Assurred Response

Chapter 4

Khartoum, the capital of the Republic of the Sudan, is located south of the confluence of the Blue Nile and White Nile rivers. Long a hub for international terrorists, Khartoum serves as a safe haven, meeting place, and training center for al-Qaeda (the Base).

A military Islamic fundamentalist regime, Sudan also plays host to the Palestinian Islamic Jihad, Hamas, the Lebanese Hezbollah, the Egyptian Gamaat al-Islamiyya, al-Jihad, and the Abu Nidal organization known as Ghanem Saleh. Other Islamic extremist factions of lesser notoriety have called Khartoum their headquarters for over three decades.

Sudan does more than provide a safe haven for terrorists; Sudan is the place to secure a base for organizing terrorist operations. Everything is available to the groups, including weapons, forged travel documentation, and false identification papers. It is a refuge for international fugitives who have been linked to bombings, assassinations, kidnappings, hijackings, and various other atrocities around the world.

A grayish-pink twilight was settling over the sprawling city of Khartoum when a gleaming Boeing Business Jet began its final approach to the international airport. A hybrid of the popular 737 airliner, the privately owned BBJ was a graceful combination of airborne office, conference center, executive stateroom, galley, and entertainment/ dining room.

Equipped with a self-contained air stair under the forward entry door, satellite communications, and computer capability, the airplane combined a work environment with the ambiance of a comfortable vacation home. Capable of nonstop flights over 6,000 nautical miles, the spacious aircraft was considered an ultra-long-range time machine for business leaders.

Saeed Shayhidi, an Iranian shipping magnate, oil trader, investment banker, and international power broker, had recently purchased the lavish corporate jet through a third party based in Bermuda. The negotiations, like many of Shayhidis transactions, were time-consuming and nerve-racking. Before the deal was finalized, Shayhidi managed to whittle over $2 million off the asking price for the Boeing.

Shayhidi, a multibillionaire, typically enjoyed badgering his opponents to the point of exhaustion. In this instance his adversary was a hard-nosed hard-drinking aircraft broker. The act of haggling was one of Shayhidi s favorite sports: the intellectual version of fencing. Both men would duel again when Shayhidis newer, larger BBJ-2 was ready for delivery. It would have more powerful engines, a larger passenger cabin, and greater storage capacity in the lower lobe.

The money Shayhidi saved on the initial purchase of the BBJ went into an interior completion that re-created the atmosphere of his chateau in the Graves district of the Gironde. Not surprising, the wine served aboard the BBJ came from the vineyard adjacent to his chateau.

The eldest son of a wealthy hotelier who retired in London, Shayhidi was not unlike many successful entrepreneurs. Ivy League-educated, he was extremely shrewd and pernicious. Though hopelessly narcissistic, he was a brilliant tactician in the boardroom. As one might expect, regardless of the location, time, or circumstance, Shayhidi required painstaking care from his throng of personal attendants.

There was another side to Saeed Shayhidi, a much darker side. Unknown to his associates in the business world and the political arena, Shayhidis influence reached far beyond the boardroom. He was a master terrorist with an obsessive passion that enveloped every aspect of his psyche: the passion to rid Muslim-inhabited lands of Western control and influence.

An entirely new breed of terrorist leader, Shayhidi was less dependent on state or political sponsorship and more dependent on his own sizable financial empire. This understated leadership arrangement was accomplished with a minimum of one or two intermediaries, allowing him to remain a comfortable distance from the disreputable individuals who actually carried out his orders.

Shayhidi s hatred of Americans and their culture began during his first year at Princeton University. Initially, the transformation was insidious, but it rapidly began to affect every aspect of his life. Shayhidi s fiery personality and cantankerous attitude provoked uneasiness and annoyance among his fellow students. By the beginning of his sophomore year both students and faculty, for the most part, quietly shunned the wealthy Iranian. Two weeks into his junior year, Shayhidi desperately wanted to leave school and return home to Iran. Much to his dismay, his father insisted he remain at Princeton and receive a proper education. Grudgingly, he stayed the course and became a recluse.

