"Do you like to swim, Ahmed?" Rapp marched him down four steps to the lower terrace and the pool. Al-Adel began to fight fiercely at the sight of the water.

"What's the matter?" asked Rapp. "You're not afraid of the water are you?"

Al-Adel leaned back at first, locking his knees in an attempt to stop his progress toward the water. Rapp yanked harder on the man's hair and stood him up. With only a few steps to go al-Adel let his legs go limp, and collapsed to the ground. McMahon showed up just in time and grabbed him by the feet. Rapp grabbed one hand and then the other, and after two swings they launched the terrorist into the middle of the deep end, orange prison jumpsuit and all.

Rapp watched him flounder as he walked around to the other side of the pool to grab the skimming pole. Al-Adel definitely did not know how to swim. He was thrashing about, flailing his arms in every direction, gasping for air and getting mostly water instead. Rapp took off his suit coat and grabbed the long aluminum pole. He swung the basket out over the pool and put it right in front of al-Adel's face. For a second he thought the idiot wouldn't realize it was there, and that he'd actually have to jump in the pool and save him. Fortunately, one of his flailing arms hit the basket and he grabbed on.

Rapp leaned back on the pole with his right hand and used his left hand like a fulcrum to lift al-Adel's head and shoulders out of the water. The terrorist hung onto the basket like rat clutching a piece of flotsam from a shipwreck.

"Ahmed," Rapp said in a loud voice. "If you say you want your lawyer even once, I'm going to rip this away from you and let you sink to the bottom. Alright?"

He didn't answer right away so Rapp shook the pole.

"Yes! Yes! I understand!"

"Now, Ahmed, listen to me very carefully. Where were you taking the bomb that you picked up in Charleston?"

Al-Adel clutched the basket at the end of the pole, his eyes shut tight, his entire body shaking with fear.

Rapp repeated the question even more forcefully and then started counting. When he got to five and al-Adel hadn't answered he released all tension on the pole and drove the basket and the clutching terrorist down under the surface of the water. Rapp held him under for only two seconds, but he knew it was an eternity to a man who didn't know how to swim. He leaned back hard on the pole, and a sputtering al-Adel popped to the surface. Rapp shouted the question again, but this time didn't even bother to wait for an answer. He saw al-Adel open his mouth wide, gasping for air, and drove him right back under.

Rapp pulled him back up a split second later, and this time he was rewarded with an answer. Al-Adel screamed the two words, spit out a mouthful of water, and sucked in a gulp of air for his starving lungs. Rapp couldn't believe what he'd just heard. He looked across the pool at McMahon and then repeated his question yet again.

Al-Adel gave the same answer again, and when Rapp threatened to send him back under he began blabbing in earnest, spewing out detail after detail as he clutched for dear life to the aluminum pole.

Eighty

Rapp and McMahon had a plan. They'd had thirty minutes to discuss it and to try to poke holes in it. They had spoken briefly to their bosses; Rapp to CIA Director Kennedy, and McMahon to FBI Director Roach. They would discuss nothing over the phone. No, they would not tell them where the missing prisoner was. They were on their way to the White House where they would meet them in the Situation Room at midnight. Neither boss was happy about this, but neither Rapp nor McMahon cared. They would face all their accusers in one room, and truth be told, it wasn't their bosses who had them worried. They would do the right thing. It was the others, the president included, who they were wary of.

The president needed to see firsthand that there were people in his administration, people who had been chirping in his ear, whom he should not be listening to on issues of counterterrorism and national security. Once Rapp told the president what they had found out, these very people would inundate him with bad advice, bad advice that could lead to the premature detonation of the second weapon.

It was for that reason alone that Rapp and McMahon had decided to keep everything from their bosses until everybody was in the same room. To do this right they needed to give their detractors the chance to go berserk and lose their cool, to promise to take away their jobs and pensions, and to threaten them with prosecution, and they needed them do it all right in front of the president. Because when the other shoe dropped, they would be left looking like utter fools.

Secret Service Agent Jack Warch was waiting for Rapp and McMahon under the awning on West Executive Drive. Rapp had called Warch and asked him to meet them. He was wearing his tuxedo from the state dinner, and he looked worried. As Rapp and McMahon stepped onto the curb he said, "Just what in the hell is going on?"

"Too much to explain, Jack. You're just going to have to trust me on this one."

"You know I'm not supposed to get involved in stuff like this, but you've got some really pissed-off people in there. Jones wants your balls on a platter, and so does that other broad from the Justice Department. Even your bosses don't sound too supportive, and the president...well, let's just say I haven't seen him this mad in a long time."

"Good," Rapp said and he meant it. "Is the president in the Situation Room?"

"He's on his way over."

Rapp checked his watch. "I need you to do me one other favor, Jack. Irene told me Marine One is here."

"That's correct."

"How long before it's ready to take off?"

"Five minutes."

"And how late does the president usually stay at this type of event?"

"Normally about midnight is his limit, but this one's a pretty big deal. Where the hell are you going with all of this, Mitch?"

"In about five to ten minutes, the president is going to come out of this meeting and he's going to tell you he wants to go up to Camp David tonight, because he wants to get up early and play a round of golf with the British prime minister and the Russian president."

"The Russian president doesn't play golf."

"Then he's going to ride in the cart. I don't give a shit. All I'm telling you is that I want all three of them and their wives on Marine One in fifteen minutes. I want them safely out of the city, and I don't want the press to get the slightest whiff as to the real reason why they're leaving. Do you get my drift?"

The head of the president's detail slowly nodded. "I think so."

"Good, and, Jack, you never heard this from me. This was the president's idea. He thought it would be a good idea to spend some time alone with his fellow leaders in a more low-key environment. Spread that around to your agents. That way if they get hit up by the press they'll be none the wiser."

Rapp could tell Warch was thinking of something else. Taking a stab at it he said, "Relax, you live up by Rockville, right?"

"Yeah."

"Your family's fine. Just make sure they don't try to come downtown tomorrow."

Rapp's phone rang. He checked the number and answered it. "What's up?" He listened for about twenty seconds and then said, "Thanks," and hung up.

Rapp looked at McMahon. "They just finished the polygraph. Everything checked out."

"Any chance he beat it?" McMahon asked.

"No way. I don't think even I could fool these guys."

Warch put his hand up and touched his flesh-colored earpiece. Both McMahon and Rapp knew someone from his detail was talking in his ear. Warch turned and said, "Let's go. The president is in the Situation Room."

They followed him through the door, past the uniformed Secret Service officer standing his post and down the hall toward the White House Mess. Two turns later they passed two tuxedoed agents and entered the Situation Room. All chatter ceased for one brief moment and then a torrent of accusations, insults, and threats spewed forth.