When they reached Rapp's office he unlocked the door with a key and then entered. Glancing at Dumond he said, "Close the door." Once it was shut Rapp turned to Bourne who spoke both Arabic and Farsi fluently and asked, "What did you find?"

Bourne handed over the printout.

"Our boy flew from Nice to Paris to JFK on Sunday."

Rapp looked at the grainy black-and-white image.

"Where'd we get this?"

"Custom's surveillance camera at JFK. We scanned the Brits' photos into the facial imaging recognition system and let the computers go to work. We started with our in-house database on known or suspected terrorists and came up blank, so before checking with our allies I decided to run a search with Customs on the hunch that if this guy had anything to do with the Palestinian Ambassador he would have had to enter the country on Sunday or Monday at the latest."

Rapp nodded and looked at the grainy photo.

"Are we sure this is him?"

"Ninety-eight point six three percent sure," replied the hyper analytical Dumond.

Holding the photo up, Rapp asked, "Does he have a name?"

"Charles Utrillo," Bourne replied.

Rapp turned his attention to Dumond, knowing his little hacker would have already done a full background check.

"I suppose that's not his real name."

"Nope." Dumond shook his head.

"I checked several French government databases and came up with nothing."

Dumond handed over a printout.

"Here's the information on the credit card he used to pay for the plane ticket. We're running a search on rental cars and hotels within a hundred-mile radius of New York City. If he used the card again we'll know sometime in the next thirty minutes."

"Are you tracing the card on the other end?" asked Rapp.

"Yeah. It was set up for automatic payments from a bank in Paris.

The account has a little less than eight grand in it."

Unfortunately, Rapp thought he knew the answer to his next question, but he asked it anyway.

"And how did that money get into the account?"

"Four separate cash deposits."

Rapp cringed. This guy was covering his tracks like a real pro.

Speaking from experience Rapp said, "The name's a dead end. Wherever he is now, he's using a different identity."

"Even so," asked Bourne, "do you want us to flag his passport and alert the FBI?"

"Flag his passport," answered Rapp, even though he doubted it would do any good, "but hold off on the FBI for a bit. Let me talk to Irene first and see what she wants to do." Rapp paused and put himself in the shoes of the assassin for a moment. He tried to guess what the man's next move would be. His options were to either stay in New York and wait until things settled down or leave immediately. If it was Rapp he would have left immediately. Canada would have been his first choice, and then head back to Europe, or if he had time, head west.

"Start checking security cameras at the three major airports from eight last night until this morning. Concentrate on outgoing international flights… especially anything bound for Canada."

"We're in the process of doing it right now," answered Bourne.

"Do you want me to check with the DGSE or Mossad and see if we can get a match on the photo?"

Normally Rapp wouldn't think twice about checking with either the French or Mossad, but given the current situation he hesitated.

"Not yet. I need to run this by Irene first." He checked his watch and then asked, "Anything else?"

"Yeah," said Bourne.

"Ask her if we can bring the Feds and local law enforcement in on this."

Rapp nodded. Remembering something, he asked Dumond, "How are you coming with the Prince's finances? Ten million bucks is a lot of money. There has to be a sign of it moving from one account to another."

Dumond shook his head in frustration.

"Ten million bucks is nothing to a guy like this. It'll take me the rest of the day just to try and identify all of the various accounts he uses and even then I could miss a few that I'm sure he keeps hidden."

"I don't care what it takes, get it done. Pull all the people you need for the busy work, and I'll get Irene to authorize it. I want to know who this guy is and unless Olivia gets lucky, the best way to catch him is to follow the money trail."

FIFTY SEVEN.

The sun was down and rush hour was over as Rapp turned onto the Chain Bridge and hit the gas. His turbo Volvo S80 shot across the low-slung bridge like a rocket. When he reached the other side he hung a right and again floored it. He was already fifteen minutes late for his 8:00 dinner date with his wife. At Reservoir Road he hung a left and shot across a lane of traffic and into a residential neighborhood just north and west of Georgetown University.

Anna had picked the restaurant. It was in Glover Park on Wisconsin Avenue. Austin Grill was a little hole in the wall that served great margaritas and decent Mexican food. Unfortunately, Rapp wouldn't be drinking any margaritas tonight; as soon as dinner was over he'd have to head right back to Langley. They were no closer to finding out who Prince Omar's minion was than they were eight hours ago.

Kennedy had given them the green light to bring in the counterterrorism people at the FBI, but had decided against alerting France or Israel. Bourne had done a routine search through Interpol's database, shuffling John Doe's photograph in with a half dozen others they were interested in. The intent was to make Interpol think it was a standard query, and nothing to get excited about. Against everyone's hopes, the search came up empty.

The pressure from the White House wasn't helping. If they didn't know more by tomorrow morning, Rapp was prepared to get on a plane and fly to France. He had a few ideas about how he could crack this thing open and his best hope lay with Prince Omar's personal assistant, the effeminate Devon LeClair. The Brits had provided a brief bio of the man, and it appeared he was the most likely person to handle Omar's nefarious activities. Rapp was willing to bet he could get the guy to crack inside of five minutes. In the meantime he'd given Dumond orders to take a close look at the Frenchman.

Rapp took a left onto 37th Street, braking for several students who were lolly gagging in the crosswalk and then accelerated up the hill.

Less than a minute later he turned, heading south onto Wisconsin Avenue and grabbed the first available spot. Climbing out of the car he winced slightly as he put weight on his bad leg and then did a quick three hundred and sixty degree check of the area.

Rapp entered the bar with the collar of his jacket turned up and his head down, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. He squeezed past the young crowd that was bellied up to the bar. Even on a Tuesday night the place did great business. With every step he scanned faces and checked things out. He headed for the balcony where they always sat and hobbled up the stairs.

Just like a good girl he found his wife sitting in the corner with her back to the wall. Rapp smiled without hesitation, his deeply tanned face showing a pair of creased dimples. He hurried over to her and said, "Sorry I'm late, honey."

Anna smiled and offered her lips. She was usually the one who was late so she couldn't complain.

Rapp kissed her and took off his jacket, careful not to let his suit coat open too far and alarm any of the other patrons by revealing the gun in his shoulder holster. He took a seat next to his wife so they both had their backs to the wall. Taking her hand he asked, "How was your day?"

Anna took a drink of water and said, "Pretty hectic. People are really freaking out about the Palestinian Ambassador."

"Tell me about it," responded Rapp.

"I heard the President went ballistic when he found out."