During the many years after Shayhidi s graduation from Princeton, his disdain for the American people expanded to include contempt for their powerful military Over a period of five years, with no direct ties to Osama bin Laden, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, Bassam Shakhar, or any other prominent Islamic zealot, Shayhidi managed to recruit dozens of key members of al-Qaeda and other well-known terrorist factions. With Bassam Shakhar dead from a massive stroke, and the al-Qaeda organization in disarray, Saeed Shayhidi felt compelled to accept the mantle of authority and leadership in the jihad against American imperialism.

Shayhidis lieutenants, like himself, were well educated, neat, and wholesome-looking. They were a diverse group of individuals representing many nationalities, dressed in expensive clothes from top-drawer designers in Europe and America. The men — and women — comported themselves as successful people. Polar opposites of the archetypical Middle Eastern terrorist, this coalition of operatives could easily pass for executives from multinational corporations. They were as skilled at acting as they were ruthless in carrying out their deadly attacks.

Saeed Shayhidi s approach to terrorism discarded the medieval mind-set that so many of his counterparts desperately clung to. Unlike other militant extremists, Shayhidi would never descend to carrying AK-47S around the desert or taking refuge in dismal caves. He laughed at the notion of roaming the bumpy strife-worn crossroads of Central Asia with an entourage of ragamuffins.

To the contrary, Shayhidi carefully crafted the persona of a non-religious no-nonsense business titan. In stark contrast to his fundamentalist colleagues, he almost always had a beautiful woman on his arm. He would often take five or six striking women on lavish European shopping sprees, staged for public consumption. European tabloids, concentrating on sensational news and gossip, always covered these excursions.

Shayhidi dined with royalty, played golf with heads of state, and entertained Hollywood's elite on his yacht. He sponsored private economic summits with the most powerful men and women in the world, none of whom suspected his involvement with terrorism.

He lived in the lap of luxury with unrestrained gratification. Always clean-shaven and impeccably attired, he maintained distinctively different penthouses in Hong Kong, London, Paris, and Sydney. Because he spent much of his time traveling, he leased spacious suites in some of the most prestigious hotels in the world. Suites and other services in his family-owned hotels were, of course, complimentary.

His meticulously constructed homes were stately in size and design. One of the imposing residences contained a narrow indoor river running through a rain forest, a bird sanctuary, and an extensive art gallery that showcased Pablo Picasso, Jean Dubuffet, and a variety of French beaux arts. The mansion had three indoor waterfalls, four guest suites with his-and-her bathrooms, two gourmet kitchens, and two Japanese arched bridges leading to a lagoonlike swimming pool surrounded by powdery white sand.

Shayhidi was instrumental in bringing the ruthless Khartoum-Moscow-Beijing coalition together to fully take advantage of Sudan's vast energy resources. With generous succor from Communist China and the Russian Federation, he intended to drive the United States and its vaunted military, the "Godless West," out of Muslim-dominated countries and out of the waters of the Persian Gulf. Beijing and Moscow were quite pleased to help, viewing this as an opportunity to keep the U. S. military off balance.

While Russia and China "fully cooperated" with the U. S.-led war on terrorism, they quietly funneled money and arms to augment Shayhidi's terrorist organization. The complex financial web, which included Middle Eastern and South American banks, front companies, charities, and underground brokers, provided hundreds of millions of dollars for his jihad against the United States.

Unlike many of his predecessors, Shayhidi and the experienced leaders of his terrorist cells would take no credit for the devastating attacks they were planning. The anonymous assaults in the contiguous United States were designed to leave the U. S. president, authorities at the CIA and the FBI, law enforcement professionals, and the Pentagon brass in a quandary.

Washington would be unable to assign responsibility for the violent and destructive attacks, thereby neutralizing or reducing any military retaliation or economic sanctions. The master plan, the Destiny Project, had been in the developmental stage for over six years.

