handed her boss a red plastic folder.

The white label on the cover was adorned with the requisite letters, or as Agency insiders liked to say, "alphabet soup." This particular string of letters told the director that the file contained signal intelligence and Keyhole, or satellite, imagery.

The. TS and SCI notations also told him the file was top secret and compartmentalized. As director of the CIA's Counterterrorism Center, Kennedy was responsible for keeping Stansfield informed on all of the various threats against the U.S. On this particular morning the subject was North Korea. She had barely made it through the first page of the briefing when Stansfield's phone rang. Kennedy paused to see if he would answer it.

The director grabbed the handset and said, "Stansfield."

"Director Stansfield, we have a flash-traffic-priority call from Iron. Man, for you or Dr. Kennedy."

"Patch him through." Stansfield hit the speakerphone button and replaced the handset.

There were several clicks on the line, and then Stansfield said,

"Hello."

"Sir, we've got a big problem," started an agitated Rapp. "Is Irene there?"

"Yes. She's sitting right next to me." Rapp's frazzled tone did not go unnoticed by Stansfield and Kennedy.

"Aziz is in D.C."

"Say again."

Rapp repeated himself more deliberately.

"Aziz is in D.C."

"Are you sure?" asked Kennedy.

"Yes. Dr. Hornig is positive. She's been working on Harut for close to thirty minutes and says there is no way he's lying.

And that's only part of it. "There was a brief pause on the line.

"Harut says Aziz's target is the White House."

There was a moment of shocked silence while Kennedy and Stansfield looked at each other. After several seconds, Rapp asked, "Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes we heard you, Mitch," answered Stansfield.

"Its just a little much. We need to be sure about this before we—" Rapp cut him off.

"Well, unfortunately we don't have that luxury. According to Harut, the attack is supposed to take place today!" Kennedy stood and placed both hands on the desk.

"What are we talking about here, Mitch? What kind of an attack?"

"All he keeps saying is an all-out assault. A raid."

"How?" Kennedy asked.

"I don't know. Dr. Hornig is trying to find out more."

Stansfield stood and joined Kennedy in looking down at the phone.

"Is there anything else, Mitch?"

"Not right now."

"All right. We'd better get to work on this. We have to make some calls on this end. Call us back the second you find anything else out."

"Roger."

Stansfield punched the button and disconnected the call.

He and Kennedy were face-to-face leaning over the desk.

Stansfield looked out the window briefly and then back to Kennedy.

"Call Jack Warch and tell him we have a strong reason to believe there is a terrorist attack planned against the White House, and tell him we think it's planned for today."

"What about the president?"

"Call Warch first. I need to think about a couple of things before we tell the president."

"And the FBI?" asked Kennedy.

"I'll call Director Roach." Stansfield pointed to his credenza, where a second phone was located.

"Get Warch on the line fast, but stress that he take reasonable precautions. We don't want this to rattle too many cages until we're absolutely positive."

Executive Office Building JACK WARCH THE special agent in charge of the presidential detail, sat behind his desk located in room number ten of the Executive Office Building, directly across the street from the West Wing. Warch had served under four presidents and had been with the Secret Service for over twenty years.

The special agent in charge had that runner's look about him. In his early forties, he still jogged four to five times a week and expected the men and women who worked under his command to do the same. The presidential detail was the most visible aspect of the Secret Service, and posts in it were in very high demand. Over the previous decade, Warch had watched fitness take a backseat to an insidious wave of political correctness and an older, equally insidious, old-boys' network. When Warch took over the detail, he put everyone on notice by spreading the word that he didn't care who your dad was, what color your skin was, what sex you were, or who your patron was; if you couldn't pass your fitness tests, you weren't going to work on his detail.