"He owes me his job."

"Who cares? People do it in this town all the time."

"He's married."

"That hardly matters these days."

"I thought you were supposed to look out for my best interests?" she asked with a curious eye.

"I am. It's just that I think you're in a bit of a funk lately."

"A funk?"

"You know... a little bitchy." He took a sip of his drink.

"So I should sleep my way out of it?"

"Basically. No one is going to hold it against you. At least not your base. The jackals might take a swipe at you, but then again it might help your image. The two of you make a striking couple."

"I'm old enough to be his mother."

"Technically, yes, but you don't look twenty years his senior."

"Thank you." She smiled.

"At least not with your clothes on," he added quickly.

"You are terrible," Lonsdale said with a scowl.

"Teasing," Wassen announced as he held up his drink. "You know my motto... You only live once. So, start living. Sleep with him, get it out of your system, and drop all this nonsense with Rapp and Nash."

Lonsdale was startled. "Where in the hell did that come from?"

"Everybody in the office is talking about it."

"About Rapp?"

"No, that you need to get laid."

"Cut the crap for a minute. Why in the world do you think I should let the CIA off the hook?"

"I don't know," Wassen shrugged, "because maybe they're doing the right thing?"

Lonsdale sat there for a long moment and stared at her longtime advisor. "You can't be serious."

"I am, and I don't know why you've decided to make this your cause. There's plenty of things to get upset about in this town."

Lonsdale set her drink down. She was used to Wassen's pranks, but this was different. Without the slightest hint of humor she asked, "You're not playing devil's advocate, are you?"

"No, I'm one hundred percent serious."

"Well, I think you're wrong."

"Have you ever looked at the polls on this issue?"

"Yeah... over ninety percent of the country is against torture."

"And over seventy percent of the country thinks child molesters should be castrated."

"The number is not that high."

"It is if you phrase the question properly."

"You can do that with any poll," Lonsdale said dismissively.

Wassen pointed at her and said, "And that's how they get the ninety-percent-against-torture number. They ask the question in a vacuum. Yes or no, are against torture?" He frowned. "I mean... who the hell is pro-torture?"

"You'd be surprised."

"Did you ever read A Time to Kill A Time to Kill by Grisham?" by Grisham?"

"Yes."

"Remember... the little girl got raped by the two rednecks and the dad ends up killing them? Would you convict the father or set him free? And stop being a politician for a second. When you were reading the book, did you want the father to be convicted or set free?"

"Set free, of course. But that has nothing to do with..."

"It has everything to do with what is going on!" Wassen said forcefully.

"Are you drunk?"

"I wish." He took a big gulp. "Ask yourself something. Why is Rapp willing to go before your committee?"

"Because he has no choice."

"B.S. You know he could spend months screwing with you on this."

"So?"

"So he's chosen not to." He watched his boss shake her head in disagreement and sat forward. "Let me help you understand something. Terrorists are like pedophiles."

"Excuse me? When the hell did you become a right-wing whack job?"

He shook her off and pressed on. "You ask a hundred people if they're for torture... you're only going to get a handful who say yes. You ask a hundred people if they think pedophiles should be castrated... same thing." Wassen drained his drink, grabbed his boss's empty glass, and walked over to the bar, saying, "Now you show them a picture of little five-year-old Suzy Jones, and you tell them how she was plucked from her bed in the middle of the night, dragged to some musty basement, and repeatedly raped by this hairy disgusting forty-five-year-old guy who's already been convicted twice for sexual assault on a minor." Wassen tossed a few more cubes into each glass. "You tell them how the government has spent hundreds of thousands of dollars trying to rehabilitate this scumbag. You explain to them that the recidivism rate for pedophiles is less than five percent, and then you ask them if they think the piece of human refuse should have his balls cut off." Wassen put a few ounces of booze into each drink and walked back to the seating area.

As he handed Lonsdale the drink he said, "The numbers flip-flop. Ninety percent say cut his balls off." He sat in his own chair and put his feet up on the coffee table.

