Hakim made a quick decision and hit the transmit button on his headset. "Charlie, slow it down to forty miles per hour." Hakim pulled back on the throttles and watched the helicopter come into focus. He could now make out the bulbous black nose, the windscreen, and the red housing that covered the engines. He'd considered his next move with great care. It was risky, but with the Coast Guard's advantage in manpower, it was his best tactic.

"Slow down to twenty miles per hour," Hakim said.

"But you told me to keep going," said Karim in surprise.

"I know, but I have changed my mind." Hakim glanced over at this friend and smiled. "Trust me."

The helicopter was closing fast. So fast that Hakim thought for a moment that it might continue straight past them, but then it altered course a few degrees and Hakim knew it was preparing to loop around for a closer look.

"Ahmed," he shouted, "remember, you will probably only get one shot at this."

The helicopter changed from a nose-down attitude to a slightly nose-up attitude, another sign that it was slowing. Hakim watched it begin to slide to his starboard. He didn't bother turning on his marine radio even though he knew they were trying to hail him. The chopper was now a quarter mile ahead and off his starboard side. Hakim held his course and waited for the chopper to do the move he'd heard about. As the two boats closed to within a few hundred yards, the helicopter started to loop around.

Good, Hakim thought. Hakim thought. Just like I was told. Keep coming... keep coming. Just like I was told. Keep coming... keep coming. He started to wave at the helicopter but made no effort to reach for the throttles. There were plenty of idiots on the water in Florida, and the Coast Guard dealt with them every day. They would not open fire unless they tried to run, which Hakim was not ready to do just yet. The chopper slid sideways through the air, keeping pace with the boats. A voice came over the loudspeaker and even though Hakim could hear it, he pointed at his headphones and shook his head. It would all happen in the next few moments. Karim silently urged them to circle around to his aft and take a look at his engines. Moving slow like this they could call in patrol boats easily and they'd be trapped. He started to wave at the helicopter but made no effort to reach for the throttles. There were plenty of idiots on the water in Florida, and the Coast Guard dealt with them every day. They would not open fire unless they tried to run, which Hakim was not ready to do just yet. The chopper slid sideways through the air, keeping pace with the boats. A voice came over the loudspeaker and even though Hakim could hear it, he pointed at his headphones and shook his head. It would all happen in the next few moments. Karim silently urged them to circle around to his aft and take a look at his engines. Moving slow like this they could call in patrol boats easily and they'd be trapped.

The HH-65 Dolphin was the king of these parts, though, and as long as they were here they might as well take a thorough look. The sleek red helicopter began to slide around to get in behind the two boats. Karim continued to wave and smile, and above the rotor wash, he yelled, "Ahmed, they will be coming into view from the starboard side!"

As the boat moved past the helicopter, Hakim saw that they had a gunner with a sling-mounted machine gun sitting in the open doorway. He was wearing a flight suit and a helmet and was holding the weapon in both hands, but did not have it pointed at them.

"Remember," Hakim screamed, "the engines first."

He watched as the helicopter hovered at fifty feet and moved from four o'clock to five and then finally six. Hakim didn't dare look down, even though he desperately wanted to. The first shot, though, almost caused him to leap out of the boat as the hot gas from the muzzle break swept across his feet and legs. With every ounce of control that he could muster he kept his eye on the helicopter, so he could count the hits. He was sure the first three struck the starboard engine of the twin-engine helicopter and possibly had torn through and hit the port-side engine as well. The big armor-penetrating rounds would burn at 3,000 degrees and pretty much slice through anything on the helicopter, including the engines.

One more round hit the engine housing and then as the helicopter began to lose power and yaw, holes were punched, one after another, down the tail, and finally the fan blade on the rear stabilizer exploded. It was as if the hand of Allah came down and tossed the helicopter through the air. The nose lurched downward and then the tail whipped end over end, slamming the helicopter into the sea, and breaking it into dozens of pieces.

