"By ship."

"Destined for what port?" Rapp moved to stand over him again.

Abdullah mumbled an unintelligible answer.

"I didn't hear you. What port?"

"I want more morphine first," Abdullah howled.

Rapp put his boot on top of the bad knee and pressed down.

Abdullah began screaming his head off.

Rapp snarled, "I'm not taking my foot off until you tell me what port!"

Abdullah kept screaming.

"What port!" Rapp put almost all of his weight on the bad knee. "What port, Waheed?"

"Charleston! Charleston!" The man's face was covered in sweat and contorted in anguish.

Rapp let up a bit but kept his boot in place. "And when is it due to arrive?"

"Today!"

"You said yesterday when I asked you an hour ago."

"I lied! It's coming today! I swear I'm telling you the truth!"

"What's the name of the ship?"

"I don't know," he screamed with a genuine look of panic on his face.

"Where did it originate from?"

"Karachi!"

"How long ago?"

"Three weeks. Please*oh please*I'm telling you the truth."

Rapp removed his boot, and grabbed a knife from a scabbard on his right thigh. Bending over, he held the knife in front of Abdullah's face and said, "This is your last chance. I'm going to get you some morphine, but if I find out you've lied to me, I'm going to come back, and not only are you not going to get your morphine*I'm going to start lopping off your fingers one by one."

Thirty-Three.

CHARLESTON.

The trip out to Sullivan's Island didn't take long. The island marked the northern entrance to Charleston Harbor. They continued past the main gate to historic Fort Moultrie Park and took a left on Station 12th Street. They parked a half block from the water and got out of the car. al-Yamani asked Yacoub to grab the bag from the trunk, and the two of them walked to the beach. Once out of the car's air-conditioned comfort al-Yamani was again reminded of how foreign humidity was to him. Growing up in an arid land had acclimated him to dry heat, not this smothering wet air.

By the time they reached the sand he could feel rivulets of sweat dripping down his back. Yacoub led the way across the light-colored beach. Visibility was good with a quarter moon and not a cloud in the sky. Out to sea on the horizon the sky was beginning to lighten a bit. The sun would be up in about an hour and a half, and if things went according to plan, not long after that the container would be headed north.

Yacoub pointed out into the harbor and said, "That is Fort Sumter. It is almost one point five kilometers from here to there. The boat will pa.s.s right between us."

This is no boat,al-Yamani thought to himself.It is a ship. He had been there in Karachi to supervise the packing and loading of the container. Al-Yamani had intentionally chosen the largest vessel he could find. He rationalized that the more containers the ship could carry, the less likely it would be that the Americans would find the lethal one in a random search.

"You can see the channel markers there and there." Yacoub pointed to the red and green lights floating out in the water.

To the right was downtown Charleston. The skyline was nothing stupendous, but al-Yamani knew this was an old city by American standards. The harbor where they had just come from was illuminated by bright flood lights. Even from this vantage al-Yamani could make out the monstrous cranes swinging cargo off the big vessels docked at one of America's busiest ports.

"Here comes a boat now." Yacoub pointed out to sea.

"You mean ship. A boat is little. That is not little." Al-Yamani checked his watch and said, "Binoculars."

Yacoub zipped open the duffel bag and handed the high-powered binoculars over.

Al-Yamani looked through the lenses and found the vessel steaming toward port. It was a container ship. A big one, fully loaded. Beyond it, out to sea, al-Yamani could make out at least two more ships headed in. One of them was his ship, he hoped. A slight breeze blew in from the ocean and it carried with it the sound of engines and churning water.

A minute later the ship pa.s.sed between their position and Fort Sumter. Al-Yamani read the name on the prow. It was not the ship he was looking for, but he was not surprised. His ship was not due for another ten minutes. He'd checked it on the internet before leaving Cuba. One of their people in Karachi had explained how to do it. Using GPS and transponders, merchant ships were tracked all over the globe. These big container vessels were run by state-of-the-art automated systems that maximized time and fuel efficiency. Barring bad weather or other unforeseen conditions, the arrival time of a vessel at a given port could usually be predicted within minutes.

Al-Yamani grew a bit nervous as the next ship pa.s.sed and it again wasn't the one he was looking for. There were plenty more lights out on the horizon but he had waited a lifetime for this moment and he didn't want to wait any longer. If the Americans were onto the plan he would know soon enough, for there was no way they would risk letting this cargo enter one of their ports.

