THREE Humvees rolled up to the Hilton and came to a slow stop. General Garrison stared past the thick bulletproof glass of his vehicle at the two Humvees that were already there. He muttered something to himself and then cautiously got out of his vehicle and began to circle the two Humvees. This was only the fifth time Garrison had visited the facility in the nine months he'd been running the base. He was of the mind-set that, as far as his air force was concerned, nothing good could come from this place. The capture of the two high-value targets and the subsequent visit by the three senators had proven that.

Garrison had not spent four years at one of the world's premier military colleges to be a jailer. He was lauded by his peers as a logistical genius and had proven that he had a knack for moving pieces on the chessboard. That was why he was here, to keep the planes and supplies moving, to push the flight crews and the ground crews, to run an air base. Not to run a jail. Foreign fighters, terrorists, interrogations... in Garrison's mind that was the stuff the army should be handling, or better yet, the CIA. Put them up in the mountains somewhere. Out of sight. Out of mind.

None of that mattered now, of course; the senators had changed the entire dynamic, had made both their public statements and private threats. Garrison had let the little kiss-ass Leland show them around. Everything was going smoothly on his base, just the way he liked it, and then this confluence of events conspired to make his job infinitely more complicated than it needed to be. There wasn't a CO in the armed forces who liked the idea of one, let alone three, opportunistic politicians poking around their command. Ultimately, they never cared about all the things that worked. They cared only about what didn't work, and that meant they were looking for a scandal. Now, through no choice of his own, his career rested on the proper treatment of two men who did not evoke much sympathy from the young men and women who would be guarding them.

Garrison studied the two Humvees that according to rumor had been driven here by members of the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. There weren't many things in the air force that could make Garrison nervous, but OSI guys were one of them. Any way he tried to slice it, nothing good could come from the OSI's showing up at his base unannounced and in the middle of the night. To make matters worse, they had come straight to this building that housed a problem waiting to happen.

Leland placed his hand on the hood of one of the vehicles and announced, "It's still warm."

Garrison looked at the door.

"I think they've been here going on an hour, sir."

Part of Garrison thought if he simply went back to bed they would be gone in the morning, and he could play dumb about the entire thing. Maybe even make a few calls to the Pentagon and ask why the OSI guys were poking around his base. As much as he'd like to do that, though, it was too risky. He had to think about those senators. The woman, Barbara Lonsdale, was a real ballbuster. The thought occurred to him that she might be the reason why the OSI was here.

Garrison turned slowly to Leland, "You think your friend Senator Lonsdale sent these guys over here to keep an eye on us?"

Leland looked back in the direction of the flight line and then replied, "I don't think so, sir. As chairwoman of the Judiciary Committee it is more likely that she would have sent the FBI."

"Yeah... but she also sits on Armed Services." Garrison studied the big warehouse off to his right. The only damn thing in the building was the two prisoners. Maybe, Maybe, he thought, he thought, they're here to transfer them to a different facility they're here to transfer them to a different facility. The OSI was after all part of air force security.

In a hopeful voice, Leland said, "Maybe they're getting ready to transfer the prisoners."

"If that is the case," Garrison replied, "I sure would like to think they'd notify the base commander." The thought pissed Garrison off. He took command very seriously. This was his base, and ultimately, he was responsible for everything that happened within the fence. Garrison pointed to the door of the building and said, "Let's go. There's only one way to deal with this."

Garrison, Leland, and eight air force security officers entered the outer building through a three-foot-wide steel door. Once inside they walked across the warehouse to a separate, smaller building that was the Hilton. Leland used his security card and code to get past the next door, and the group filed into the small lobby. With no one in sight, Garrison continued down the hallway past two offices and entered a larger room that contained the duty desk, some tables, and two people that Garrison didn't notice because he couldn't take his eyes off the two flat-screen TVs directly across from him. The prisoners were not asleep in their cells.