Unfortunately, Operation Iraqi Freedom scrambled the time frame of Shayhidi's ambitious plan. Incensed by the overthrow of Saddam Hussein and what the regime change portended, Shayhidi had to confront the future. He was determined to destroy the Americans' ability to restructure the Middle East in the mold of Western democracy.

The United States had to be annihilated, reduced to utter ruin, with no political effect, no measurable military force, and no relevance in shaping the world order. Now, after many months of reorganizing his priorities, Shayhidi's highly detailed Destiny Project was ready for implementation.

On board his plane in Khartoum, Shayhidi would meet with his senior leaders to initiate a concerted effort to wreak havoc on the Americans and their military forces. To Shayhidi's way of thinking, the well-orchestrated attack on the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and the crashed jet in Pennsylvania, while a rousing success for the cause, stopped far short of achieving his ultimate objective: the total destruction of America.

Now, after training more homicidal recruits and energizing hundreds of sleepers in the United States, Mexico, and Canada, it was time to capitalize on their first perceived triumphant victory over America. Shayhidi and his followers fervently believed this was the opportune time to finish the job. Time to paralyze the United States and bring its people to their knees in total submission to Allah.

It was the intent of Shayhidi and his coterie of cell leaders to cause disruptions so severe and to generate such psychological terror throughout the United States that the vast majority of Americans would cower in fear. Shayhidi was brazenly confident the American people would then confront President Macklin and demand an immediate cessation of hostilities toward any Muslim country.

The flight to the East Coast was pleasant, and the jet touched down at Baltimore Washington International a few minutes before 3 P. M. local time. Clearing the runway, Scott taxied the airplane to Signature Flight Support. When the aircraft came to a halt, a customer service representative drove their Avis rental car to the cabin entrance.

Although the Gulfstream 100 had enough fuel for the short flight to Dulles International, N957GAS new home airport, Scott purchased 250 gallons of Jet A as a courtesy to the fixed base operator.

When Scott and Jackie arrived at the residence of Hartwell Prost, his butler of long standing answered the door. A trim distinguished-looking gentleman with impeccable manners, Zachary always had a genial smile to offer guests.

"Miss Sullivan, Mr. Dalton — what a pleasure to see you again."

"Its good to see you," Scott said, while Jackie extended her arms.

Zachary responded with a gentle embrace. "Please come in. Mr. Prost is on the veranda."

"How have you been?" Scott asked, as Zachary led them through the expansive foyer.

"Fve been splendid," he replied, without turning around. "Thank you for asking."

They followed Zachary to a roofed back porch extending half the length of the mansion. When Jackie and Scott stepped outside, they detected the distinctive whiff of mesquite smoke.

Hartwell was sitting in an Adirondack chair, sipping a beer and puffing on a Cuban cigar. Next to him was a wooden tub filled with assorted brands of beer buried in ten pounds of crushed ice. The brick four-by-eight-foot grill was loaded with an array of barbecue selections, including beef, chicken, ribs, and turkey. The mesquite smoke, mingled with their hosts favorite barbecue sauce, gave off a pleasing scent that whetted the appetite.

The serving table was loaded with several side dishes, Spode bone-china dinner plates, freshly polished silverware, finger bowls, and stacks of cloth napkins the size of kitchen towels. Hartwell's chef, a large raw-boned woman with a pronounced Bostonian accent, tended the barbecue and the simmering pot of baked beans. Though Molly McCallister never attended a formal culinary school, she could match any chef de cuisine in quality of preparation and presentation.

Hartwell extracted two beers from the sea of ice, placed them on the table, and dried his hands or. a towel. He stood to greet his guests and reached for Jackie's hand. "How was the flight?"

"Great, smooth as silk," she said, with a wide smile.

Hartwell shook Scotts hand firmly. "So you're the captain of your own bird now?"

Scott chuckled. "Yeah. But the real captain is shorter than I am."

Hartwell laughed good-naturedly. "I hope you're hungry."

"Starved," Jackie admitted, surveying the abundant array of food. "Looks like we'll have enough for seconds."