"Your argument makes no sense. People are disgusted by torture."

"You're confusing the crime with the punishment. None of those people I just talked about want to actually see the pedophile turned into a eunuch. But that doesn't mean they don't want someone else to take care of it."

"But these men have yet to be convicted. It is completely wrong for one man to carry out a punishment for a man who has not had his day in court. That is what makes our country so special." Lonsdale shook her head and added, "Your argument doesn't stand up."

"You're assuming that Rapp was trying to punish this man." He took a sip and said, "I don't think that is the case. I think he was trying to get him to talk."

"This is nonsense. We are a nation of laws."

Wassen help up his hand and said, "Let me finish, before you go into one of those Jeffersonian speeches you senators are so fond of giving. You ask the people if they are pro-torture, and ninety plus percent say no. You then ask them what the CIA should do if they catch a senior al-Qaeda member who has carried out attacks in Afghanistan and Iraq that have killed thousands. You then tell them that the CIA has solid information an attack is looming and this man has information that could help stop it. You then ask them if they are okay with slapping this guy around and making him think he's about to drown and all of the sudden seventy percent of them are pro-torture.

"Now" - Wassen wagged a finger at his boss - "I can get that number to over ninety percent if you give the people a third option."

"What's that?"

"Don't tell me what's going on. Just take care of it. I don't need to know everything my government does."

"So the options are torture, don't torture, or stick your head in the sand."

"Exactly."

"That's ridiculous."

"That's reality, Babs."

She shook her head vigorously. "It's intellectual laziness."

"Maybe... maybe not."

"You are not serious?"

Wassen didn't respond right away. Knowing his boss as well as he did, he knew she was close to shutting him out. He chose his words carefully and then said, "You are a beautiful, intelligent woman, Barbara. People love you. You're half celebrity, half politician, and you always do well during these hearings. You come off great on TV, but I want to caution you."

She rolled her eyes in a here-we-go fashion. "Let's hear it."

"Mitch Rapp is a good-looking, rugged man. He's the type of guy Americans hope is out there keeping them safe at night."

"He's a thug."

Wassen shook his head vigorously. "He is many things, and I don't pretend to know the man's heart, but he's no common criminal. Do not underestimate him, or Irene Kennedy, or Mike Nash. These are not stupid people, and despite your personal bias, they are very likeable." Wassen watched her stand and move to put her shoes on. He had lost her.

"People are sick of this war on terror, Ralph, and when I expose these guys and their illegal ways the American people are not going to be happy."

Wassen nursed his drink for a long moment and said, "Don't be so sure of yourself, Barbara."

CHAPTER 48

WASHINGTON, D.C.

FEAR, anticipation, boredom, dread, excitement, and now an awe-inspiring elation. As the van crested a slight hill, Karim looked out across the vast expanse of lights, bridges, and monuments and felt his heart quiver. To his left he noted the large, square, white top of the Lincoln Memorial. Almost straight ahead was the dome of the Jefferson Memorial, with the Washington Monument jutting up behind it like the tip of a great sword. Farther to the right the massive Capitol sat atop a slight hill. The sheer scope and size of the building was the perfect example of American excess. Excess that had been obtained through hubris and arrogance and colonial subjugation.

Karim had experienced many emotions on his journey, especially boredom during the months of isolation in South America. It was his middle passage toward his ultimate destiny; the sacrifice great persons must make to steel themselves for the challenge that would make or break them. The boredom was gone. Now, looking out on the lights of his enemies' capital, he thought it a trivial price. He wondered if this was how the great warriors of Islam felt as they gazed out on the campfires of their enemy the night before a great battle. The swelling of pride in his chest, the joy, and the knowledge that he was about to strike a mortal blow for Allah was all too much.

