Rapp thought about it for a second.

"He wasn't happy, but I don't think I'd describe it as going ballistic."

Anna wasn't sure if her husband was spinning her or telling the truth.

"You guys have any idea who did it?"

"We've got a few leads…"

"Nothing you can talk about," finished Anna.

Rapp smiled and kissed her again.

"You're figuring this game out."

She laughed and said, "Oh, I'm not done with you yet." Staring at him with her emerald eyes she said, "The word on the street is that the President thinks the Israelis are responsible."

Inside Rapp felt his gut tighten. The President had no business letting a rumor like this get started. At this point, any suspicion aimed at Israel was based on the President's hatred and distrust of Ben Freidman and nothing more. What little evidence they had pointed in a very different direction, and one that he could not share with his wife.

"We have very little to go on right now, but I don't think the Israelis did it."

A waitress showed up at the table and dropped off a red, white and blue swirly margarita. She asked Rapp what he wanted and as tempted as he was to follow suit, he settled for a bottle of Lone Star beer instead.

When the waitress was gone, Anna asked, "Why don't you think Israel did it?"

Rapp frowned.

"Let's change the subject. How's your mother?"

Anna took a sip of her drink and said, "You never ask about my mother."

"That's not true. How is she doing?"

"She's fine… now tell me why you don't think the Israelis did it."

Rapp was about to put up the stone wall and then remembered where it had gotten him lately. She was his wife and as long as he didn't get into details, there was probably no harm in explaining his opinion.

"I know a lot of Israelis, and although they're a little crazy at times, they are far from stupid. Unless there's something about Ambassador Ali that we don't know, I see no benefit to Mossad taking him out."

"Unless," said And, "they feel so isolated their only choice was to lash out."

Rapp was already shaking his head.

"Not here in the United States."

"What if they're thumbing their nose at the UN?" Anna took another sip.

"Why not kill him when he's in the West Bank and avoid offending their one true ally?"

"Maybe they couldn't get at him when he's in the West Bank?"

Rapp laughed. His wife obviously knew very little of Mossad's capabilities.

"Trust me, Mossad could have taken him down any one of a dozen times in the last year."

"Well," Anna said a bit defensively, "I'm hearing the President is pretty convinced it was the Israelis."

Rapp was tempted to tell his wife that the President didn't know what in the hell he was talking about, but discretion won out and he simply said, "We'll know a lot more in a few days, and until then I think we should all keep our theories to ourselves."

Anna smelled dissension and pounced.

"So the CIA and the President are in disagreement."

Smiling and shaking his head, he said, "You're awful. I never said any such thing. You asked your husband his personal opinion and that's what I gave you. In no way does it reflect the official opinion of either the President or the CIA."

Anna made a funny face while sucking on her straw. When she came up for air she said, "Nice try. I'm going to lead the news with it in the morning." She held her drink in front of her mouth like a microphone.

Using her fake on-air voice she said, "Breaking news here at the White House. Major dissension between President Hayes and the CIA."

Rapp almost took the bait and then caught himself.

"By the way, aren't you wondering how my ass is doing?"

Anna shook her head.

"Nope. Your current ailment is nobody's fault but your own. You'll get no sympathy from me."

Rapp pulled a woebegone face.

"My doctor tells me I might never be able to have sex again."

Anna tried her best not to smile.

"The divorce papers will be on your desk in the morning."

Rapp burst out laughing. It was the first time in several days and it felt great. As he looked into his wife's eyes he wished he didn't have to go back to the office, but he did. He had to find out who this guy was and when he did he would demand that the President allow him to launch an operation that set an example, an operation that would send a warning to people who wanted to finance terrorism. He knew the President would be reluctant to grant him the authority to do what he wanted, so he would have to work that much harder to make sure he had overwhelming evidence and sound reason on his side.

FIFTY EIGHT.

It wasn't quite 7:00 on Wednesday morning when David entered the tiny garage behind the house he was renting. Inside was a stripped-down white Ford minivan with no seats or windows in the rear passenger area. David had done all of his dry runs without the van. Even though he was confident the bomb wouldn't go off unless it was armed, he erred on the side of caution and kept it locked up in the garage. As he slid the key into the ignition he couldn't help but catch himself worrying that starting the engine might bring about a premature end to his plans.

The concern was foolish. He'd read all the manuals all nauseam.

There were ample materials available on explosives if one was willing to look, and besides, his people had become experts on bombs over the last two decades. The more difficult aspect of the plan had been obtaining the amount of explosives he needed and then getting them into the Unite States. The now deceased General Hamza had been kind enough to supply him with three separate shipments of Iraqi-made Semtex, a very powerful plastic explosive, and then using a series of export companies he had shipped a large cargo container from Jordan to Indonesia and then finally to the busy port of Los Angeles.

From there the container had made its way east to Richmond Virginia where it sat in a storage facility for two months while David made sure it wasn't being watched. Twelve forty-pound blocks of the clay like Semtex sat in the back of the van under a canvas painters' tarp.

Underneath the tarp was a maze of detcord and blasting caps that would ensure the near simultaneous detonation of the 480 pounds of explosives.

David backed up slowly until he reached the street and then headed south. Due to all the government jobs, D.C. was not a city of early risers and the traffic was still light. He cut down a cross street and then turned the van onto Georgia Avenue. A short while later he passed Howard University and then Georgia turned into 7th Street. He was now less than a mile from the White House. After stopping for a red light he took a right onto Rhode Island and continued in the right lane avoiding as many potholes as he could.

He was more nervous now than when he had killed Ali. There was something about D.C. All the cameras and various law enforcement agencies each presented the possibility of capture. To David it was truly unbelievable that a city with so many cops in it could have such a high murder rate, but that was America.

He tried not to be overly optimistic about his odds of succeeding.

He'd covered his tracks diligently and monitored the FBI's Web site hourly waiting for a photograph of him to appear at any moment, but it hadn't. They had no idea who he was, and if the papers were to be believed, the entire world, even the Americans, believed that the Israelis were responsible for the assassination of Ambassador Ali. Everything was going according to plan. Now all he needed to do was make one last grand statement. An act of pure violence that would force Israel to concede.

He turned onto the desired street less than a quarter mile from the White House and slowed for a car that had abruptly pulled out in front of him. David continued north for two more blocks in search of the optimal parking place. Much of the credit for this last bold move had to be given to Omar. He had convinced David that the best way to force Israel to the table was to enrage the Americans. Spill blood on their soil and watch them lose their patience with Israel.