"Fix things."

"Flood was getting angrier.

"What if we can't go back and 'fix things'?"

"I think almost everybody will recognize that we were forced to make some decisions under duress. Hell, basically with a gun to our head."

Flood moved his glare from the vice president to the secretary of state, who was sitting directly across the table.

"Charlie, how badly do the French want to get back into Iraq?"

The secretary of state replied without enthusiasm but bluntly, "Badly."

"How about the South Africans?"

"Badly."

"How about Russia?"

"Badly."

"Do you have any reason to believe that after we've opened the gate, they would turn around a week or a month from now and pull back out?"

"I doubt it. They been itching to get the embargo lifted for years, and they're already doing a fair amount of business with them on the sly."

Flood turned back to Baxter.

"It won't be that easy to just reverse course when, and if, this whole mess is resolved."

"I know that there is nothing easy about this. General."

Baxter knew he had to reassert his authority. ""Ybu don't need to explain the obvious to me. My number one concern is the lives of the American citizens that are being held hostage. If I have to change a foreign policy, that isn't even working, to gain their freedom, I will gladly do so." Baxter tilted his head back indignantly.

"You would jeopardize the entire foreign policy and national security of this country for the lives of forty to fifty some people?"

"I think you're being a little melodramatic. General Flood."

"Melodramatic," Flood repeated the word while his face reddened.

"This is a war. Vice President Baxter, and in war there are casualties.

Saddam Hussein has attacked us. He has paid this terrorist, this mercenary"—Flood flipped his hand in disgust—"call him what you want, to come and attack us. Men like Saddam and this Aziz only understand one thing, and that is force. Overwhelming force!"

Baxter looked at the general with scorn for challenging him.

Disagreement was one thing, but this was a show of disrespect.

"General Flood, your opinion has been noted. Now, if we could move on to some other issues…"

"Sir," stated the general loudly.

"If or, more accurately, when it becomes known that Saddam had a hand in this whole mess, the American people are going to want action, and there will be some uncomfortable questions asked of those who were making the decisions."

Baxter's temper began to unravel.

"Are you threatening me. General Flood?"

"No." Flood stared him right in the eye. "I am merely, once again, stating the obvious. We are not the only country in possession of this information. Some of our most faithful allies know what is going on, and they will not sit idly by while we jeopardize their security."

"General Flood," bellowed Baxter, his temper finally getting the best of him. "Do I need to remind you how the chain of command works? I am in charge here." Baxter pointed to himself.

"And I am going to put the interests of those hostages above everyone else's, especially those of another country.

Whether they be an ally or not."

Flood did not flinch, he did not twitch, he did not move a muscle; he simply returned the vice president's stare and said, "First of all, I am very aware of the chain of command, and secondly, I would be derelict in my duty if I didn't inform you that you couldn't be more wrong in ignoring the national security of our allies. Israel has been one of our staunchest. In your effort to find a short-term solution, you are, in my opinion, moving one of our closest allies and possibly this entire nation toward war."

Before Baxter had a chance to come completely unglued and Flood had a chance to elaborate, the door opened and a female naval officer entered.

She apologized to the group and approached Irene Kennedy. The officer handed Kennedy a piece of paper and left.

Dr. Kennedy opened the paper and studied the note. It concerned a little issue completely forgotten about. Desperately wanting to find out what her counterpart had to say, she stood and said, "If you'll excuse me, I need to check on this."

Kennedy waved the note in the air and left the room.

MITCH RAPP HAD everything ready to go. Bringing Adams along had proven to be a big help. Not only because of his knowledge of the building, but also because it gave Rapp an extra set of very capable hands. Adams had just finished showing Rapp the exact spots for a third time. Rapp looked at the layout of the second floor one last time and doublechecked the number When he was done, he had come up with five different locations.

Turning to Adams, he said, "Do you think you can handle the monitor and the devices at the same time?" Adams nodded.

"Yep."

"Good. That'll free me up to keep an eye out for any surprises."

Rapp then grabbed the small fanny pack and took out all of the micro surveillance units except five. Handing the pack to Adams, he pointed at the blueprints and said, "We'll place them in the five locations you suggested. After we put each one in place, we'll check it on the monitor and make sure it's working." Rapp then grabbed the monitor and helped Adams get strapped into it When he was done helping Adams, he began checking out the rest of his gear.

As Rapp slid the bolt on his submachine gun back, Rielly asked, "Is that an MP-Five?"

Rapp looked up, frowning, more than a little surprised that she could even make a guess let alone get the manufacturer correct.

"Close. It's the new MP-Ten. How do you know what an MP-Five looks like?"

"My dad's a police officer in Chicago."

"Oh, that's right."

"What are you going to do?"

"A little reconnaissance."

"Where?"

Rapp placed the submachine gun on the ground.

"You sure do ask a lot of questions."

"I'm a reporter. It's my job."

Rapp frowned and nodded as if he had just been reminded of a particularly bad thing.

Rielly picked up on the expression and asked, "Is there something wrong with that?"

"Normally"—Rapp shrugged his shoulders—"probably not. But under the current circumstances, I can see where we might have a problem."

"And why would that be?"

"Why?" Rapp tilted his head. "Because when this whole thing is over, you will probably have one hell of a story to tell."

"I owe you a lot. I wouldn't report anything that you didn't agree to."

Rapp slid his pistol out of his thigh holster and pulled back on the slide. The cylindrical brass round was where it should have been, and Rapp let the slide go forward.

"What if I don't want you to report a single word of this mess? What if I want you to act like we never met, and none of this ever happened?"

"That's not realistic."

"Well, then we have a problem."

Looking at him, she wondered why he would have to be so secretive.

"Who do you work for?"

"I can't tell you that." Rapp shoved his pistol back in its holster.

"Seriously, I'd like to know."

"And seriously"—Rapp shook his head and opened his eyes wide—"I can't tell you."

"It must be the CIA." Rielly kept her eyes on him, trying to get the slightest hint of a reaction. She got nothing.

"It has to be the CIA, otherwise you could tell me."

"Wrong. Are you a woman of your word?"

"Yes."

Good. Then someday, if we both make it out of here alive, I'll tell you my life story." Rapp smiled, showing a set of long dimples on both cheeks.

Rielly smiled back and nodded.

"So you work for the CIA."

"I never said that," replied Rapp.

IRENE KENNEDY STOOD over the secure phone in General Flood's office and felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. On the other end was Colonel Fine of the Israeli foreign intelligence service, Mossad. Fine had just given Kennedy a brief overview on the three names she had given him the night before. There was no surprising information on the first two terrorists, but the third was an entirely different matter.