"Molly never runs short of food," Hartwell said, with a hint of pride. "After one of her spreads, Zachary and I eat leftovers — at least three days' worth."

Without fanfare, Scott placed a bottle of 1987 Chateau Montelena Cabernet Sauvignon on the dining table.

Hartwell opened the beers and handed the first one to Jackie.

She raised the palm of her hand. "Thanks, but I'll stick with iced tea. We have to fly home tonight."

"Nonsense," Hartwell said, handing Scott a beer. "You can stay in the guest lodge and head home tomorrow."

Scott caught Jackie's quick smile. "Sounds great," he said. "I'll call the FBO and tell them we'll be staying overnight."

Jackie handed him her cell phone while he fished the Signature Flight Support business card out of his wallet.

"Don't worry," she said, under her breath. "I packed a bag for us. It s in the backseat."

"You think of everything."

"Someone has to," she said, with an innocent look.

When Scott had completed his call, they fixed their plates and enjoyed the old-fashioned barbecue dinner. Old-fashioned that is, except for Scott's Cabernet and a bottle of Cotes-du-Rhone wine from Hartwell's private stock.

After the meal, Molly and Zachary cleared the table while Hartwell charged his guests' wineglasses. "Let's take a walk."

Scott and Jackie picked up their glasses and followed their host. Hartwell led them past the swimming pool and the tennis court and seated them on the raised deck of a large ornate gazebo. He cast a look across the pond at the two horse stables and, with his gaze still fixed in the distance, he began the conversation.

"I'll bring you up to date, and then we'll explore our options regarding Zheng Yen-Tsung. A Dallas police officer found the vehicle we believe Zheng was driving."

"Are you sure it was Zheng?" Jackie asked.

"No, but the vehicle was stolen and then abandoned at Love Field. It's a white Buick Century identical to the one witnesses described. The window on the driver's side was blown out, and there were two streaks of blood on the driver's door. We're betting it will match the blood of the Fort Worth policeman."

Scott caught Hartwell's eye. "As it stands now, we really don't know if it was Zheng?"

"True. And that leads me to the next subject. Are you familiar with the name Saeed Shayhidi?"

Jackie recognized the name. "Isn't he the billionaire shipping mogul?"

"One and the same." A smile of satisfaction crossed Hartwell's face. "We have hard evidence that he recruited terrorists from the al-Qaeda network. This came from two senior al-Qaeda leaders recently captured near Khost, Afghanistan."

"What's Shayhidi's profile?" Scott asked.

"He's a clever and cautious man who takes great pains to conduct his affairs in stealth mode, but he's made a few mistakes recently." Hartwell retrieved a fresh cigar from his shirt pocket. "Prior to the assault on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, Shayhidi was recruiting key members of al-Qaeda and key figures from other international terrorist organizations."

Hartwell's mouth quirked in wry remembrance of the secret meeting in the Canadian Maritimes. "Just before the Osama bin Laden-Taliban campaign, the Russians agreed with us on the deployment of tactical nuclear weapons near Afghanistan: actually, at the military air base in Dushanbe, the capital of Tajikistan, along with three other locations in the area."

He paused to light his cigar. "In turn, we assented to Russia's deploying several tactical nukes around Chechnya. One of our CIA retirees, a savvy Central Asian expert named Dennis Stambaugh, was recruited to oversee the Russian deployment. Stambaugh was having a late-night dinner with the senior Russian nuclear expert when the Russki, well into his cups of vodka, bragged about his former military boss selling suitcase nukes to one of Shayhidi's right-hand men.

"That was our first big break." Hartwell inhaled the aromatic smoke and slowly released it. "The National Security Agency has been using an updated version of Echelon — the name is still classified — let's just call it Echelon Two. They're using it to monitor Saeed Shayhidi's e-mail and phone conversations to three members of his terrorist network."

Jackie, who was knowledgeable in the world of electronic monitoring, was surprised by the unexpected disclosure. "I didn't know they had a new version of Echelon. Must be an incredible leap forward for NSA to keep it under such tight wraps."