Garrison saw Mohammad al-Haq sitting alone in the one room. He looked relaxed and in roughly the same condition as when he'd last seen him. But in the other room a man in an air force uniform was questioning Abu Haggani, who looked horrible. Garrison stepped closer to the monitors and felt his chest tighten. He saw the blood on the prisoner's face and his worst fears were realized. Someone under his command had beaten the prisoner. Some eighteen-year-old, no doubt. Some kid who'd made it in because the air force had lowered its recruiting standards. None of that mattered, of course. Special Investigations was on-site and sooner or later they would put the CO in their sights.

Garrison was in a bit of shock. All of his sacrifice, his years of hard work, was about to go right down the drain. His thoughts turned to that idiot woman who had been in charge of Abu Ghraib. She had failed her command in the most miserable way. Garrison felt the unfairness. He had never asked for any of this. He had made it clear to his superiors that the CIA should be running the facility, not the military. The air force should not be in the business of guarding these animals, The air force should not be in the business of guarding these animals, he thought. His job was to keep this lifeline open and running smoothly, to supply the troops and evacuate the wounded. he thought. His job was to keep this lifeline open and running smoothly, to supply the troops and evacuate the wounded.

He remembered the senators and his mood sank again. That ball-busting senator would drag his ass before her committee and humiliate him in front of an ungrateful nation. All of his hard work, all of his sacrifice would be destroyed because of some juvenile airman who couldn't practice a little restraint.

Up on the screen, the air force investigator who was talking to the bloodied Haggani suddenly reached out and grabbed him by the throat. Garrison was trying to comprehend just what in the hell was going on when Leland stepped forward.

"Sir," Leland said as he concentrated on the screen, "there's something familiar about that man... I think I've seen him before... back during my first tour."

Garrison was less concerned with who the man was and more concerned with why he was choking a restrained prisoner. Nothing he was seeing made any sense.

Leland watched the screen intently, waited for the man in the air force BDUs to give him more than a profile. Suddenly the man turned and pointed at the camera. Leland finally got the look he'd been waiting for. His eyes narrowed at first and then opened wide. He could barely contain his excitement. "Sir, that man is not OSI!"

Garrison looked at his aide like he was speaking Latin.

"Sir, he's CIA. I know he is. A few years back when I was on my first tour here they were talking about him. He's some interrogation specialist."

"CIA," Garrison repeated in a skeptical voice. He turned to the screen. Looked at the blood, thought of the choking and the man's actions, and it all suddenly made sense. "You're sure?"

"Absolutely, sir."

Garrison thought of the implications. CIA operatives dressed in air force uniforms, beating prisoners. What were they going to do, simply leave him with the mess in the morning? Have him try to explain why these guys had had the shit kicked out of them? Garrison was getting madder by the second. He personally had no ax to grind with the CIA, but this was ridiculous.

"Sir," Leland said, "would you like me to arrest him?"

Garrison thought of the drama that could come of this if it was ever made public. Again, nothing good could come of it. Reluctantly, he nodded, and gave Leland the order to put the man in custody.

CHAPTER 12

RAPP didn't spend a lot of time questioning the civility of what he was doing. Civility was for people living in cities with law and order. This was asymmetrical warfare, where one side, due to political pressure, was playing by the old set of rules, while the other side played by no rules at all. It was a down-and-dirty street fight, with knives and guns and hands and teeth and anything else that could be brought to bear. Washington didn't want to recognize that obvious fact, so Rapp made his peace with it. He didn't like it, couldn't really even understand how they thought, but he was done fighting them. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them, so he, and a select few like Nash, ventured out and risked it all to try to stop the enemy from another spectacular strike like 9/11.

There'd been a few politicians who'd pulled him aside and thanked him for his actions. Told him to keep it up and make sure we don't get hit again. "Do whatever it takes," they would say, and then they'd go on TV and decry Guantanamo, the rendition program, and detainee treatment in general. Sure, there were a few wise old men in Washington who understood what they were up against. Men who realized someone had to be willing to climb down into the gutter with this scum and slug it out. One-hundred-million-dollar fighter planes and billion-dollar aircraft carriers were great for the heavy lifting. Five-million-dollar tanks came in very handy in a fight, but against an enemy that refused to put on a uniform and refused to meet you on the field of battle, they went only so far. Eventually someone had to reach out and wrap their hands around the throat of the enemy and pick apart their network.

