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Zubair finally recognized the eyes of the man who had recruited him. He jumped in the front seat and stared at the Saudi in semi-disbelief. "You never said you were coming to America."
Al-Yamani checked the rearview mirror to see if any new cars had pulled out onto the empty street. "Very few people knew of my plans."
"What happened today?" asked the disheartened scientist. "How did they know?"
All the Saudi could do was shake his head. "I have no answers." If he thought for a second that the Pakistani had betrayed him, he would kill him, but that was impossible. Zubair knew none of the details about the four ships that had been intercepted.
"What do we do now? Do we go back?"
Al-Yamani glanced over at the young scientist and smiled. "No, we do not go back, Imtaz. Allah still has work for you. The Americans may have scored a victory, but we are far from done."
Zubair was more than a little surprised to hear this. "What is your plan?"
Al-Yamani shook his head. "I am done discussing my plans. Too many good Muslims died digging up that cursed weapon. I should have never allowed so many people to know about it." He shook his head again. "No you will see soon enough, and until then you will just have to trust me."
* * *
Fifty-Four
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Rapp hadn't slept all that well, and he thought he knew why. After tossing and turning for most of the short night, he gave up on sleep and got out of bed at 6:00 a.m. His mind wouldn't shut down and his body, which was used to working out at least six days a week, was screaming for exercise. So he left his air-conditioned house on the Chesapeake Bay and went for a run.
He had no problem loosening up in the humid morning air, and his shoes pounded out their rhythm on the gravel shoulder of the county road at a pace that was closer to a sprint than a jog. Sweat poured down his shirtless chest, and he could literally feel the toxins leaving his body. Before the run, he'd considered going for a swim instead. It was easier on his joints, and lately he'd begun noticing some new aches and pains. The years of sports and competing as a world-class triathlete, not to mention his work for the CIA, had taken their toll on his body.
He was glad he'd decided on the run, though. When he reached his midway point he felt strong. He looked down at his watch and noted the split. He'd maintained a six-minute pace, despite the travel and lack of sleep. It wasn't too long ago that he could keep a five-minute pace, but those days were gone forever. Paces like that were meant for younger lungs, younger hearts, and most importantly, younger knees.
The second half of the run didn't go as well. His energy waned and his splits steadily worsened, to the point where the sixth mile was twenty-two seconds off his pace. As was his habit, he sprinted to the finish line at his driveway and then continued past it for about fifty yards slowing to a jog and keeping his clasped hands behind his head and his elbows up so he could breathe better. He walked down his long driveway cursing himself. He was starting to slip a bit.
Rapp went down to the dock and took off his shoes and socks as well as his fanny pack, which contained a water bottle and a compact Glock 30, 45 ACP. He dove in and after relaxing in the water for a good five minutes and allowing his body temperature to cool down, he decided to head into the Joint Counterterrorism Center before his meeting at the White House. He went back up to the house, showered and shaved, and put on a light-gray summer-weight suit. Before leaving the house, he had a quick breakfast and filled his travel mug to the brim with piping hot black coffee.
By 7:40 a.m. he was standing in the office of the FBI's Deputy Director for Counterterrorism. Rapp and Skip McMahon had known each other for only a few years, but they understood one another well. Certainly well enough for Rapp to see that McMahon was behaving a little oddly.
Rapp sat down in one of the two nondescript chairs in front of McMahon's desk. The space smelled like fresh paint and new carpeting. Rapp was not surprised, but nonetheless amused, to see that McMahon was wearing a short-sleeved white dress shirt and a loose tie. Fortunately, his fashion sense had no bearing on his abilities as a federal agent.
"You're back," was all McMahon managed to say.
Rapp nodded and took another sip of coffee. He noticed an uncharacteristically nervous expression on the FBI man's face. Something was going on, and he thought he might know what, but first they would have to indulge in some ritual ribbing. Rapp remembered what Khan had said to him last night.
"Skip, you don't look so hot."
"Well we can't all be pretty boys."
Rapp laughed. "Yeah, right." The counterterrorism operative turned his head and drew his finger down the thin vertical scar on his cheek.
"You still whining about that thing?" McMahon shook his head in feigned embarrassment for the younger man. "That's nothing. You should see the scar from my vasectomy. It's at least a foot long."
Rapp laughed and said, "Any truth to the rumor that you're leaving?"
"Where'd you hear that?" McMahon asked cautiously.
"We have all your phones tapped." Rapp kept his poker face on. "I've known about your vasectomy for years."
McMahon smiled for a second but then asked, "Seriously?"
"Irene told me."
McMahon turned and looked at the blank undecorated wall. It was obvious he had asked her not to tell anyone about his plans for the future.