"Oh, it's a quantum increase in technology," Hartwell said, with a knowing smile. "The new system is designed to deal with some of the thorny encryption problems we ran into with the earlier version. It still has some bugs, but we're slowly working them out."

Hartwell flicked ashes from the end of his cigar. "Shayhidi has no idea what we know, but I can assure you we have a major problem brewing."

Jackie and Scott exchanged a questioning glance.

"Echelon Two, our unmanned aerial vehicles, and our space-based assets have produced a windfall of intelligence about another campaign of terror aimed at America, even more ambitious than the attack on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. The primary link in the chain of evidence clearly ties Shayhidi to these planned attacks."

Hartwell reached into his pocket for a piece of paper, which he unfolded. He handed Scott a picture of Shayhidi that included his physical description and information about his ties to various terrorist-related crimes.

Hartwell finished his wine. "From what we know — again using the technology of Echelon Two, satellites, various recon assets, and unmanned aerial vehicles — his terrorist cells in the United States are preparing to embark on an all-out assault on American soil. And, we believe he is preparing to bring in hundreds of reinforcements for the sleepers who are already here."

Jackie had a question. "Cant we stop them at our borders?"

Hartwell sighed. "Were still being invaded almost daily by members of Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad, Hamas, and other terrorist organizations."

"The border problem should have been fixed by now," Jackie insisted.

"They're making progress, but it's like one person trying to plug forty holes in the dike. Its going to take a lot more people and assets. According to the CIA, hundreds of 'freedom fighters' are pouring in every month. The newcomers are distributing an 'Encyclopedia Jihad' that contains elaborate bomb-building instructions and other advice for newly trained insurgents."

"The Montreal connection?" Jackie suggested.

Hartwell nodded his head in frustration. "Yes. That's a serious problem for us. In the last few years, Canada has become a Disneyland for terrorists, estimated to be five to six thousand strong." He leaned forward in his chair. "Many of them, including female Tigresses with degrees from MIT, Stanford, Brandeis, and other prestigious schools, are arriving in Montreal. They make their way to the Canadian Rocky Mountains on the western side of the Continental Divide. From there, they filter across the border at night and disappear into Washington, Idaho, and Montana.

"From what we know, they live inconspicuously. Canadian law enforcement officers recently apprehended two Islamic extremists outside the Sunnah al-Nabawiah Mosque in Montreal."

"The ones with the explosives?" Jackie asked.

"That's right. One of them, Ahmed Abun-Nasr, was a member of Egypt's Vanguards of Conquest. Abun-Nasr has assassinated three Egyptian politicians who were outspokenly pro-American. Shayhidi is one of his supporters.

"At any rate," Hartwell continued, "these two thugs had counterfeit U. S. visas, fake birth certificates, and phony Social Security numbers. They also had a station wagon filled with enough high explosives to bring down the Empire State Building, and—"

"What about the Border Patrol agents?" Scott interrupted. "Have we added more officers to that area?"

"About eighty as of yesterday, including three dozen more FBI agents disguised as vacationers or locals. But the border is still so poorly staffed that terrorists and explosives are slipping through on a daily basis. In the area were most concerned about, there are close to sixty smuggling corridors, heavily used day and night, that have had their electronic motion and heat sensors destroyed."

Scott shook his head. "That's amazing, just amazing, after the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. We have over nine thousand agents patrolling the two-thousand-mile Mexican border and what— three hundred, maybe four hundred agents for the Canadian border, almost three times as long?"

"Close to four hundred agents," Hartwell said. "There are some places that aren't even patrolled. Many crossings in sparsely populated areas are closed at ten P. M. and left unattended until the next morning."

Scott looked at him and shrugged. "Terrific. Put out the orange cones and head to the tavern."

"That's about it. Some of the sectors don't have jail space for illegal aliens, so they're released to await trial."

"You're joking." Jackie's eyes were wide in disbelief.

"I wish I could joke about it," Hartwell said. "The agents call the process their catch and release' program."

"While America sleeps," Scott said, with a touch of sarcasm.

