"I'd say somebody such as yourself advised the President that we be kept in the dark," answered Petry with a look of disdain on her face.

"Exactly!" said Rapp, his tone rising a bit.

"And can you tell me why I would have advised such a move to the President?"

There could be little doubt, by the expression on her face that she hated the man who was questioning her.

"I have no idea."

Rapp opened the file under his arm and threw two five-by-eight photographs down on the table. They were head shots of the two dead navy SEALs.

"Do you have any idea who these two men are?"

"No," replied an indignant Petry.

"Irv McGee and Anthony Mason. United States Navy. They were killed last week on a little sand beach in the Philippines. Both were married and combined they left behind five kids." Rapp made no effort to retrieve the two photos sitting in the middle of the table. This was as close as any of them would ever get to the two dead warriors, and he wanted to make sure everyone in the room looked at their faces.

"Ms. Petry, can you tell me how these two men ended up dead?"

Rapp paused just long enough to see that she wasn't going to answer his question.

"I'll tell you how they died," his voice boomed out in anger.

"Someone in this room disregarded operational security because they felt the rules didn't apply to them." Petry didn't crack a bit and Rapp asked her, "You have no idea what you did, do you?"

Petry's face was now flushed but she had yet to register what was happening. Blinded by her own belief that she was being wronged, Petry said, "You'd better have a pretty good explanation for this, Mr. Rapp."

The red file flew open and out came the copies of Petry's emails to Ambassador Cox. Rapp slammed them down on the table and yelled, "The President decided last week that our embassy in Manila was not to be told in advance about the hostage rescue! You ignored that order and sent Ambassador Cox an e-mail alerting him to the specifics of the rescue! Well, I guess since you work hard, and care about your country, you don't have to adhere to operational security!"

Petry looked at her own e-mail and still refused to admit any wrongdoing.

"I hardly see how this ended up causing the deaths of these two men."

"Because, you idiot," screamed Rapp, "Ambassador Cox alerted President Quirino about the operation, who in turn notified General Moro, who just so happens to be a paid asset for Abu Sayyaf! If you would have done what you were told those two men would be alive right now. You and your fucking diplomatic arrogance got them killed, and that's why this committee was kept in the dark."

Rapp stood at the end of the long table, his fists clenched in rage.

No one attempted to speak. Amanda Petty sat in shock looking at the two photos, still refusing to believe that a simple e-mail could have caused their deaths. Rapp knew that there were those in Washington who would think what he'd just done was unprofessional and insensitive, but he couldn't have cared less. In his mind this town, especially the national security apparatus, could use a whole lot less sensitivity.

Rapp turned and opened the door. Two FBI agents were waiting outside to arrest Petty. He passed them and started down the hall, his thoughts turning to the two dead SEALs. Their families deserved his sensitivity and sympathy, not Petty.

FORTY NINE.

David had practiced the routine precisely eight times. He looked like just any other New Yorker as he walked up Park Avenue, his shoulders set with determination and the collar of his black trench coat turned up both to conceal his face and to ward off the bite of the cool March evening air. The pedestrian traffic had died down from its post-workday peak, but at a quarter past seven David was far from alone.

Unlike in Jerusalem, however, David did not feel as though he were being watched. There was an outside chance that the FBI was trailing him, or an even slimmer chance that Mossad had somehow followed him to America, but David was confident in his ability to both elude and detect surveillance. No, he was alone. He'd seen the footage of the massacre in Hebron. Ben Freidman would think he had killed his Palestinian informant. The destruction in Hebron was so complete it would be some time before all the bodies were accounted for.

And as far as the Americans were concerned, they had their hands full chasing Arab students on expired visas. David had already changed identities twice since leaving Hebron and was now traveling with a French passport. His first-class ticket from Nice to Paris to New York had been purchased with an American Express card that matched the name on his passport. He was now Charles Utrillo, a mergers and acquisitions specialist in town to meet with J. P. Morgan. The cover was not deep. If he was arrested, and the FBI looked into his credentials, they would quickly discover it was a sham. The passport and credit card were merely there to ensure entrance into America without raising any suspicion.

This portion of his plan had been relatively easy to put together.

The West Bank was rife with arms merchants, and for the right amount of cash almost anything was obtainable. David's purchases were never very large or exotic. Mostly small arms, silencers, ammunition and one very expensive rifle. He preferred dealing with the Russians. They were hungry for cash and despite their recent cooperation with the West, they were still capable of keeping their mouths shut and records closed.

Getting the weapons to the United States had been a little more difficult, but not much. The import-export business, worldwide, was known for not asking too many questions. David had shipped a crate of rugs to a warehouse in Philadelphia and picked it up back in January.

Broken down and rolled up within the various rugs were two handguns and a Russian-made VAL Silent Sniper rifle. The weapon fired a 9mm subsonic heavy bullet and was capable of defeating standard body armor at distances up to 400 yards. According to David's information his target wouldn't be wearing anything so cumbersome.

The man had reason to celebrate this evening and he wasn't about to put on a bullet-proof vest to dine at his favorite restaurant.

As David crossed 65th Street he glanced to his right. Halfway down the block stood an old brownstone with bars and steel mesh over all the windows. In front of the house, on the sidewalk, the New York City Police Department had erected a blue and white guardhouse large enough for only one person. A police officer manned the post twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, just to make sure no one tried anything.

David knew this was more to deter protestors and pranksters.

The real security was inside the house.

David had been invited there as a guest on many occasions. The brownstone was home to the Permanent Observer Mission of Palestine to the United Nations. The Palestinian Ambassador was a friend of David's or, more precisely, a business acquaintance. Ambassador Hamed Ali was a childhood friend of Yasser Arafat's. The posting had been given to Ali as a reward for a lifetime of commitment and loyalty to Arafat. Ali was seventy-five and had a smoker's hack that made it abundantly clear to anyone who cared to listen that he was not long for this world. That helped to ease David's conscience a bit. That and the fact that in his younger days, Ali had sown plenty of death and destruction.

The Palestinian Authority, due to its inability to raise money through taxes or tariffs, depended greatly on foreign aid and charity.

David had proved his worth by personally delivering to Ambassador Ali a quarter of a million dollars in the first three months of the year alone.

Ali often complained to David that being an Ambassador was a very expensive job. Diplomacy was almost always conducted under the pretense of a meal and never a cheap one.