Memorial Day

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.

"Don't worry," Rapp offered. "It came up because I heard Reimer over at DOE was thinking about taking a job in the private sector."

"Really?" McMahon looked both comforted and surprised at the same time. "Who with?"

"I'm not sure."

Their situations were similar. Both men had put in thirty-plus years of service to the government, and even though mandatory retirement was right around the corner, they'd both been promised extensions due to the importance of their jobs, "Well...I can't say I'll blame him if he gets out." As an afterthought he added, "He sure will be missed, though."

"You both will be," Rapp said with sincerity.

McMahon dismissed the comment with a doubtful expression. "A month after we leave, you guys will have forgotten all about us."

"That's not true and you know it. We would all prefer you guys to stay right where you are, but we'll certainly understand if you decide to grab the golden ring."

Rapp knew McMahon had been offered a job as the head of security for a casino syndicate based out of Las Vegas. His expense account alone would be twice that of his government pay, not to mention all the other perks and a significantly increased salary. The guy deserved it.

"Yeah well, I haven't decided anything yet."

"You wanna know what I think?"

McMahon leaned back and placed a hand under chin. "Sure."

"As I said, I'd like you to stay. There's very few people at the Bureau as talented as you are. At the same time, however, there's a part of me that hopes you take the job. You've put up with enough bullshit. I'd like to see you get a little taste of the good life while you can still enjoy it."

McMahon smiled. Those were his sentiments exactly. "I appreciate that. It's not an easy decision."

Rapp shrugged. "It'll be easier than you think." Changing the topic he said, "As long as you're still employed by the government, would you mind bringing me up to speed?"

"Sure. You got in late last night?"

"Yep."

"Well...I've been up all night trying to sort this mess out, and it just keeps getting better."

"How so?"

"How much do you know about what happened stateside yesterday?"

"I've got a handle on the big picture. We found a fire set and cash on the two ships bound for New York, and the explosives on the ship bound for Baltimore. The consensus is that they were going to bring all this stuff together in one place and then assemble the device."

"That's right."

"The nuclear material," added Rapp, "is out in the desert getting tested, and the two men who tried to pick it up are hopefully in a dark cell somewhere having very bad things done to them." Rapp said this last part with a false smile on his face, doubting, as he did, that this was what was actually happening.

McMahon nodded tentatively, not quite knowing where to start. "Last night Charleston PD got a call on a John Doe who had been stabbed to death in a parking garage. This parking garage just so happens to look down on the dock where our little package arrived yesterday."

"Have we I.D.'d the guy?"

"No, but he's Middle Eastern."

Rapp's eyebrows shot up. "Any chance it's al-Yamani?"

"Not unless he figured out a way to grow his leg back."

Rapp remembered that little fact and winced at his own stupidity. "Any security tapes?"

"Yeah...but they're shit. We've got it narrowed down to about a dozen cars, based on the approximate time of death, and we're running them down right now."

"What else?"

"We think we know where your guy came ashore."

"Al-Yamani?"

"Yep. On Monday the Coast Guard plucks this guy out of the drink down near the Florida Keys. He's lost so much blood they don't even think he's going to live. Well, yesterday afternoon he wakes up and starts telling a pretty interesting story. The guy's a Brit who lives on Grand Cayman. He gets hired to captain this really expensive boat that just so happens to be owned by one of the five thousand members of the Saudi royal family."

Rapp shook his head. He could already see where this was going.

"The Brit," continued McMahon, "takes the boat over to Cuba and picks up a guy who he's supposed to take to the Bahamas. A couple hours out of port the Brit gets knifed in the back and thrown overboard for dead.

"The Coast Guard thinks this sounds like drugs, so they call in the DEA, and here's where we get lucky. The agent the DEA sends to talk to the Brit is part of the Joint Terrorism Task Force out of Miami. The DEA guy arrives at the hospital, just after reading the alert we sent out about al-Yamani, and he puts two and two together."

Rapp was now sitting on the edge of the chair. "He's sure it was al-Yamani?"

McMahon shrugged. "The only photos we have of the guy are shit. They're grainy, and he's got a big beard and a turban. You know the song."