The next ship churned its way through the channel, its deck laden with multicolored containers stacked six high over every square foot of the aircraft carrier-sized deck. Its white superstructure was bathed in light and looked like it belonged in the business district of some generic downtown.

Al-Yamani strained to read the barely lit name on the prow and in the faint light he read the first three letters and knew it was the one he was expecting, theMadagascar. Al-Yamani lowered the binoculars and exhaled in relief. His ship had arrived.

He turned to his guide, and with genuine happiness he said, "Ibrahim, this is a great day for us."

Thirty-Four.

AFGHANISTAN.

Rapp left the ammunition bunker, grabbed Urda, and quickly explained to him everything he'd just learned from Abdullah. The two men double-timed it back to the intel tent where Rapp called for everyone's attention. This time he would hold off on contacting Washington until he could corroborate Abdullah's story.

The Saudi's earlier false confession was a setback. How bad a setback Rapp didn't know, but a.s.sets had undoubtedly been directed to check international airfreight coming into the U.S. over the last forty-eight hours. Even more harmful, though, would be the loss of confidence by those back in Washington pulling the switches. One more screwup and they would begin to doubt everything Rapp was sending them.

Just as Rapp was about to speak, his sat phone rang. He answered it reluctantly, and listened to Kennedy explain what was going on. The National Security Council was going to reconvene in a little over thirty minutes and decide on a course of action. Kennedy explained that several members of the council were pushing to evacuate the city, or at a bare minimum close all roads leading into the city and cancel Metro service before the morning commute got underway.

Once that happened, Kennedy told him what he already knew. They would have tipped their hand and the terrorists would know what was going on. Kennedy's fear was that if the bomb was already in the country, the terrorists would move up their timetable and detonate the weapon before the NEST teams had a chance to find it. Rapp agreed with his boss, but decided not to tell her what he had just learned from Abdullah. He had thirty minutes to confirm that Charleston was the port of entry for the bomb, and if need be he was going to use every last second. He told Kennedy he'd call her back before the meeting started and put his phone away.

"Everybody listen up," boomed Rapp with Urda and General Harley at his side. "We are looking for any reference to a ship that left Karachi approximately three weeks ago. We think the ship may have been headed for Charleston, South Carolina, due to arrive sometime today."

As Rapp looked out across the silent faces, he saw one of Urda's people sifting quickly through a stack of doc.u.ments. There was something about the manner in which the man searched the pile that suggested he knew what he was looking for. Rapp's eyes zeroed in on him. He stopped once and licked his fingers. He quickly flipped over several more pages and then looked up triumphantly.

"I've got it right here." He pulled a sheaf of doc.u.ments from the stack and shook them in the air.

Both Rapp and Urda lunged forward to look at the doc.u.ments. They were in Urdu, so Rapp understood nothing other than the wordsKarachi andCharleston. The a.n.a.lyst translated the rest of the information. The ship was a Liberian container vessel of no great value or significance.

Rapp asked the a.n.a.lyst, "Is this a bill of lading?"

"Yes."

"Is this the only one you remember finding?"

"No." The black-bearded man shook his head, and patted the stack of doc.u.ments before him. "These are all bills of lading. This one," he shook the prized doc.u.ment in the air, "is the only one I remember originating from Karachi with a destination of Charleston."

"Are there any others that left Karachi approximately three weeks ago?" The smile was now gone from Rapp's face.

"Yes." The man nodded vehemently "Practically the entire stack."

Rapp's jaw clenched. He was once again wondering if Abdullah had lied to him. "How many bills are there, and how many left Karachi three weeks ago?"

The a.n.a.lyst looked down and consulted his notes. "There are seventeen separate bills of lading, with the majority of them leaving from Karachi. Four of those left approximately three weeks ago, and all four are headed for the United States."

"When are they due to arrive?" Rapp asked tensely.

The a.n.a.lyst shook the doc.u.ment he'd already pulled. "This one in Charleston today." He set it down on the table, and began rifling through the stack until he found another one. "This one bound for New York is also due to arrive today, and this one bound for Miami is due to arrive today as well." He shuffled through a few more pages and said, "And this one is due to arrive in Baltimore today."

