Ali bore no concern over his own appearance. His surgeries had softened his Middle Eastern features, and he was often told he looked more Sicilian than anything else. If put to the test, his Italian was exceptional, and even a native speaker would be hard-pressed to question his pedigree.

Approaching from the southwest, Ali decided to avoid the more direct thoroughfare into the zoo for as long as possible. Though he had precious little time at his disposal, he tried not to rush. Something was beginning to trouble him about the situation. Coming alone might have been a mistake. He radioed the Chechens to ascertain their positions, but it did little to calm his unease. They needed to keep moving. Staying in one spot too long risked discovery. Though they spoke English, it was heavily accented. Only Ali could have passed for an American, and without him in the lead vehicle, they were asking for trouble by just sitting in one spot, waiting for him. A very nervous part of him hoped that ordering them to keep moving was the right decision.

Emerging from beneath the somewhat hidden and rarely used In-scope Arch, Ali’s senses were on fire. He climbed the short flight of stairs at the end of the underpass and found himself on the pathway known as the Wien Walk. Making his way toward the zoo, Ali scanned the area for any sign that he was walking into a trap.

He passed a group of people-three women and a man-who were obviously distraught over the bombings and felt nothing but contempt for them. What they had experienced today was only the beginning for America. It had proven it would never learn its lesson, and therefore it would drink from the same bitter cup it had forced on the Muslim world for decades.

Arriving at the zoo, Ali was eager to finish his business and be on his way. He soon discovered that everything was closed-including the café where he had expected to find Nassir. He would have to comb the area.

As he did, he lost even more time. With every minute he wasted, he vowed to make Nassir’s death as painful as possible.

Nearing the building known as the Armory, Ali noticed a figure up ahead. Even though it was from the back, he could tell it was a man about the same height and build as Hussein Nassir. He was sitting alone, wrapped in a Mylar space blanket, the kind given to runners after a marathon or to victims needing to stave off shock after a major calamity such as a terrorist attack. Abdul Ali was confident that he had found his man.

Reaching inside his NewYork Post, he wrapped his hand around the butt of the Firestar and quickened his pace. It would all be over in just a matter of moments now.

Tracy Hastings spoke into the microphone hidden beneath her collar and said, “Contact. Probable target thirty yards and closing. Mid-forties, dark hair, wearing dark trousers and a black button-down shirt.”

“Is this our guy, Tracy?” asked Harvath from his position on the other side of the Denesmouth Arch.

“He doesn’t look very Middle Eastern-maybe Spanish or Italian, but I can’t say for sure.”

“Is he carrying anything?”

“Just a newspaper.”

“How’s he carrying it?” said Harvath.

“Under his left arm.”

“Can you see his hands?”

“Negative. They’re folded across his chest. One looks like it might be actually inside the paper.”

That was enough for Harvath. He signaled Herrington and said into the radio, “I need you to tag him for Bob and then see if he’s got any trailers. You know what to do. Be careful.”

“Roger that,” replied Hastings. Getting up from the bench she had been sitting on, Tracy headed south on the Wien Walk toward the suspect. With a concerned look on her face, she removed her cell phone from her pocket and began sweeping it through the air as if she were trying to get a signal.

As she neared the man in the dark shirt and trousers, she stopped and did a complete three-sixty, holding the phone high in the air. Though she pretended to be too wrapped up in finding cell service to notice, she could feel the man’s eyes all over her. It wasn’t the same feeling she got when people stared at the scars on her face. This was something completely different. It gave her chills, but she had tagged him, and right now Herrington would be tracking him with his rifle.

She kept walking, and once she was convinced no one was following the man, she cradled the cell phone against her shoulder and spoke into her collar, “He’s alone.”

Hastings waited for a confirmation that Harvath had received her message and when none came, she repeated it again. Still, there was nothing. “Scot, can you read me?” she asked. When there was still no response, she knew something very bad had happened.

“Drop your weapons and keep your hands where I can see them,” said a voice from behind.

Both Harvath and Cates did as they were told.

“The man on the bench,” the voice said. “Your buddy in the space blanket. Tell him to come over here.”

“Take it easy,” replied Harvath. “We’re legit.”

“Do it,” commanded the voice.

Harvath heard the unmistakable click of a pistol hammer being cocked and so he signaled Paul Morgan to get up and join them.

When Morgan approached, their captor ordered him to drop his weapons and get his hands up. Harvath nodded his head and Morgan reluctantly complied, dropping his machine pistol.

There was a crashing through the brush ten yards away and they all turned to see Bob Herrington forced onto the path by a second NYPD mounted patrol officer who had found him on the arch.

The cops had ruined their ambush. Their target had picked up on the commotion and was now walking away in the other direction. Harvath had to do something. “I’m with the Department of Homeland Security. We’ve got a potential terrorist subject nearby-”

“On the ground-now,” replied the cop.

The man was very jumpy. Stumbling upon a bunch of heavily armed, plain-clothed people hiding in Central Park right after a string of devastating terrorist attacks was extremely serious. Harvath needed to tread very carefully.

“I’ve got my badge in my pocket,” he said. “Nobody wants any trouble here, okay? I’m just going to reach for my wallet.”

“You’re not reaching for anything. This is the last time I’m going to say it,” commanded the officer as his partner radioed for backup. “Everybody on the ground-now.”

“You’re interfering with a highly sensitive counterterrorism operation.”

“I don’t know what the hell we’ve stumbled onto here and until I do, you’re going to do as I say.”

Harvath had no choice but to comply. “Listen,” he said as he lay down on the ground. “There’s a man retreating along the pathway-dark hair, mid-forties, with dark pants and shirt. He looks Spanish or Italian. That’s who we were waiting for. He may be connected to today’s bombings. We need to apprehend him for questioning. Please.”

The officer looked down at Harvath and then over at his partner. “Frank, you wanna take a look?”

“Sure,” replied the partner. “Why not?”

Before Harvath could object, the officer’s horse crunched through the brush and clattered out onto the paved walkway, its hoofbeats echoing like machine-gun fire off the stone walls of the Denesmouth Arch.

“You see anything?” yelled the first officer.

“Nope,” replied the partner, who then said, “Wait a second, yeah I think I do. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Spurring his horse into a trot, the partner rode along the pathway and disappeared beneath the arch.

“You’re making a mistake,” said Harvath.

“First you want us to apprehend the guy, and now we’re making a mistake?” said the cop in his thick New York accent. “What’s wrong with you? You retarded or something?”

“He didn’t want you to go, dumb-ass,” replied Herrington. “He wanted us to.”