Rapp did. "Let me guess...he was clean shaven with a high and tight haircut."

"Exactly."

"Did the guy remember a limp?" asked Rapp.

"He wasn't sure, but he did remember that the man stumbled a bit when he got on board the boat."

Rapp was already trying to come up with a way to lean on Cuba. They would have to trace this guy's steps, and hopefully catch him getting on a flight for Cuba that originated in a country they had a good relationship with.

McMahon wasn't done. "The Coast Guard put out an alert for the missing boat, and lo and behold, it had already been discovered on Wednesday morning by a game warden at the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge."

"Where's that?"

"Near Cape Canaveral."

"Great. We don't have a shuttle launch this week, do we?"

"No. I already checked on that."

Rapp frowned. "Why Cape Canaveral then?"

McMahon shrugged. "I don't know. We've alerted NASA and the local authorities, but so far nothing else has turned up. I do have something on another front, however."

McMahon started sifting through some files. He found the one he was looking for and opened it. Holding up a black-and-white photograph, he asked, "You recognize this guy?"

Rapp looked at the security photo. "No."

"Well, you should. We never would have found him without you."

He looked at the photo again. "I still don't know who it is."

"That young man who, incidentally, is passing through customs at LAX is none other than Imtaz Zubair, one of your missing Pakistani scientists."

"When did he enter the country?"

"On Monday."

"And you have him in custody?"

"Unfortunately...no."

Rapp sat back, a disappointed look on his face. "I thought you said you found him?"

"Discovered," said a tired McMahon, "that he entered the country would be more appropriate."

"Any idea where he is now?"

McMahon knew he was approaching an awkward point. "We have him boarding a Delta flight at LAX and heading to Atlanta."

"I assume you've got him getting off the plane in Atlanta?"

"Not yet. There's a problem with the surveillance tapes, but we expect to have it sorted out this morning."

"What about these two guys you picked up in Charleston?"

There it was. Things were about to get really uncomfortable. "We have them in custody," answered McMahon somewhat evasively.

"Where?" Rapp tilted his head suspiciously, sensing something in his friend's voice.

McMahon didn't look away, but he wanted to. Instead he got up and closed his door. "They're being held in the Fairfax County Adult Detention Center."

"You're not serious? They're here in town?" Rapp pointed at the floor.

"Listen...before you fly off the handle...there's a few things you need to know. For starters...both these guys are naturalized citizens."

"I don't care if they're the president's long-lost brothers!" yelled Rapp. "They should be in the Navy brig down in Charleston or down in Guantanamo, or better yet, you should have handed them over to me."

"Mitch, they have a lawyer."

"A lawyer!" Rapp was suddenly on his feet. "You're not fucking serious."

"He's not just any lawyer...he's a hotshot civil rights attorney from Atlanta with a lot of connections here in Washington. He went to the media with this late yesterday and..."

Rapp cut him off. "I don't care who he is! This is ridiculous!"

"It wasn't my call," McMahon said defensively. "Trust me."

"Let me take one guess. They're Arabs, aren't they?"

McMahon nodded.

"Saudi?"

The FBI man nodded again.

"So you're telling me that two Saudi immigrants, undoubtedly Wahhabis, showed up in Charleston yesterday to pick up a nuclear bomb and the FBI decides to back down because they hire a lawyer?"

"We're not backing down, and it wasn't the Bureau's call. This is coming down from Justice."

"The attorney general?"

"More or less."

"The attorney general takes his orders from the president. Are you telling me this was the president's idea?"

"No. I know for a fact it wasn't the president's idea. It started somewhere else."

"Where?"

McMahon hesitated, not out of fear that he could get in trouble, but out of caution. "I'm going to tell you how this all got started, but I want you to look at it from more than just your perspective."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Rapp fumed.

"You don't have to play by the rules," McMahon said firmly, "but the FBI does. All I'm asking is that you understand the legal and political implications of what happened yesterday. Hear me out and then do whatever you feel is right."

Rapp had neither the patience nor the desire to listen to one more word, but for the sake of finding out who was behind this monumentally stupid decision he was at least willing to keep his temper in check for a few more minutes.