"Good." Kennedy jotted herself a note to call Shipley and tell him to review the tapes immediately.

"What," began Stansfield, "was the general context of his ramblings about Nebuchadnezzar?"

"Money—he kept talking about Nebuchadnezzar and money."

Kennedy finished her note.

"This corroborates what we heard from our other sources—that Saddam was funneling money into Hezbollah and Hamas." Looking at his watch, Stansfield said, "Dr. Hornig, do you have anything else for us?"

"No, but I should have more for you this afternoon."

Stansfield looked at Rapp and Kennedy.

"Any other questions?"

"Yeah," said Rapp.

"How does Aziz plan on getting out of here when it's all over?"

Hornig blinked her eyes as an expression of embarrassment spread across her face. "Ah… I haven't got around to that yet."

Rapp looked at her harshly.

"You might want to move that one up to the top of your list."

"Yes." Hornig jotted herself a note.

Stansfield again looked to Rapp and Kennedy.

"Anything else? "They both shook their heads, and then Stansfield looked to the other side of the table.

"Nice work so far. Dr. Hornig.

Now, if you'll excuse us, I need to discuss a few things with Irene and Mitch."

Hornig gathered her papers and stood. After she'd placed her notes in a tan canvas shopping bag, she left the room.

Rapp noticed the canvas bag and, after the door was closed, said, "I hope you have somebody baby-sitting her."

"I do. "The director nodded.

"But we might want to bring it up a notch." Stansfield looked to Kennedy.

"Irene, I think we need to get some more bodies out there to keep a close eye on things. Around the clock. I want someone from CTC in that room with Harut every second of the day. And I want them awake."

Kennedy shook her head and said, "I apologize. I already made a note to take care of it."

"Now, Mitch." Stansfield turned his focus back to Rapp.

"Irene and I are heading downtown. Considering how the meeting went at the Pentagon yesterday, I think it would be best if you did not join us."

Rapp had expected this, and in truth, he really didn't want to be there to see his predictions come true. There were times when there was no joy in being right, and this would be one of them.

"What would you like me to do?" Retrieving a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, Stansfield unfolded it and slid it across the table.

"That is the address and phone number of miltadams the man we discussed with Director Tracy last night. He is expecting your call."

"How do you want me to handle it?"

Stansfield's eyes narrowed while he thought about the question. After several seconds, he said, "Go ahead and use your cover, and tell him you're with Langley. Mr. Adams is a very patriotic individual. We can trust him, but there's no need to tell him anything more than he needs to know."

Stansfield got up, and Kennedy and Rapp followed. As they walked back into the director's office, Stansfield said, "Mitch, it's impossible to overstate how important this is. If you find a way in. General Flood and I will do everything we can to make it happen. Just make sure you give it to me straight. I want realistic odds on whether or not it can be done. Am I understood?"

Hiding his excitement, Rapp replied with a simple, "Yes, sir."

RAFIQUE AZIZ LOOKED at the computer screen to his left and smiled. They are so predictable, he thought to himself.

The laptop computer to his left was hooked up to one of the Situation Room's secure modems. He was staring at the account balance of the Swiss bank that would receive the money before it was to be safely transferred to Iran. The account was at a little over a billion dollars and holding.

With about forty-five minutes to go, he doubted that they would transfer the remainder of the money.

The second laptop, to his right, was for a special purpose.

Every time Aziz looked at it he beamed with pride. It had been a stroke of genius. Aziz had no doubt that the Americans would come. If he got his hands on the president, his chances might improve, but in the meantime the second laptop was his failsafe.

Studying American counterterrorism tactics, he understood that above all they loved their technology. They would try to jam his ability to remotely detonate the bombs, and in the process they would start a countdown to destruction.

Each of the twenty-four bombs he had brought contained a digital pager that acted as both a receiver and a detonator.

Hooked up to the laptop was a digital phone. Every two minutes the computer would dial the group paging number for all twenty-four bombs and then send a five-digit number. If that code wasn't received every two minutes, the pagers would go into a sixty-second countdown mode. If the countdown reached zero, the bombs were ignited. Aziz also carried a pager and a digital phone as a backup measure. If the pager beeped and the countdown was started, it meant only one of two things. Either the Americans were attacking or the computer had malfunctioned. If the computer malfunctioned, he could abort the countdown with his own phone.

If that didn't work, it meant the Americans were coming.

THE CRITICAL INCIDENT Response Group's crisis management unit had set up their command post on the fourth floor of the Executive Office Building in a conference room that overlooked the West Wing of the White House.

The large wood conference table had been pushed against the inner wall and was covered with a half dozen phones, two radio-charger trays, and several laptops. The rest of the room's furniture had been removed with the exception of about half of the chairs.

Against the two side walls, portable tables had been set up and were cluttered with more laptops, phones, televisions, and fax machines. Many of the phones had masking tape on the handsets and were labeled with black felt-tipped marker. Almost half of the phones were dedicated to the FBI's Strategic Information Operations Center, or SIOCTHE SIOC, which fell under the purview of the Bureaus criminal investigative division, was charged with handling almost all of the Bureau's high-profile cases. Maps of the White House compound and blueprints of the inner structure were pasted to the walls, and men and women in blue FBI polo shirts were busy pecking away at computers and talking into phones. Two negotiators who were fluent in Arabic were on-site and ready to man the phones for as long as the siege lasted.

Special Agent Skip Mcmahon stood at the window and glared at the spectacle taking place in Lafayette Square, across the street from the White House. He was fuming; actually pissed was the word he had been using repeatedly since around five A.M. Within hours of the terrorist attack on the White House the media had moved in and set up shop smack dab in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue. They began broadcasting their live reports from right in front of the White House's north fence. When Mcmahon had arrived on the scene, one of his first orders was to have the media moved back, way back.

Hours earlier, in the predawn darkness, Mcmahon had been attempting to steal some sleep on the couch in his office at the Hoover Building when one of his agents came in to inform him that a federal judge had intervened on behalf of the networks. Now, as Mcmahon looked down at Lafayette Square, the media circus was omnipresent. On the north end of the park, a mere hundred yards from the White House, the three networks and CNN were all broadcasting live from atop elevated platforms, and FOX was scrambling to join the group.

They were all there with their morning shows as if it were a goddamn state fair. Good Morning America, Today, CBS This Morning—all of them.

For the last two hours, Mcmahon had been fighting the urge to pick up the phone and start chewing ass about the judge's ruling. He had instead decided it was a better use of his time and energy to wait until all of the big shots were together.