At the moment, Rapp was trying to do just that. With his left hand he tightened his grip around Haggani's larynx and forced his head back. He looked down into the man's deep brown eyes and searched for some hint of his mental state. He'd done this more times than he could count, and had found he could usually get a pretty good sense of how things would go. Most showed outright fear, a few looked back with the crazed eyes of someone who had serious mental issues, there were even a couple whose eyes reminded him of Charles Manson's - that wide-open "I see right through you into the essence of your soul" look of a zealot high on his beliefs. Those guys were the worst. They screamed and thrashed like some toddler throwing a completely irrational temper tantrum. They were so bad you wanted to beat them just to shut them up.

The eyes gave him a clue, but you never knew with these guys. Some of them folded at the first hint of violence - tried to talk their way out of it. Which was fine with Rapp. The more they talked the easier it was to catch them in their lies. Like a python squeezing the air out of its prey, he would strip away the deceptions until the subject's only chance at life, a lung full of air, was the truth.

Rapp stared intently at Haggani's eyes, searching for a clue. It took only a few seconds for him to categorize what he saw, and it wasn't good. Rapp wanted to swear out loud, but knew he couldn't let Haggani see his frustration. He recognized the look in Haggani's eyes. It was an expression of absolute conviction. There wasn't a drop of fear in either orb. It would take weeks to break him. Rapp's grip eased for a second, and he thought of calling everything off, cleaning Haggani up, and throwing him back in his cell. They could focus on al-Haq, and then possibly later on arrange to have Haggani transferred to a more discreet location where an entire team could work on him.

But maybe, Rapp thought, Rapp thought, just maybe I can bait him into making a few mistakes just maybe I can bait him into making a few mistakes. Rapp increased the pressure, his fingers digging into the taut tendons of Haggani's neck. "I know about your plan." Rapp searched his eyes for a flicker of recognition. "We've intercepted both cells. They've told us everything. You've failed yet again." Rapp saw something, an acknowledgment that his words had stirred something in Haggani's limited brain. Rapp eased his grip just enough so the man could reply.

"You know nothing," Haggani said in a hoarse voice. "You will never stop us. For every warrior you strike down another will take his place."

Rapp casually released his grip. The important thing was to keep him talking. "You guys blew your load on nine-eleven. You got lucky. You caught us with our guard down, but what have you done since?"

"Madrid and London, and there will be many more."

"Madrid and London," Rapp scoffed. "You might have got the Spaniards to blink, but all you did was piss off the Brits."

"The entire West is afraid of us."

"The West thinks you're a bunch of cowards. You intentionally kill innocent people because you're too big of a pussy to take on our troops. You're a coward, Abu."

"You know nothing."

"What do you say I take those handcuffs off, and you and I find out just how tough you are?"

Haggani considered the offer and looked across the room at the thick man who had bound him to his chair. He looked back at Rapp and said, "He will join in on your behalf."

"I don't need any help. Not against some baby-killing little pussy like you."

"I don't believe you."

Rapp laughed and circled around the table. "Just like I said, you're a coward. You blow up schools where you know little kids can't fight back. You attack office buildings where innocent men and women are simply trying to make a living."

"There are no innocents in the West."

"If that's true, why haven't you hit us again? All you had was nine-eleven. You haven't done jack shit since then."

"We have killed over fifty thousand of your soldiers."

All Rapp could do was laugh at the outrageous number. He had come across this before. Al-Qaeda and the Taliban loved to exaggerate their successes. "You haven't even killed five thousand, and you know it. You guys are getting your asses kicked. One by one we keep picking you off. Your leadership is in shambles, you're living in caves, and your recruiting is way down. People are tired of sending their boys off to die at your incompetent hands."

"You know nothing."

