"He's with the Philippine army."

"No shit," McMahon said, feigning surprise.

"I don't know if I ever could have figured that one out." McMahon scratched one of his hairy forearms and asked, "So what's your interest in the man? Is he friend or foe?"

Rapp smiled.

"Tread lightly, Skip."

"Or what… I might step in dog shit?" McMahon's face contorted into an annoyed grimace.

"Come on, Mitch, I step in dog shit for a living, and don't give me any of that need-to-know crap. I know plenty about you and"-McMahon leaned forward, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb-"I also know a fair amount about Blondie sitting up there. I don't know who the other guys are, but I can take an awfully damn good educated guess that they're pretty handy with a gun and they probably know all that kung fu shit they teach you guys.

So"-McMahon leaned in even closer-"why don't we just cut to the chase and save each other a lot of time and effort."

Rapp shook his head with amusement. The "Blondie" Skip was referring to was Scott Coleman, the former commander of SEAL Team 6.

Coleman, retired from the navy, now ran an outfit called SEAL Demolition and Salvage Corporation. They did a fair amount of legitimate work training local police departments from Baltimore down to Norfolk on scuba techniques and underwater salvage, but unofficially they also worked from time to time as freelance operatives for the CIA.

McMahon and Coleman had crossed paths several years back during a very high-profile murder investigation. The case had never been brought to trial, but both Rapp and McMahon knew the truth about the events that surrounded the sensational murders. Scott Coleman had been a major player in that drama.

McMahon had been chosen to come along for the very reason that he could be trusted. He wasn't some hotshot Fed who would try to burn the CIA so he could advance his career. McMahon understood that they were all on the same team. Nonetheless, Rapp wasn't all that comfortable with sharing highly classified information.

"Skip, believe me when I tell you, you don't want to dig too deep on this one."

McMahon's frown turned into a scowl.

"Mitch?" His tone left no doubt that he wasn't buying the tired old line.

"I don't need bodyguards, and you sure as hell don't need bodyguards. I should be able to handle arresting the Ambassador all on my own, so there's only one reason I can think of why you'd bring these four boy scouts halfway around the world."

Rapp slid his laptop off to the side and reluctantly made a decision.

"You familiar with the Anderson kidnapping?"

"Yep." McMahon paused for a moment and then his eyes got real tight. He'd been briefed by Kennedy herself about why the Ambassador was being arrested. He knew about the leak, the two dead navy SEALs and the failed hostage rescue. It didn't take him long to realize that General Moro was involved in this, and probably not in a good way.

"Is Moro a man we can trust?"

Rapp shook his head.

McMahon nodded slowly.

"I see."

"Any more questions?"

The big FBI agent had a cheerful glint in his eye. Slipping out of his chair he patted Rapp on the shoulder and said, "No. I think I can fill in the blanks, but for Christ's sake, be careful."

Smiling, Rapp said, "Always."

SIXTEEN.

The plane touched down at the old Clark Air Base at three in the morning. There was no fanfare, no military band, no diplomatic reception. The old base had been turned over to the Philippine government when they chose not to renew the U.S. Air Force's lease. This was an unscheduled, unannounced arrival. The Gulfstream was met by a tired-looking ground crew that was more concerned with rubbing the sleep from their eyes than who was on the plane. A fuel truck pulled up alongside the jet almost immediately and two men went to work filling the plane's tanks.

McMahon left the plane first. He was met by the embassy's FBI man, who, according to plan, should have been roused from a dead sleep just an hour ago and told to get his ass to the base to pick up someone important. McMahon was that man and once he was alone with the agent he would put the fear of God into him. No one at the embassy was to know he was in the country until he said so. McMahon was going to keep a real close eye on Ambassador Cox, and when the word was given he would slap the cuffs on him.

After McMahon was gone, Rapp walked down the short stairs holding a file under his arm. Despite the sticky humidity, he was wearing an olive-drab vest, like the ones photographers wore. The lightweight vest was designed with plenty of pockets inside and out and was great for holding things like lenses and extra film. Or in Rapp's case, extra clips of ammunition, a silencer for his 9mm Beretta and a secure satellite phone.

A black Lincoln Continental sat in the shadows next to one of the large gray hangars. When Rapp reached the tarmac the sedan's lights flashed three times. Rapp took a look around and then nodded to Coleman, who was standing on the top step. The former SEAL ducked back inside and hit a button. The stairs retracted into the closed position and the sleek white jet began to move once again.

Rapp walked over to the car. The back door swung open, and he stopped to take one last look at the Gulfstream, which was taxiing for takeoff. He stepped in, closed the door and turned to meet his contact.

Lieutenant General Sergio Rizal looked back at Rapp with a pair of discerning dark eyes. Rizal was the head of the Philippine army. He was a graduate of West Point, and a staunch American ally. He and General Flood had a good working relationship that went all the way back to Vietnam. Pudgy-faced and short-limbed, the fifty-eight-year-old hall a little pot belly that strained against the buttons of his camouflage battle dress uniform.

Rizal was deeply concerned about his country. He had been sickened when in the early nineties the radicals in his government refused to renew the leases for the American military bases. After twenty-one years of dictatorial abuse by Ferdinand Marcos and his wife Imelda the Filipino people rebelled against the military and its American backers.

The radicals got their way, the Americans left, the aid dried up, and an already slumping economy worsened.

It wasn't long before the Muslim and communist guerrilla groups who had been kept at bay by the Marcos regime renewed their efforts to destroy the democracy. They concentrated on the outer islands and began wreaking havoc across the far-flung archipelago. Morale in the Philippine army worsened with each year, and with each subsequent decrease in funds. The communists were working their way into the government through the socialist party and were doing everything they could to frustrate the military in their campaign to keep the country unified.

After a decade of disastrous policy from the leadership in Manila, it had finally been decided that maybe it wasn't such a bad thing having the Americans around. The door was reopened a bit. Quietly, the United States military began leasing portions of the bases and the vaunted Green Berets began instructing the Philippine army on how to take the battle to the rebels. Much needed economic and military aid was increased, but in these tumultuous times, Rizal wondered if it was enough to turn the tide. The enemy forces were already formidable, and now this American was here to tell him he had a traitor in his own inner circle. For the first time in his military career, General Rizal felt that his country might be beyond saving.

Rapp made no effort to introduce himself. He'd read Rizal's profile twice. In addition, General Flood, who knew Rizal well, had told Rapp the man didn't trust people who talked too much. Instead, Rapp casually extracted a file from the flash bag on his lap and handed it over to him. He watched the general don a pair of reading glasses and then watched some more in silence as the man sitting next to him grew more and more irritated with each passing page.