In truth, his time on the Dark Continent was anything but tranquil.

He was robbed, shot at, kidnapped, twice caught malaria and once caught yellow fever. It was after the second bout of malaria that the powers back in London decided that it was time for Alan to take a new job in international finance. He'd spilled blood and toiled for the Crown, or more precisely, Her Majesty's Secret Service, for almost two decades. He was placed, without having to interview for the position, at one of Britain 's finest banks where he eventually ended up keeping an eye on the financial comings and goings of The House of Saud.

Officially, or unofficially, depending on how you looked at it, Alan Church never worked for MI6, Britain 's foreign intelligence service. To this day, if someone asked him the question he would laugh heartily and begin telling over-the-top tales of all the female spies he'd boffed in the service of the Crown. People who really knew him well, which weren't many, knew that there was a half-truth in almost everything Alan Church said.

Even now, as he sat on the deck of his sailboat, anchored just off the coast of the French Riviera, one had to look closely to see what Alan was really doing. At first glance he looked every bit the relaxed and retired gentleman casually perusing the newspaper as another day in paradise got under way, but upon closer inspection there were a few telltale signs that Alan had not entirely left the employ of his government. The first hint was a bit difficult to catch. It involved the unusual size of the radar dome that sat near the top of his mast and the odd-shaped antennae that sat next to it. The next sign that was a bit more obvious was that Alan wasn't really reading the paper.

Out of sight, but within reach, was a small control panel with an array of dials. Plugged into this control panel was an earpiece. Alan at first listened intently to the conversation that was taking place between the Prince and his visitor, manipulating the various controls in an effort to boost the effectiveness of the directional microphone concealed at the top of his mast.

He had dropped anchor the morning before just off the port beam of the Prince's massive yacht, placing one other boat between his and the Prince's. Under orders from London, he'd been loosely shadowing the Prince for over a week. He'd even gotten to know a few of the crew members in the process. The captain of the ship was a retired French naval officer, as was much of his crew. Like most mariners, they were friendly to other sailors. While picking up provisions back in San Remo, Alan found out the ship was headed for Monte Carlo and then on to Cannes, a very common trip for the big yachts. Alan let it be known that he was headed in the same direction, so they'd probably be bumping into each other along the way. Things had progressed now to the point where the crew knew him on sight and waved as they went back and forth to shore in their power launch.

Headquarters was famous for being skimpy with the information they gave to their people in the field. They'd told Alan only to follow, observe, record and report. They didn't tell him why they wanted him to baby-sit Prince Omar, but then again, they didn't really need to.

Alan knew enough about the dysfunctional House of Saud to know what his government was interested in.

The conversation that was taking place on the big ship didn't appear to be what they were after, and the dashing young man who had arrived less than an hour ago didn't fit the profile of an Islamic fundamentalist.

With this in mind Alan checked his dials one more time to make sure everything was being recorded and then he began to read his paper, only half listening to the conversation that was going on in his left ear.

With the sun quickly warming the cool morning air, Alan let out a yawn and crossed his left leg over his right. The voice of a woman drew his attention away from the paper and he looked across the water to see what was going on. From his vantage point all he could see were the tops of several heads, and then a blond beauty came into view near the back of one of the upper sun decks Without warning she dropped her robe and stretched her pale arms above her head, revealing a very nice pair of breasts. Alan lunged for his binoculars, but by the time he got them up she was gone. He laughingly shook his head. He was slowing down in his old age.

He was still smiling as he went back to his paper, and then slowly, his face turned more serious. The conversation between the Prince and his visitor had without warning gone from mundane to quite noteworthy.

Alan checked again to make sure the equipment was recording and then he went back to feigning interest in the paper. Whoever this David was, he would have to get some photos of him when he climbed back on board the launch to return to shore. As the two men continued their discussion, Alan decided that London would be very interested indeed in his next report.

SEVEN.

Mitch Rapp drove across the Key Bridge on his way to a meeting at the White House. His mood was tense and his patience short. He was not happy about what he'd learned this morning. The honeymoon was over. He'd been back in town for less than twenty-four hours and he was already looking to wring someone's neck. Ignoring his boss's orders, he'd left his bodyguard back at Langley and driven himself. He'd had some death threats lately, quite a few of them in fact, but despite the danger he needed some time alone to think before he met with the President.

He'd promised himself that he wouldn't allow his new position of influence to be wasted.

The whole reason he had this new position was that his cover as a covert counterterrorism operative had been blown during his boss's confirmation hearing by a congressman who had no admiration for the Agency, and now every piece of crap from Boston to Baghdad knew who he was and what he looked like. His face had been broadcast across the airwaves. He was called America 's first line of defense against terrorism. Virtually every newspaper in the country had reported his story and there had been several magazine covers. The entire thing was unnerving to him.

The media spectacle his career had become went against everything he knew. Most of his life since the age of twenty-two had been a secret. Not even his brother had known that he worked for the CIA.

Now, because of all the publicity before he even hit forty, he had been unceremoniously retired from the field, brought in from the cold and given a new job and a new title to go with it. He was now special assistant to the director of Central Intelligence on counterterrorism.

Terrorism had finally reached out and touched America, and her citizens were finally waking up to the fact that there were people out there who hated them, zealots who wanted to see the Great Satan toppled. The President and Rapp's boss, Director Irene Kennedy, had given him a mandate. In addition to working in conjunction with the Agency's counterterrorism center, they asked him to thoroughly study the nation's counterterrorism capabilities and come up with a recommendation on how to streamline operations and improve defenses.

Rapp's first response had been to tell the President to start focusing on offense. So far the President had shown no signs of following that advice.

Kennedy, knowing Rapp better than anyone, admonished him to keep his temper and tongue in check. She told him to look at the study as a fact-finding mission. The ass-kicking would come later when he gave his report to the President and the National Security Council.

That was when he could vent and let the truth be told, and Irene Kennedy knew better than anyone that the truth did need to be told.

If Rapp had learned anything during his lengthy study of America 's counterterrorism efforts, it was that there were too many meetings.