"Educate me, then. Tell me about all your successes."

"You will see soon enough."

Rapp saw what he was looking for. He moved quickly to Haggani's side and leaned in close. "We know all about the third cell. Your little butt-buddy Mohammad is across the hall right now giving us all the details."

Rapp saw the anger flash in Haggani's eyes. Saw the registration of betrayal as he realized a weaker man was putting everything in jeopardy. Rapp also knew what was going to happen next, having baited others in the same way. The lips pursed, the cheeks sucked in slightly, and then just as Haggani was poised to let loose a gob of spit, Rapp's right hand shot forward. The flattened hand and curled knuckles struck the larynx like a battering ram. Haggani gasped, his open mouth filled with spit, his eyes bulging from his head as his body absorbed the shock. He was frozen for a moment and then fell forward, gasping for air.

"The teams have been dispatched," Rapp whispered in his ear. "Within twenty-four hours they will be in our possession, and you will have failed yet again. Did you really think the plan would work? Did you really think we would allow you to just walk into our country and...?"

Rapp was in mid-sentence when the door opened. He turned to see four sizable men with black Air Force Security Forces patches on their shoulders filing into the interrogation room. Rapp looked to the man with the most stripes on his collar and snapped, "What in the hell are you doing?"

"Excuse me, sir," the man said, "would you please step out into the hallway? The general would like to speak to you."

Rapp eyeballed the man from head to toe and then looked the others over. "I'll be with you in a minute, Sergeant."

In a less-than-commanding voice the man persisted. "The general would like to see you now, sir."

Rapp glanced down at the prisoner and then back up at the senior master sergeant. "You tell the general to cool his fucking heels, or I'll get Secretary of Defense England on the phone and make sure the general spends the rest of his career in a missile silo in the middle of Bum Fuck, North Dakota." Rapp watched him look toward the door and then back at him. He was on the fence. "Sergeant, I suggest you get your ass out of here right now, or I'll make sure you accompany the general on his new assignment."

The sergeant had been in a lot of tricky spots during his thirteen years with the air force, but this one took the cake. An up-and-coming one-star was out in the other room. The guy had been running the base for less than two months, and had made it really clear that he believed in the old axiom that shit rolled downhill. Now he was staring at the very man that general had told him to arrest - a colonel wearing an Air Force Office of Special Investigations unit patch, who was threatening to call the secretary of defense himself. And if that wasn't bad enough, the guy looked like he might literally rip his head off if he didn't exit the room and do so on the double. Not liking the lay of the land, the sergeant decided to pull a tactical retreat to the hallway.

CHAPTER 13

THIS was a moment to be savored, was a moment to be savored, Nash thought to himself. Like most jobs, his was filled with frustration, boredom, and all kinds of tedious bullshit, and recently, more political correctness than was healthy for an organization tasked with penetrating perhaps the most politically incorrect group of men on the planet. But occasionally there were flashes of excitement, of brilliance, when it all came together to mesh in an unqualified success. Moments when all your hard work and personal sacrifice paid off. Where you rolled the dice and broke the house, and felt like you were actually pushing the boulder back up the hill. Nash thought to himself. Like most jobs, his was filled with frustration, boredom, and all kinds of tedious bullshit, and recently, more political correctness than was healthy for an organization tasked with penetrating perhaps the most politically incorrect group of men on the planet. But occasionally there were flashes of excitement, of brilliance, when it all came together to mesh in an unqualified success. Moments when all your hard work and personal sacrifice paid off. Where you rolled the dice and broke the house, and felt like you were actually pushing the boulder back up the hill.

Nash had experienced a lot of highs in his life. A Pennsylvania state football championship his junior year in high school, a wrestling title his senior year, falling in love with his wife, the births of his children, becoming an officer in the Marine Corps, successfully leading his men in battle, and countless other things. None of it compared, though, to the high-stakes game he now played. The stakes had never been so big, the challenge never so great. The big picture was pretty straightforward; keep America and her allies safe from the likes of Haggani and al-Haq. How they went about doing that was where it got complicated. There were those like Rapp who made no bones that the best way to accomplish their goal was to kill every last one of them. Keep killing until they were all gone, or they no longer had the will to fight.

