“Thank you. I’m glad you understand.”

“Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“To apologize.” Rivera brushed her shiny black hair back over her shoulder and twisted in her seat. Smiling, she said, “Come on. Let’s hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“Your apology for not telling me what you were up to.”

“I…” Rapp stammered.

“You thought you knew best, and you were afraid of how I would react, so you got me drunk, slept with me, and then snuck out of bed and went and took care of the job all by yourself.”

“That’s not entirely true.” Rapp wriggled uncomfortably in his seat. “I never planned on…”

“Yes, you did,” she cut him off. “You may not want to admit it, but you were thinking it from the moment we began discussing the operation. And I have no problem with your decision.”

“You wouldn’t have been upset? You wouldn’t have argued with me?”

“I might have, but in the end I would have respected your decision.”

Rapp laughed in disbelief.

“So your way is better?” Rivera shot him a watch-your-step sideways glance. “I’m your partner. I’m your backup. If things go south I’m supposed to be there to bail your ass out. I can’t very well do that if I’m asleep.”

“I left the radio turned on. If things got tough I would have called you.”

Rivera withdrew her hand and folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys that can’t admit he’s wrong to a woman.”

“That’s not it at all.”

“Then what is it? I told you that I respect your tactical decision to take the lead on this one. All I’m looking for is for you to admit that you should have kept me in the loop.”

“Fine…I should have kept you in the loop.”

Rivera smiled. “That wasn’t very hard, was it?”

“Actually, it was.”

Rivera smiled and then leaned over and kissed him on the lips. “I know who you are, Mitch. I’m not going to try and change you. At least not very much. Maybe just smooth out your rough edges a bit.”

10

The Atlanta International Airport was one of the busiest in the world, and thanks to a certain 747 parked alone on a remote section of the tarmac, it was about to become the most backed-up airport in the world. The presidential motorcade didn’t just stop ground traffic, it stopped air traffic as well. The caravan of cars, limousines, SUVs, vans, and motorcycles raced across the smooth concrete tarmac like they were late to catch a plane. They weren’t, but the men and women in charge of moving the president and his entourage knew that minutes meant money. The Secret Service worked very closely with local officials and authorities to make sure things ran smoothly. In this modern era of jet-setting commanders in chief they were acutely aware of the negative economic impact a visiting president could have on an airport. If you shut down a major hub like Atlanta for thirty minutes, it could back up the entire region and beyond, costing millions to air carriers and lost productivity to fliers.

Taking that into consideration, the folks from the 89th Airlift Wing and the Secret Service give it their all to make sure the plane is ready to roll the second the president is on board. The pool reporters had already been bused from the event at Ebenezer Baptist Church where the president had launched his inner-city faith initiative. They’d gone up a second set of stairs closer to the tail of the plane and were now settled and buckled in for takeoff. The Air Force crew had already completed their preflight checklist and had the four General Electric engines humming and ready.

As the motorcade approached the massive white and blue 747-200B, vehicles began to peel off. Normally, a line of dignitaries would have been at the bottom of the stairs but the president was in a hurry so it was canceled. Before the first Cadillac DTS Presidential Limousine stopped at the red carpet, doors began opening. Men in dark suits and a few women began joining those already standing post around the plane. President Alexander stepped from the back of his limousine and moved toward the forward set of stairs. He paused just long enough to take CIA Director Irene Kennedy by the elbow and start up the stairs with her. The president’s national security advisor and chief of staff were right on their heels. Three agents from his personal detail followed while more agents hurried up the second set of stairs.

Barely thirty seconds after arrival, the stairs were being pulled away from the craft and the vehicles were off to another part of the airport where they would be loaded onto cargo planes from the 89th Airlift Wing. The Air Force ground crew yanked the bright yellow blocks from the landing gear and gave the signal that everything was clear. A senior airman in an orange vest and headset walked out past the nose of the plane and gave the area one more visual check to make sure it was clear. He held up his signal sticks and started motioning for the plane to follow him. After the wheels began to roll, the airman walked off to the port side and saluted as the big beautiful bird rolled past.

Inside, President Alexander and his closest advisors were filing into the conference room where Rapp was waiting.

Rapp stood and said, “Mr. President, I apologize for my appearance.” He was wearing a pair of worn khaki cargo pants, a faded polo shirt, and a suit coat he’d borrowed from one of the Secret Service agents. To make matters worse, he hadn’t shaved in five days.

“Don’t worry.” The president took off his suit coat and threw it on the couch across from the conference table. “By the looks of you, I’m assuming you were off doing something I don’t want to know about.”

Rapp almost laughed, but thought better of it. He was momentarily at a loss for words.

The president read his discomfort and flashed Rapp one of his Southern grins. “I’m just kidding. Take a seat and buckle up.”

All five people settled into the fixed leather chairs. The president sat at the head of the table; his National Security Advisor, Frank Ozark, sat immediately to his right and then Ted Byrne, his chief of staff. Rapp and Kennedy were on the other side of the table with Kennedy sitting closest to the president.

As the plane began to roll, the president looked at an Air Force officer standing in the door and said, “As soon as we reach altitude I want the call placed.”

“Yes, sir.” The man saluted and closed the door.

With the powerful engines roaring outside, Rapp put his mouth within inches of Kennedy’s ear and said, “Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

Kennedy had already grabbed the file in anticipation of this question. She opened it, revealing a satellite image, and slid it between them. “Do you recognize this?”

Rapp studied the picture intently while he scratched the thick black stubble on his face. “It’s the Isfahan facility. Isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Kennedy showed him a second photo that at first glance appeared to be the same as the first.

“What am I looking for?” Rapp asked.

Kennedy tapped her finger on the upper right quadrant of the photo. “Right there.”

Rapp’s eyes moved back and forth several times to both the before and after shots. “Is that a cloud of smoke?”

“It would appear so.” Kennedy removed both photos and laid out two new ones. These were blown-up shots focusing on the immediate area of interest. In the first one you could clearly see the large air-conditioning units on the roof. In the second one everything was obscured by a large debris cloud.

“What the hell happened?” Rapp asked in a hushed voice.

“We’re not sure.”

“So it wasn’t us?”

“No.”

“Then it had to be the Israelis.”

“One would assume.” Kennedy showed him another photo while the plane taxied to the main runway. The debris cloud was clear in this shot.