Hakim was stunned. He turned to look at Karim and the two of them shared a brief smile. Then the moment passed and they both realized they needed to get moving fast. Hakim leaned on the throttles and tore off. Karim followed suit and seconds later they were racing again across the sea at speeds approaching 100 mph. Hakim glanced down at surface radar and was relieved to see that the closest contact was more than a mile to the north. With any luck they would be off the water before the Coast Guard confirmed that their chopper was down.

CHAPTER 40

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA.

NASH'S Tuesday morning started out pretty much the same way his Monday morning did. He woke up with a screaming headache, grabbed Charlie from his crib, and went downstairs. Fortunately, there was no front-page story in the Post Post about his illegal activities, but there was another problem looming. Once again, his wife had decided to ignore him and had turned off his work phones. Nash's sleep patterns were predictable only in the sense that he slept like shit most nights, but every three weeks or so the exhaustion would catch up and he would sleep for nine or ten hours straight. Last night had been one of those nights. about his illegal activities, but there was another problem looming. Once again, his wife had decided to ignore him and had turned off his work phones. Nash's sleep patterns were predictable only in the sense that he slept like shit most nights, but every three weeks or so the exhaustion would catch up and he would sleep for nine or ten hours straight. Last night had been one of those nights.

Nash had put his ten-year-old son Jack to bed shortly after nine and had fallen asleep with him while they were reading a story. Sometime around midnight he made it into his own bed and went right back to sleep facedown. A few minutes before seven he'd awoken to Charlie's morning wrestling match and it wasn't until he had him settled in his high chair that he discovered his phones were off, as well as the ringer on the home phone. She came floating into the kitchen a few minutes later and when asked about it her response was that he was no good to his family or his country if he was run-down.

Nash turned on both phones and watched the message indicators begin to climb. There were sixteen voice mails and forty-seven texts and e-mails. The first two messages were nothing too important, but the third kicked his headache into overdrive. The subsequent messages only made it worse. Half of them were from Ridley, asking for help. Nash felt like a fool. While all of this was going down he was sleeping peacefully in his bed.

He raced to get ready and cut himself shaving, bad enough that he had to stick a wad of toilet paper on his Adam's apple to stem the bleeding. By 8:00 he was backing out of the driveway in the minivan. At the end of his street he stopped to make a right turn and stopped cold. His foot stayed on the brake and his eyes stayed fixed on a sign. There, stapled to a tree, was a piece of bright yellow paper with the words Lost Dog Lost Dog printed in big block letters. Nash stared at the paper for a good five seconds. Why this morning? Why at all? The whole damn thing was supposed to be shut down. printed in big block letters. Nash stared at the paper for a good five seconds. Why this morning? Why at all? The whole damn thing was supposed to be shut down.

Nash racked his brain for the procedures they'd set up. He knew yellow was urgent, but it was a Tuesday and he couldn't remember at first how that affected the schedule. After a moment it came to him, the Java Shack on Franklin. He slapped the turn signal down and gunned the gas. It would take about five minutes to get there. He considered calling Ridley or O'Brien to see what was going on with Rapp, but decided he didn't want to talk to them until he tied up this loose end.

He drove past the place once to scope things out and then found a meter around the corner. Nash stepped out of the car and plugged four quarters into the meter. He adjusted the .45-caliber Glock on his right hip and took note of the people and cars across the street at the tire store. Casually, he buttoned his suit and started down the sidewalk. It was a slightly overcast morning, but the temperature was already in the mid-sixties. When he reached the coffee shop he scanned the outdoor tables but didn't see whom he was looking for.

Inside, he stepped up to the counter and ordered a cup of black coffee from the woman behind the counter. He counted three patrons. Two of them weren't his guy, so he focused on the third, who was hiding behind the Metro section of the Post. Post. Nash walked over to the guy's table and said, "You mind if I take a look at the sports section?" Nash walked over to the guy's table and said, "You mind if I take a look at the sports section?"

The man lowered one corner of the paper and looked back at Nash with angry eyes, but in a polite voice said, "Help yourself."

Nash grabbed the section and sat down facing the door, just like the other guy. He took a sip of coffee and picked up the paper.

The man next to him whispered out of the side of his mouth, "Who the fuck ratted us out?"

Nash held up the paper and pretended to read. "I'm working on it."