Nash sympathized with Rapp. He knew someone had to have that attitude. Someone had to be willing to go toe-to-toe with these guys and beat them at their own game. Make them flinch, keep them up at night wondering when a bomb was going to fall on their heads or a team of commandos was going to sneak up on them and cut every last man's throat. It had all been done, and it had kept the enemy off balance. It had not been localized to Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iraq, though. European, Middle Eastern, and Asian financiers had been targeted. Most had taken the warning, but a few who had chosen not to listen had fallen victim to tragic, accidental deaths. The same went for the arms merchants, the pimps of war. They knew the risky game they played by supplying the Taliban and al-Qaeda, but the allure was too much. Many had been killed and many more would forfeit their lives before it was over.

Nash would never admit it to his wife or friends, but there was no bigger rush, no bigger thrill, than when they took down one of the high-value targets. He'd helped arrest a few and killed just one, but it was the highest high he'd ever been on. It felt like all of his life's victories rolled into one. Everything had been set to take the target down in the Pakistani border town of Chaman. He and Rapp had worked through unofficial channels, bribing Pakistani Intelligence officials left and right until they had located the man. They were operating with a small team of only six men, all of them trained shooters. The target got spooked as Rapp and two others came through the front door of the building. Nash was in back, alone, when the guy came flying out the door, a big, ugly AK-47 in his hands, ready to blow away anyone who tried to stop him. Nash stood in the shadows of a doorway, and as the man ran by he extended his silenced gun and sent a single hollow-point 9mm round into the back of his head. The man took a few more steps, his body running on autopilot, and then collapsed, skidding to a stop on his own face.

This time it was different in several ways. The most obvious was that Langley knew what they were doing. In Chaman they were operating on their own without a net. This was a victory they could share with the Hill. It was something the politicians could celebrate. They had captured a few people as important as al-Haq, but none of them had ever willingly cooperated. He had to work to squeeze every drop out of them, and even then the information they provided had to be treated with suspicion. Al-Haq was coming over without a fight. Sure, there had been a few threats, but no one had laid a hand on him.

Nash's boss, Rob Ridley, was thrilled. He had given Nash the green light to proceed, while he got Kennedy to sign off on it and provide some type of legal assurance to al-Haq. Nash told Ridley of his idea to get al-Haq to go public. Get him to tell the world how al-Qaeda and the Taliban had strayed from the path. Ridley loved it. "If they could find a way to get his family out," Nash told him, "I think he would do it in a heartbeat."

"One success at a time," had been Ridley's comment before he congratulated Nash and told him he'd get back to him within the hour. Nash hung up the phone and checked his watch. He'd been gone less than five minutes. He didn't want to rush this, didn't want to seem too eager. He paced back and forth in the small office, calming himself and thinking of how he would play his hand when he went back into the room. He still had all the cards, and while he had General Dostum around, he should use him for leverage. Nash decided he'd push al-Haq a bit harder. He thought the earliest they'd have the assurance from Kennedy would be an hour. Probably two.

Nash thought of ways to push him. Tell him the big hitters in D.C. didn't believe him, Tell him the big hitters in D.C. didn't believe him, he thought to himself. he thought to himself. Tell him the other two cells had been debriefed and hadn't said a word about a third cell. Tell him the other two cells had been debriefed and hadn't said a word about a third cell. That was a lie, of course. They had, and there was other disturbing stuff floating around out there, murmurs on the World Wide Web that something big was coming. Nash believed al-Haq, but for now he would make him think the deal was in jeopardy. That was a lie, of course. They had, and there was other disturbing stuff floating around out there, murmurs on the World Wide Web that something big was coming. Nash believed al-Haq, but for now he would make him think the deal was in jeopardy.

