Warch had not heard the noise before; he was sure of that.

Craning his neck toward the door, he tried to listen. It was a clanging noise, metal on metal. There were several more clanging noises and then a low whine, almost like an electric razor.

Warch listened for another moment and then sprang out of bed, throwing his blankets to the side. The concrete floor felt cold to his feet. In his white T-shirt and boxers he knelt on the floor and pressed his left ear to the door, and then it hit him. It was a drill. They were drilling through the vault door, which meant they had already broken through the outer door.

Warch's palms became sweaty on the cool metallic surface, and he swore out loud. Standing, he turned on the light and said to the room at large, "Wake up, people. We have trouble."

A FAINT METHODICAL beep could be heard in the distance.

Rapp felt as if he were swimming upward for it, out of a deep black hole. The noise became more pronounced with each kick and downward stroke. It was getting lighter; he was nearing the surface.

Suddenly, Rapp sat up in bed, his thick black hair sticking out in Medusa-like fashion. It took him a second to realize he'd been dreaming.

It was the same damn dream he'd been having for as long as he could remember. Drowning, it was always drowning. He was always swimming for the surface, gasping for air.

Several shakes of the head later, Rapp realized where he was. The faint gray light of early morning was spilling through his bedroom windows. He turned to make out the red digital numerals of his alarm clock. There was a four followed by another and then a five.

God, it was nice to be home, Rapp thought. Without looking, he reached over and swatted the snooze button. Then he flopped backward onto the crisp white sheets and stretched out, kicking the blanket to the side.

Not quite ready to get out of bed, he allowed his mind to drift. Outside the bedroom window, he could hear the gentle waves of the Chesapeake lapping against the rocky shore. They were calling his name, tugging at him to get out of bed. Rapp turned diagonally across the queen-size bed and stretched his arms way above his head, letting out a drawn-out yawn.

He had forced himself to go home and sleep after a meeting at Director Tracy's house. There was nothing else to do. Dr. Hornig had promised a full report on the results of her interrogation with Fara Harut in the morning, and until then it was a waiting game—something Rapp wasn't very good at.

Now, as he rolled onto his side, he suddenly remembered the events of the day before and of the little crisis that was taking place thirty-some miles to the west. A small voice in the back of his head screamed something, and Rapp was on his feet instantly. Naked, he walked across the hardwood floor of his bedroom and stopped in front of a set of French doors.

They were open, and through the screens he could now hear bird songs filling the still morning air. Across the bay, on the tree lined horizon, the sky was brightening. The sun was coming up over the Atlantic, and a memorable day was about to begin, whether he liked it or not.

The lapping water continued to call his name, and with more enthusiasm than any sane person would have had, Rapp turned and headed across the worn and creaky wood floor of his beach house. Once he'd finished negotiating the precipitous staircase that led down to the main floor, he walked to the kitchen and then the mud room. Hanging on a brass hook by the back door was a faded, salt-stained blue swimsuit that looked as old as its owner.

Rapp put the worn trunks on, grabbed his goggles and a towel, and headed out the back door. The thermometer on the deck railing told him it was a comfortable sixty-two degrees.

Just cool enough to wake him up, but not so cold as to dash his enthusiasm. With several shakes of his arms, he continued across the brand-new deck to the stairs that led down to the water. Rapp had bought the house the previous year, and his only home improvement to date was to tear down the rotted wood deck and stairs and replace them. After a thirty-foot descent, he put on his goggles and picked up the pace. Rapp ran across the long, flat section of dock that jutted out into the water. On the right was a twenty-four-foot Boston Whaler, and at the end of the dock was a bench that sat atop an eight foot section that turned at a ninety-degree angle to the left. By the time Rapp reached the bench, he was at a full jog without breaking stride, he tossed the towel onto the bench and dove into the salty water.

He found his rhythm within six or seven strokes and settled in for the one-mile swim up the coast. Rapp no longer competed professionally, but just three years earlier he had been one of the world's top-ranked tri athletes In the Mount Everest of triathlon competitions, the Ironman in Hawaii, Rapp had posted three top-five finishes and a first place. But his work with the CIA had picked up considerably in the last five years, and the hectic and unpredictable schedule had forced him to give up competition.

Rapp returned to the dock in front of his house at twenty to six feeling fresh and loose. After toweling off, he made it back up to the house and into the shower. Fifteen minutes later he was shaved, dressed, and out the door, with a cup of piping hot coffee in his hand. Rapp slid behind the wheel of his new black Volvo sedan and eased it out of the narrow garage. He took it slow as he drove down his crumbling asphalt driveway.

That was another project he would have to tackle before winter came.

When he reached a sturdier surface, he increased speed and began to enjoy the performance of the new sedan.

It felt good to be back in civilization.

Several minutes later he was on Route 50 and on his way to a meeting at Langley. Dr. Hornig was to give a briefing at seven a.m. on everything she had learned from her session with Fara Harut. Rapp was not overly excited about sharing breakfast with Dr. Strangelove, but considering the information she would provide, he was willing to bite the bullet.

Twenty-two minutes later, Rapp caught the Beltway and took it around the northern part of D.C. Traffic was picking up, but at this early hour it still moved along at a brisk ten miles per hour over the posted speed limit. Fifteen minutes after reaching the Beltway, Rapp pulled through the first security checkpoint at Langley and parked his car. After passing through the main security checkpoint of the old building, Rapp took the elevator to Director Stansfield's office on the seventh floor.

Stansfield's administrative assistant reported his arrival over her headset, and a moment later Irene Kennedy appeared.

Kennedy escorted Rapp into the director's inner sanctum, where the man himself was seated behind his large desk, a pair of bifocals perched at the edge of his nose, his attention focused on an open file.

Stansfield took another moment to finish and then closed the file.

Before standing, he grabbed a stack of documents, opened one of the drawers behind his desk, inserted them, closed the door, and locked it with a key.

Stansfield left his suit coat hanging on the coatrack and came around the desk, pulling up his suit pants another notch.

"Good morning, Mitch. I hope you got some sleep last night."

"I did, sir. And you?"

Stansfield placed his fragile hand on Rapp's shoulder. The DCI was almost a full head shorter than Rapp.

"When you get to my age, Mitch, sleep becomes a very elusive thing."

Stansfield turned his young specialist away from his desk and started walking him across the office.

"I've set up a meeting for you this morning, but we'll talk about that later. Dr. Hornig is waiting for us, and I'd like to hear what she's found out before we get into anything else."

As Rapp followed Stansfield and Kennedy through a door and into a windowless conference room, he wondered who his mystery meeting was with. Dr. Hornig was already seated on one side of the table and was looking over her own handwritten notes. Stansfield took his seat at the head of the table, and Rapp and Kennedy sat across from Hornig. Rapp noticed she was wearing the same clothes as the day before. It appeared as though she had not slept.