Rapp had been trying to decipher the organizational structure of the team that was centered on the Lake Anna house for some time now. There had to be more people involved than the handful of operatives he’d met. After Rapp had proved himself worthy of joining their endeavor, the veil of secrecy was lifted a notch. His recruiter gave him her real name, although he had no way of knowing if it in fact was her real name. Irene Kennedy was the only person in the small group who actually worked at Langley. According to her, everyone else was a contractor. Rapp asked the obvious question: “What am I?”

Kennedy thought about it for a second and said, “Does it matter to you?”

“Maybe.”

“Technically you don’t work for the CIA.”

“But I work for you.”

“That’s correct. The important thing is that you have no record of ever working for the federal government, and we’d like to keep it that way.”

Rapp thought long and hard about what he was about to say. “So I’m a hired gun.”

Kennedy’s squinting eyes showed that she wasn’t exactly in love with the label. Rapp surprised her even more by what he said next.

“How about assassin?”

She frowned. “No.”

“By my estimate, I’ve fired around twenty thousand rounds of ammunition since arriving here.”

“And you’ve become quite the marksman.”

“And what’s the point of all of this training? To keep shooting paper targets … or to eventually sink a bullet into a target’s head?”

“You know the answer.”

He did. “Remember the first time we met?”

She nodded.

“You told me there are people in Washington who think that we need to take a more aggressive approach with these terrorists.”

“Yes.”

“But they don’t have the courage to say so publicly.”

“It would be foolish for them to do so. We live in a civilized society. They would be thrown out of office.”

“And a civilized society would never condone assassination, even in instances where it involved national security.”

“Not unless we were at war, and even then it would be tricky.”

Rapp digested that for a moment and then said, “I’m not into semantics. Private contractor, hired gun, operative…” he shook his head, “killer … The point of all of this is to go out, find the enemy, and put a bullet in his head. Right?”

“I suppose that is an accurate definition. I suppose the answer is yes.”

“So I’m an assassin.”

“Not yet,” she offered with a sly smile. “You haven’t killed anyone.”

Rapp looked in the mirror at his reflection and wondered if he really knew himself. The college athlete looked back at him with the innocence of youth. The public face in no way jibed with the thoughts of retribution that filled his head. Inside he was a much older man. A jaded, hard man who was now a trained killer. He thought again of his conversation with Kennedy and his new profession. He was ready. Eager really, but not in a reckless way. More methodical perhaps than at any time in his life. He asked himself again if he should proceed with his plan. The answer came back a resounding yes.

Rapp secured the silenced Beretta in a shoulder holster and covered it with a lightweight blue and silver reversible running jacket. He stuffed one of the surveillance kits into a fanny pack and strapped the pack to his waist. He put a dark blue Nike baseball hat on his head and checked himself in the full-length mirror on the inside door of the armoire. There was a slight bulge under his right arm where the 9mm was hoistered. As a last measure he grabbed a white towel from the bathroom and looped it around the back of his neck. He stuffed the ends inside the running jacket, zipped it up, and checked himself in the mirror. The bulge was no longer noticeable. Rapp lowered the zipper, turned to the side and stuck his left hand inside the jacket. He gripped the Beretta and attempted to aim the weapon. The silencer caught on the jacket. He tried again, this time partially drawing the weapon, but keeping it hidden inside the jacket. He found it worked best if he raised his right arm as if he were checking the time on his wristwatch. Rapp practiced the move fifty more times until he was completely comfortable with it. Finally, he checked the alley and then left the apartment, locking the door behind him. He decided to skip stretching before the run. No sense in giving the neighbors time to observe him.

Whenever possible, reconnaissance is best done on foot. A satellite can’t give you the smells and sounds of a neighborhood, and it can’t see what might be lurking behind a window or under the awning of an apartment building. A car isn’t bad, but then again cars usually travel at fairly high speeds, placing them in the area of concern for a few seconds at most. Often they were the only choice, but in this situation, walking the neighborhood was the best option. Or in Rapp’s case, running it.

He took off at a trot. From studying the file, Rapp knew there was a park a block down the street from Sharif’s apartment. The previous night he’d found a low wall that offered a decent vantage point where he could stretch and keep an eye on Sharif’s building without drawing too much attention to himself. It was a mile and a half to the park. After one mile Rapp stopped at a public phone and punched in an international calling card number using the knuckle of his forefinger. When he heard the dial tone he punched in the number for the phone service. Five seconds later he heard the prerecorded greeting. At the beep he left a coded message in Arabic that told Hurley everything was proceeding according to plan, which technically was the case, but probably not for much longer.

Rapp carefully placed the phone back in the cradle and took off for the park. He circled the entire area twice and saw nothing that would lead him to believe that there was any surveillance. There were a few doormen who were out sweeping, a couple of early morning exercisers, and some people walking their dogs, but no police. Rapp entered the park at seven-forty-one and settled in by the wall. He started stretching his calves; first his right for thirty seconds and then his left. He’d positioned himself so that he had a clear view of the front of Sharif’s apartment building. There was no wind and Rapp guessed the temperature was in the high fifties. According to the Brits, Sharif’s apartment was one of two on the fifth floor. It was a big place, totaling forty-five hundred square feet. His mother, his wife, and one of his daughters lived with him.

Rapp started on his calisthenics and kept track of the people entering and leaving his corner of the park. Every minute or so a pedestrian passed just outside the park. None of them paid him an ounce of attention. It was the same the world over. Most of these people had been sound asleep thirty minutes ago and they were now off to start their daily grind. They would be lucky if they were fully awake by the time they reached their offices.

Rapp did fifty push-ups, followed by fifty sit-ups, and then stretched some more. At eight he checked the apartment door and his pulse quickened just a touch. At eight-oh-five he frowned and started to doubt the accuracy of the surveillance report. Then at eight-oh-seven the apartment building’s doorman stepped outside and held the door open for a plump man and a little brown Dachshund. The man was wearing sunglasses and a long black trench coat. He had his collar turned up against the morning chill. The sunglasses, coat, and dog all matched the photos from the surveillance report. It was Sharif.

Rapp glanced at the open park bench about eighty feet to his left and started doing more sit-ups. Every time he rose, he could look over the wall and see Sharif moving closer with his dog. Every time he lowered himself to the ground he thought of his orders. The plan was for Rapp to arrive two days early and conduct countersurveillance to make sure they weren’t being watched. He would then call the service and flash them the all-clear. Hurley and Richards would arrive on the third day and they would begin direct surveillance on the target for a minimum of five days. If all went well, they would then make their move.