Nash checked his watch again and took a couple of deep breaths to try and ease off the natural high he was on. He yanked open the office door, set his jaw in a more grim position, and started down the hallway. As he stepped into the big observation room, he found himself staring at the backs of a group of men who were not supposed to be there. Up on one of the screens Rapp was yelling at a couple of MPs.

Nash turned nervously to his right and found Marcus Dumond, the young CIA hacker, looking like he was about to crawl under the desk.

Just then he heard General Garrison, the base commander, growl, "Did he just say Secretary of Defense England?"

"He did, sir," the younger officer next to him replied.

"You'd better be right about this, Leland. If that man isn't CIA and you get me in hot water with the secretary of defense, you are going to be shoveling shit for the rest of your tour."

Nash felt his stomach turn, and thought to himself, These guys could screw this thing up real quick. How in the hell are we going to talk our way out of this? These guys could screw this thing up real quick. How in the hell are we going to talk our way out of this? The very next thing he thought of was damage control. Dumond had been recording the sessions. The last thing they needed to do was hand over proof of their crimes. The very next thing he thought of was damage control. Dumond had been recording the sessions. The last thing they needed to do was hand over proof of their crimes.

Everyone else in the room was so intent on the TV showing the interrogation room that Nash saw an opportunity. He looked down at Dumond, pointed at his small external drive, and then jerked his head toward the hallway behind him. Dumond nodded, grabbed the drive, and quietly stood. As he passed by Nash, the general must have noticed the movement, because he began to turn around. Nash stepped forward quickly to block the general's view and distract him.

In a booming voice Nash announced, "What in the hell is going on here?"

CHAPTER 14

ONCE the MPs were gone and the door was closed, Rapp turned and looked at his prisoner. What he saw pissed him off to the point of wanting to drive his fist through Haggani's face - shove the cartilage behind his nose up into his brain and kill the bastard right on the spot. He felt the camera on his back, though, and knew he was already in enough trouble. Choking the man... he might be able to talk his way out of. Killing him... not a chance. He thought of Nash and Dumond. What was going on out there? What was going on out there? Had Dumond been quick enough to erase his interrogation of Haggani and smart enough to save Nash's with al-Haq, and just what in the hell was the base commander doing up and about? The guy was supposed to be an anal-retentive freak about his sleep. Had Dumond been quick enough to erase his interrogation of Haggani and smart enough to save Nash's with al-Haq, and just what in the hell was the base commander doing up and about? The guy was supposed to be an anal-retentive freak about his sleep.

"What is wrong?" Haggani asked in a mocking tone. "Are you in trouble?"

Rapp glanced at him for only a second. Just long enough to register the smug look on his face. He clenched his fists and told himself not to do it. He walked to the far side of the room, where one of his men, Joe Maslick, was leaning against the wall. Maslick was an inch taller than Rapp and tipped the scales at 220 pounds. He was too big for most undercover operations, but perfect for something like this, where intimidation and presence were more important. Rapp knew how sensitive the room's recording devices were, and since he had no idea if Dumond had turned them off, he decided to be extra careful. He pointed back at the prisoner and then cupped both hands over Maslick's left ear.

In a voice barely louder than a whisper, Rapp said, "I'm going out first. If I can talk our way out of this, great, but if I can't, and you see me get up in that general's face, I want you to get our people out of here. Grab Dostum, get back to the plane, and get the hell off this base. Mike and I will deal with the fallout."

Maslick cupped his hands over Rapp's ear and whispered, "We can overpower these guys."

Rapp knew this was the approach Maslick would take. The man did not know the meaning of the word retreat retreat. Slugging their way out would be a short-term solution that would only make things worse. "No way," he whispered, "that'll just buy us a little time and then the shit will really come down. Trust me - you get everyone out of here, and I'll take care of it."

"I'm not leaving you behind to take the fall."

"You are," Rapp said firmly, "and don't worry about it. I've got plenty of favors I can call in. Just get everyone out of here. End of discussion."

Rapp and Maslick walked across the room. As they passed Haggani, the terrorist began laughing.

"Leaving so soon."