Karim let loose an emotional sigh. Why was he so fortunate? Why was he the one that Allah had chosen to strike this mighty blow? To take the once great and feared al-Qaeda and return them all to their proper place as the most powerful and influential group in all of Islam. Karim felt it as deeply as he ever had before. He was ready to take his place alongside Islam's most legendary generals. This would be the beginning, the first of many cities where he would wreak havoc and spread fear and terror among the weak and godless Americans.

Everything that had come before would be a tedious preamble to how he had risen from obscurity, just as Mohammad had done, to motivate millions to fight for Islam. To once and for all banish the infidels and dirty Jews from the cradle of Islam and restore the caliphate. Restore peace and justice to their lands. Not this nonsense called democracy that the Americans were so proud of. This nonsense of government by the people of a godless country filled with nothing more than possessions and desires. They had been spoiled now for several generations and they were ripe for the taking. Karim could see it all before him as if Allah had given him the map. The Americans were in their last days of their little experiment and Karim was here to help accelerate their downfall.

The honor was almost too much to take. It rested on his shoulders to set the cause back on the proper course. Islam would once again take its rightful place on the world stage and they would cleanse their lands of the infidels. Karim's eyes slowly filled with tears, and he covered his face lest any of the others see him in such a state.

As he was doing so, he heard Hakim ask him, "Are you all right?"

Hakim handed him one of the napkins that were left over from a fast-food stop. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose, while trying to assure Hakim that everything was fine. The two had spoken very little since they had left the park in Georgia. Karim could not understand why his friend was so upset over the death of their driver. Hundreds of thousands had already died in this most recent holy war. No one man was more important than the mission. What was one more martyr?

"It is time to make the call," Hakim said as he checked his side mirror and changed lanes.

Karim looked at the clock on the dashboard. The green numbers read 10:27. They'd been on the road for nearly seventeen hours, most of it on Interstate 95. Like so much of the rest of the last year, their journey would be marked by another leap of faith into unfamiliar territory. Karim retrieved the phone from the center console and held it in his right hand atop the steering wheel. After finding the red power button on the unfamiliar phone he went to press it and then hesitated. Most people looked at a mobile phone and never thought anything beyond the convenience of what it offered them. Not those who had fought against the Americans in Afghanistan and Iraq, though. They looked at the phones as a game of Russian roulette. Every time you turned one on you were tempting the hands of fate. Zawahiri and bin Laden had not used a mobile phone in years and the rest of the al-Qaeda and Taliban leadership used them only sparingly. Dozens had been killed or captured after making calls. One minute they would be standing there talking, and the next thing you knew, a missile would come streaking through the air and blow them to bits.

"Go ahead," Hakim said as if he didn't care. "Remember... you're a needle in a haystack."

They had talked about this incessantly. In the mountainous border area between Afghanistan and Pakistan there were fewer than a million people spread over thousands of square miles. Very few had mobile phones, and there was extremely limited coverage for digital and analog phones. The only type of phone that worked with any real consistency was a satellite phone and that made things even more dangerous. Satellite phones were extremely expensive and rare, and they worked by using orbiting satellites that were owned almost entirely by Western telecommunications companies, and that was only the half of it. The United States Government was rumored to have one of their billion-dollar KH-12 spy satellites in geosynchronous orbit above the region as well as a myriad of unmanned aerial vehicles and spy planes. They were all understandably gun-shy about using the devices, but here in America nearly everyone had a cell phone and the American government was not allowed to listen in on the calls without permission from the courts.

Karim closed his eyes and pressed the button. Ten seconds later the tiny screen was showing that everything was working as expected. He took a look around, and began punching in the number from memory. His hands were clammy as he held the phone to his ear and listened to the strange-sounding ring.

"Hello," a voice answered with just a hint of an accent.

"Joe," Karim said in a voice that cracked, "It's Chuck. How are you?"

There was an abnormal pause and then the male voice said, "Fine, Chuck. Are you in town?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to stop by and see me?"

"Yes."

"When will you be here?"

Karim covered the phone and asked, "How long until we are there?"

"Twenty minutes."