"The president is working on the problem as we speak. As you know, our relationship with the Canadian government since the war in Iraq hasn't been exactly cozy. President Macklin and the homeland commander-in-chief are dealing directly with the Immigration and Naturalization Service and senior Canadian authorities. We're going to use forces from marine, army, and National Guard units to help patrol the Canadian border until we can train more agents."

He hesitated. "At the other end of the spectrum, heavily armed Mexican soldiers and Mexican police are increasingly crossing our border to provide cover for illegal immigrants and drug smugglers. Violence is spiraling out of control. As this is happening, Border Patrol agents are resigning in droves.

"The drug problem is especially prevalent along a hundred-mile stretch of desert between the Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument and the Coronado National Forest. Mexican drug smugglers account for eighty percent of the cocaine and fifty percent of the heroin that reaches the streets of America. During the past three weeks, heavily armed Mexican soldiers, inside our border in Humvees, have fired on Border Patrol air units near Copper Canyon, California, and Vamori, Arizona."

"And we re not doing anything?" Jackie asked.

"As of tomorrow afternoon or evening, depending on how long our meeting with the Mexican ambassador lasts, National Guard troops will be assisting Border Patrol agents along critical areas of the Mexican border. Mostly crossing points."

Scotts curiosity was aroused. "What about the Posse Comitatus Act?"

"It's a genuine concern," Hartwell admitted. "Under the circumstances, many people on Capitol Hill are calling for a congressional review of the act. Involving the military in domestic policing is going to offend a lot of people, but the president has to do what's best for all the citizens.

"On top of everything else," Hartwell went on, "we have a serious problem brewing in our own backyard, our southern flank, Central and South America. Latin American countries are teetering on the brink of financial collapse and total chaos. Crisis seems endemic to that region, and it's getting worse by the day.

"The biggest threat to the region is terrorism orchestrated by the pro-Castro, pro-Iraq radical regime in Venezuela. Terrorism and terrorist training camps are spreading like wildfire throughout Central and South America. The instability is moving many struggling countries into an anti-American, anti-free-market direction.

"Elements of Hamas and the Iranian-backed Hezbollah have established terrorist operations in the tri-border area of Paraguay, Argentina, and Brazil. The region has become a haven for Islamic extremists, who have bombed Jewish and Israeli compounds in Buenos Aires."

He seemed tense. "In addition to that breeding ground, Hezbollah and al-Qaeda are extremely active in training terrorists in the tri-border area of Colombia, Ecuador, and Peru. We have clear evidence that many common-border terrorists from both regions are making their way by seagoing freighters to Vancouver, British Columbia, and then coming across our border in eastern Washington State."

Hartwell's expression hardened. "This terrorism problem is the reason I wanted to visit with you in person. President Macklin and I want to keep this information quiet until we1 re ready to make our move."

He cast his gaze across the wooded hills. "Homeland security is a priority at the White House and at the Pentagon. We don't want to create any undue public anxiety. The Twin Towers and Pentagon catastrophes are still on peoples minds."

"They're certainly on mine," Jackie said.

Hartwell puffed on his cigar and continued. "As a supplement to our undercover FBI agents on the ground, we would like the two of you, using a civilian helicopter, to concentrate on tracking these illegal infiltrators from the time they leave Canada until they reach their destination — or destinations. See if you can figure out where they're gathering and, most important, what their plans are."

Jackie and Scott shared a concerned look.

"What do you think?" he asked, sensing their lack of enthusiasm. "You seem concerned."

"We'll do the best we can," Scott said with a frown. "As you know, they slip in and out of the shadows like ghosts. Don't know how effective we'll be at tracking them."

"Just do your best. See what develops." Hartwell tapped ashes from his cigar. "We're using a great number of other assets, but we know there is no substitute for on-site human intelligence. President Macklin and I appreciate your situation reports, the direct unfiltered truth. Your sit-reps are a real contrast to the watered-down assessments we receive through various bureaucracies."