The man drummed his long black fingers on the table. "Do you know how long it's been since I've had a beer?"

This was a subject he had no desire to revisit, but knew that his operative had been under a great deal of stress. Nash had found Chris Johnson near the end of his second tour in Iraq while serving with the 101st Airborne Division. Letting him vent for a minute was probably not the worst thing.

"One hundred and eighty-four fucking days," the man said, answering his own question.

"Trust me," Nash said, "I'm not happy about it either."

"I haven't watched a football game or a basketball game in almost a fucking year. I haven't been with a women in seven months... hell... I haven't even looked at porn."

"Calm down," Nash said in a slow, steady voice.

"You want me to fucking calm down," the other man hissed. "I've lived in that fucking stinky mosque every day. On a good week they might take one shower."

"No one is saying you didn't do a good job," Nash said in an easy voice.

"That's not the point. The point is, I've put in a shitload of time. I've spent the better part of a year of my life that I ain't gettin' back, by the way."

"I know."

"I've eaten their shitty food, I've had to put up with their anti-Semitic remarks, their bigotry, the way they treat their wives and daughters... and now when I've finally earned their trust... you pull the plug."

"It wasn't me. It came down from the top."

"Well, fuck that."

Nash turned and looked his man in the eye. "Lower your voice, and that's an order."

The man sat back and took a frustrated breath. After a moment he said, "I'm going to kill someone."

Everybody is losing their mind, Nash thought. "No you're not," he said to the man. "You're going to casually tell one of them that your mom is sick and you have to go back to Atlanta. Then you are going to pack up and lie low until I say different."

"I can't believe this is happening."

"Believe it. Shut it down, and I mean yesterday."

"I can't."

Nash looked at the young former Army Ranger and said, "You can and you will."

"I'm too close," the man said, shaking his head.

Nash was getting mad. There wasn't a single one of them in the Clandestine Service who didn't have a healthy streak of insubordination in them, but this was pushing it.

Lowering his newspaper, Nash gave up the pretense of a clandestine meeting and in a very clear voice said, "I am giving you a direct order to shut it down. Do you understand me?"

The man thought about it for a second. Someone entered the coffee shop and his eyes darted to the motion at the front door. He flipped his newspaper back up and said, "Something started happening a few days ago."

"Don't do this."

"Do what?"

"Start making shit up."

"I'm not. Some boxes arrived."

"Big deal," Nash said, suddenly bored. He needed to end this thing and get his ass into the office. "The place must get three or four deliveries a day."

"True, but this delivery didn't come during normal hours."

"Come on," Nash said in a tired voice. "You're clutching at straws."

"Just hear me out for a second. The boxes arrived during evening prayer two days ago. They never do shit during evening prayer except pray. Six of the younger more radical guys weren't around, so I snuck out to see what they were up to."

"And?"

"I saw them carrying these boxes down to the basement."

"What's in the boxes?"

"I don't know. They put them in a storage room and put a couple new padlocks on the door."

"That's awfully thin."

"Just give me forty-eight hours. I've given you a year of my life. You can give me forty-eight hours."

Nash grabbed his coffee and took a sip while he thought about it. The truth was that only two people other than himself knew the real identity of the man sitting next to him and they weren't about to run to the FBI.

While Nash was thinking about it the man asked, "Did you ever get a photo of the guy I told you about?"

"No. I couldn't get someone up there fast enough."

"Well," the man said in an I-told-you-so voice, "he's is supposed to be coming back in town today or tomorrow."

Nash figured he could waste the whole morning going back and forth like this, but he didn't have the time. One year of his life. One year of his life. The words rang in Nash's ears. The words rang in Nash's ears.

"Nobody even knows I exist. Two more days is all I ask and then I'm done. I'm going to walk into the first sports bar I can find and order a big fucking Budweiser. One of those thirty-six-ouncers. I'm gonna get smashed and then I'm gonna get laid."

"Can I at least debrief you first?" Nash said with a grin.

"If you bring the beer."

Nash nodded. "Toss out the normal protocols. Text me at this number." Nash wrote the number down on the corner of the newspaper. "Ten and ten. You got me?"

"Yep. Twice a day."

