As they stood staring at the map of Virginia, McMahon decided to turn up the heat. He told one of his deputies to draw up a press release. He wanted the new information on the last sightings to be included, and he wanted it to state that the suspect or suspects were to be considered armed and dangerous. As the woman left, McMahon told her to send it to every news outlet between D.C. and Virginia Beach.

Seventy-One

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Rapp slipped away to consult with Kennedy. She had left town around four with her son and mother to spend the weekend at a house they'd rented on the beach in Ocean City, Maryland. They were only a few doors down from her cousin, who had a whole flock of kids for Tommy to play with. Kennedy never showed it, but Rapp knew she was stressed. They'd been planning this trip for a year. Kennedy's cousin had invited them to stay at her house, but that was impractical. She had a security detail, broad-shouldered men with big appetites and big guns, who needed to be housed and fed.

Kennedy had tried to get Rapp to leave for Wisconsin by saying that she could delay her trip and keep an eye on the recent developments down in Richmond. Rapp's thoughts immediately turned to her son Tommy. The kid had suffered more than his fair share of disappointments in life. His mother worked sixty hours a week minimum, and his father lived on the opposite coast. He had been talking about this trip for months. In his typical rough fashion Rapp pointed all this out to Kennedy, and in turn she became uncharacteristically defensive. Eventually, though, she saw Rapp's point and left with her son, mother, and security detail.

Rapp had spoken to her about an hour and a half ago just after her small motorcade had crossed the Bay Bridge. Now one of her bodyguards answered her secure phone, and a minute later Kennedy was on the line.

"How's Tommy?" Rapp asked.

"Great. Couldn't be more excited. He's running around down on the beach with the other kids looking for wood to build a bonfire."

Rapp could tell by her voice that she was relaxing. "Good. Make sure you tell him I said hello."

"I will. What's up?" she asked.

Rapp brought her up to speed on the manhunt, and told her about Reimer's conversation with his Russian counterpart. Both pieces of news seemed to give her some comfort. They were the first bits of good news she'd received since finding out the CIA had helped Mohammed Ansari immigrate to the United States. Once that little tidbit was made public, she would be beaten over the head with it even thought she'd only been a junior-level case officer at the time.

Throughout the afternoon one thing had given Kennedy great concern. Tonight was the state dinner honoring the Big Three of WWII: America, Great Britain, and Russia. It would be the perfect time to launch an attack. The only thing that prevented her from calling the president was that he was already up at Camp David with the British prime minister playing golf. At that location they were not a target. She agreed with Rapp that it was best to stay out of the way of the FBI and the locals. As a precaution, though, she stayed in close contact with Jack Warch, the special agent in charge of the president's Secret Service detail.

She knew that now the president was at this moment returning to the White House aboard Marine One with the British prime minister. They were apparently running late for their own state dinner. None of this was a surprise to Warch, since the president had turned tardiness into a habit recently. The Russian president was also running late, having been delayed by some unusually strong headwinds on the way over. He had just made it to the Russian Embassy and wasn't expected to arrive at the White House until nearly 9:00, an hour and a half late. Additionally, Kennedy had spoken directly to Reimer, and he guaranteed her that based on the material they found in Charleston, the sensors in and around the capital would have alerted them to any nuclear weapon being smuggled into the city.

Rapp had just finished giving her the details of the manhunt when she asked, "What's your gut telling you, Mitch?"

"I think they're holed up somewhere. We're talking about five Middle Eastern-looking men in a part of the country where there's a ton of retired military...if they'd stolen a vehicle we would've heard about it."

"That's if someone saw them."

"That's the other thing. You've been down there. It's not far from the Farm." Rapp was referring to Camp Perry where the CIA trained all of their new recruits. "There's a lot of woods. A lot of dirt roads and trails where someone could disappear."

"And you still think the locals can handle this?" she asked.

"They're our best option right now, but if we find the vehicles abandoned in the woods I'd like to bring in the SEALs and track them."

"Well," she said thinking about the repercussions, "you know how that'll go over."

"I've already had one go around about it, but you and I know it's not even close. HRT is really good in a controlled environment, but not that used to running patrols in the woods."

"I agree. We'll cross that bridge when and if we have to. In the meantime keep me posted on any new developments."

"I will."

Kennedy disconnected the line and stood there in the kitchen staring out through the big double sliding-glass doors at the deck and the water beyond. Somewhere down on the beach she could hear the laughing and yelling of her son and her cousin's children. She wished that just once she could get away from it all. Shut it off, and live like a normal person. The head of her security detail was standing in the hallway by the kitchen watching her.

"Carl," she said, "would you call Langley and tell them I need a helicopter put on standby."

"Sure."

Kennedy dialed the next number from memory and looked at her watch. It was almost 7:30. Special Agent Warch answered after the first ring. "Jack, it's Irene. Are you back at the White House yet?"

"Almost. I know it's a real shock, but we're running late."

"So you're on Marine One right now?"

"Yep."

Kennedy thought about it for a second and said, "Jack, I need you to do me a favor. It's more of a precaution really." Kennedy went on to explain what she wanted, and with a little bit of cajoling, the agent in charge of the presidential detail agreed.

Seventy-Two

Peggy Stealey arrived at the dinner in a black stretch limousine with DNC Chairman Holmes. As she was helped from the backseat, the long slit of her evening gown parted to reveal a naked, toned leg that caught the attention of even the military Honor Guard arrayed on each side of the door. She took Holmes's arm and elegantly strode up the steps under the North Portico of the White House. Flash bulbs erupted to catch the stunning blonde who looked like she would be more at home on the red carpet at an awards ceremony than a state dinner at the White House.

The two entered the White House and were immediately offered a glass of champagne. Stealey took one, but Holmes declined. He'd already declared his intention to avoid the pond scum that they served at these types of things and stick to Belvedere vodka, which of course meant that he'd be tanked by ten. To Holmes any bottle of wine, sparkling or otherwise, was to be avoided unless its price tag had at least three digits prior to the decimal. For an evening like this, four would have been preferred, but Holmes hadn't been consulted. If he had been, it probably would have meant he was expected to pay for it, or worse, provide a dozen cases from his private collection. That would never happen. The only sin worse than drinking a cheap bottle of wine was wasting a good one on people who couldn't appreciate it.