Scott and Jackie made momentary eye contact, but neither said anything. Both suspected not all the cards were on the table.

Their host exhaled a long stream of cigar smoke. "As usual, well provide anything you need: weapons, equipment, intelligence information, et cetera: just say the word."

Scott was already thinking about some of the base weapons of a SEAL platoons firepower. "We like the H and K P9S, the Smith and Wesson 357, and the H and K MP-five submachine gun."

"Just make a list," Hartwell said evenly. "One other thing. If you locate any terrorist cells, we prefer you not act unilaterally, unless your lives are in danger. We want to have plenty of backup before we take them on."

"Understood," Scott said, and then hesitated. "How closely is the president working with the INS?"

"Very closely. After the latest developments, he and General Jamison are working directly with the Canadians and the Immigration people."

Scott spoke bluntly. "Sir, forgive me for asking, but couldn't the FBI handle an operation like this?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Is there a bigger problem?"

Hartwell vacillated a few moments, staring at the wooden deck beneath his feet. He slowly raised his head. "Actually, there is a much bigger problem," he said wearily. "I was going to wait until morning, after the president's daily brief from the CIA, to discuss it with you." He locked gazes, first with Jackie and then with Scott. "This is so confidential that only a handful of people know about it."

Silently, Scott and Jackie exchanged another glance.

"Four days ago, a U. S. Border Patrol agent stumbled onto a special-action cell of terrorists crossing the Canadian border close to the junction of the Idaho-Montana state line. There was a shoot-out and the agent killed three terrorists while he was calling for backup. When another agent arrived a few minutes later, he discovered his friend had died from gunshot wounds."

"How can you be so sure they were terrorists?" Scott asked.

Prost lowered his voice. "They left behind a Russian-manufactured suitcase-size nuclear bomb."

"You're kidding!" Jackie blurted.

"No. Its probably like the one Scott discovered on board Sweet Life. Only this one has definitely been modified."

"How so?" Jackie asked.

"The timing device has been moved to accommodate a fabricated band of steel, actually four bands, that encompass the weapon. The bands, which were not installed, appear to be a brace of some kind."

Scott met Hartwell's eyes. "Maybe they were used to attach the bomb to the shipping container, some kind of protective device."

"We don't know, but they're round; they intersect at opposing poles at forty-five-degree angles and bolt to the bomb."

Jackie's mind conjured images of nuclear weapons being detonated in the heart of New York City. "Do we know if any other nukes have slipped into the country?"

"Yes, we do," he answered in a hushed voice. "Through Echelon Two we know the terrorists who were killed were members of one of seven teams smuggling nukes across our borders. Each team was responsible for one bomb. We don't know where the other six groups are hiding."

The three sat in silence for a moment while the gravity of the situation impacted Jackie and Scott.

Hartwell finally broke the silence. "We have solid information, corroborated by intelligence on the ground, that these nukes originated in the Ukraine. A company named Yuzhmash, Ukraine's largest rocket maker, has a close defense-technology relationship with Syria and Iran. What we don't know is whether the bombs came from Syria or Iran. At any rate, we've been able to connect these seven nukes directly to Khaliq Farkas."

"Farkas?" Jackie and Scott said in unison.

"Yes. Farkas is working for Saeed Shayhidi. On Shayhidi's orders, Farkas will activate the other six cells. We believe that time is near. That's why we need the two of you involved in this operation. Like I said, only a handful of people know about this. We want to keep this totally contained, away from Congress and possible leaks to the media. Don't want to spook the public or cause Farkas to go underground."

Hartwell allowed them to absorb the revelation. "Sure, the FBI can help to a point, but if push comes to shove and we locate these nukes, we don't want to have to get a search warrant. We can't afford to get tied up in legal quicksand and have the news hit the media."

Scott and Jackie nodded their understanding.

"As we receive more information, 111 be feeding it to you. For now, we want you to familiarize yourselves with the northwestern states where the terrorists are coming in." Hartwell took a long drag on his cigar. "The bottom line: find Farkas and the nukes before Shayhidi activates the other six cells."