"Don't miss your fucking check-in."

"Yes, sir," he said, satisfied he'd gotten what he wanted.

"There ain't no cavalry to come save your ass. You're out there solo. You don't even exist."

"I didn't come this far to lose. I'll get the goods on these assholes."

"Two days. That's all you've got and then I want you out." Nash leaned forward so he could look him in the eye. "You hear me?"

"Loud and clear."

Nash folded up the sports section and handed it back to Johnson. Without saying another word he got up and left the coffee shop.

CHAPTER 41

CAPITOL HILL.

THE wide hallway outside the Senate Intelligence Committee's meeting room was crowded with staffers. Some actually appeared to be in transit from one point to another, but a surprising number were simply loitering - leaning against walls and clogging doorways, standing with their politically like-minded coworkers. Nash knew he shouldn't have been surprised. This was entertainment for a group of underpaid partisans, men and women who worshipped either the senator they slaved for or the party, or both. This afternoon's little event was one of the reasons they worked for scraps. Most of them could walk across the street and within a few hours land a job in the private sector making double what they were already making. This was what kept them from leaving - the proximity to power. The draw of powerful men and women meeting in secret to discuss things that would have far-reaching implications.

Nash stopped at the door for a moment and looked at the faces of the conservatively dressed staffers. Most of them looked to be no more than a few years out of college. Nash felt a pinch of rage at the entire system. None of them should be here. Nothing that was said inside SH 219 should ever be shared with these people. They were too young and too politically motivated to ever be trusted with national secrets. But they would be. The hearing was likely to last into the dinner hour, and the more senior staffers who were read in would come and go over the next several hours, relaying messages from the bosses back to their offices and slowly but steadily the leaking would start. It would start out innocently enough.

Moods would be reported, who was upset and who was trying to calm people down. From there the facts would start to trickle out. Maybe only ten to twenty percent of what was actually going on. That's what you could count on the staffers to do. The real damage would come from the senators themselves - men and a few women who were schooled in the nastiest game of all - politics. In the public relations arena they were the ultimate street fighters, in many cases willing to do whatever it took to win. There was a block of six or so who would uphold their end of the bargain, and another six who would hold their fire until someone else leaked first. That left two or three senators, depending on the issue, plus the four ex officio members who were the worst offenders of all. That was who Rapp was planning to meet head-on and none of them with the exception of Kennedy thought it was a wise move. Nash couldn't figure that one out, what was going on with her, but the whole thing was making him nervous. He could feel something bad just around the corner. What it was, he had no idea, but it was twisting his gut. The last time he'd felt it this acutely was right before the mission in Afghanistan when he'd almost died.

Nash shook the thought from his head and entered the room. He took both of his mobile phones out and handed them over to a staffer who stuck them in a numbered cubbyhole for him to retrieve when he left. No electronic devices were allowed inside the secure chamber without special authorization. As a precaution to prevent someone from pulling up his call list, e-mails, and address book, Nash had already removed the SIM cards and the batteries from each phone.

Nash walked up the small ramp and entered the secure portion of the committee room. He squeezed by a few people in the narrow inner hallway, opened the glass door to the main committee briefing room, and was hit with a wall of noise. The raised portion of the room where the senators sat was packed. Sixteen of the nineteen seats were filled and the area behind the senators was crawling with committee staffers and senior staffers from the office of each senator. There were at least two people for every senator and maybe a few more. And people wondered why they couldn't keep secrets.

In front of him were two rows of chairs and a long table where six people sat. Nash knew four of them intimately and the other two only in passing, and hoped he had no reason to get to know them any better. They were the CIA general counsel and his deputy. The two men flanked Kennedy, who was sitting in the middle of the table. Charles O'Brien, the director of the National Clandestine Service, was there as well as his deputy, Rob Ridley. Rapp was the last one, and he was sitting all the way to the left. Nash grabbed a chair behind Rapp and squeezed his shoulder.

Rapp turned around and gave Nash a confident smile. He was in a dark blue pinstripe suit with a white shirt and light blue paisley silk tie. "Glad you could make it."

Nash leaned forward. "Are you sure about this?"