Rapp began thinking of which finger he would cut off first. "Are there any bills for airfreight?"

"No." The a.n.a.lyst shook his head and gestured at the entire table where Urda's people were working on the doc.u.ments written in Urdu and Pashto.

"All right listen. Here's what I want you to do. Fax all of these doc.u.ments to the CTC."

"I already did. About thirty minutes ago."

Rapp was surprised. "Have you spoken to them about this?"

"Yeah, but they don't have anybody on duty right now who can translate Urdu."

"What?" asked an incredulous Rapp.

"We were told to translate these files on the missing Pakistani scientists."

The man wanted to explain further, but Rapp cut him off. "Listen*right now I want you to focus your attention on these four bills of lading. Translate them immediately, send the information to CTC and then begin on the others. If you need anyone else to help grab them right now. Good job and get moving!"

Thirty-Five.

MARYLAND.

The secure video teleconference was up and running. The National Security Council wasn't due to reconvene for another fifteen minutes, but more than half of the princ.i.p.al players were already seated, including the president. On the big screen at the end of the conference room, aides and deputies could be seen coming in and out of the other off-site locations, bringing their bosses information and whispering instructions in their ears. The conference room at Site R was no different. People were coming and going at a feverish pace.

Valerie Jones, the president's chief of staff, was sitting directly across from Kennedy talking on a secure phone and eating a powdered donut. Kennedy watched her with the aim of getting her attention as soon as she hung up. It appeared from the conversation that she was talking to the White House press secretary. Thankfully, it appeared thus far that the media was in the dark. They all agreed, however, that would not last forever. Kennedy doubted sincerely that they would make it to nine o'clock without word somehow leaking out.

Washington, like most centers of power, was an environment dominated by meetings. Breakfast meetings, morning meetings, midmorning meetings, lunch meetings-it went on and on from predawn all the way into the night. A lot of very important people would be missing their breakfast meetings this morning and it would not go unnoticed.

Jones hung up the phone and exhaled in relief. "So far, so good," she said to the president. "That was Tim." Jones was referring to Tim Webber, the White House press secretary, who had been given the unenviable task of pulling duty at the White House. This had been Jones's decision. Most of the TV reporters began showing up around 6:00 a.m. with print media coming in around 9:00 a.m. It would be much easier for Webber to deflect questions and deal with any rumors in person rather than over the phone.

"Not a call from the media yet," the chief of staff added.

The president looked at a string of clocks on the wall and noted the time on the one marked Washington. It was a little past five in the morning. "The media isn't even out of bed yet."

"I know that," retorted Jones, "but they have plenty of sources in your administration. I'm amazed no one has called to tip them off." Jones had a bit of an edge to her, which in a way was a prerequisite for her job. Even when dealing with the president she could be harsh.

Kennedy placed a hand on the president's arm and said, "I need to discuss something with the two of you." She leaned in and the president and Jones followed suit. "I think I know what their endgame is." Like everyone, Kennedy had been stuck in the moment and hadn't really had the time to step back and look at the big picture. Since her last conversation with Rapp, however, something had occurred to her.

"If they in fact have a nuke, it's only logical that they use it for maximum effect. This should be no surprise to you," Kennedy looked at the president, "but one of the terrorists told Mitch that their plan is to kill you. The man also said something strange. He said they wanted to kill you and all the generals. When Mitch told me I thought it sounded a little funny, so I asked him if that was exactly what the man said, and it was. At the time, I wrote it off as one of those statements of exaggerated bravado that Arabs are so fond of making. Taken literally, the statement is ludicrous. Killing all our generals would be impossible, but then I got to thinking that a word that to native English speakers has one meaning in this context might have a subtle but different meaning to them."

"So what did he mean?" asked Jones.

"I think by using the wordgeneral the man may have been referring to leaders in general."

"What kind of leaders?"

"Yourself, the Congressional leadership, the vice president, your entire cabinet. They want to decapitate our government in one fell swoop."

"How could they be guaranteed to get everyone in the city at the same time?" asked Jones.

Kennedy turned her address book around so the president and his chief of staff could see the calendar. "I'm embarra.s.sed I didn't see it sooner, but here it is. Everyone is in town this week for the dedication of the new World War Two memorial."