This had been the most difficult aspect to plan, but Hakim thought he had it figured out. Karim joined him on the bow, and Hakim asked, “Are you nervous?” He asked the question knowing how his friend would answer.

“Only fools and liars say they aren’t.”

“Well, my friend, then which one am I?” Hakim continued his search of the sky, now turning back toward Key West.

“You are not nervous?” Karim asked with concern.

“No. Not in the least.”

“Why do you tempt fate like this? You know you shouldn’t say such things.”

Hakim laughed. “I am excited. Why aren’t you excited? This is what we have been working for. This is a great day.” Hakim pointed toward the spit of land on the horizon. “There, my friend, is the great Satan. In a few minutes we will fire up these engines, and we will penetrate their defenses. Defenses they have spent billions on, and there is nothing they can do to stop us.”

Karim frowned. “You are assuming they will not stop us.”

“Yes, I am.” Hakim lowered the binoculars. “When will you begin to have faith in your destiny? I have been telling you for years that this is what awaits you.” Again he pointed toward the shore of America.

“Allah prefers us to be humble.”

“Then you can be humble, but I will be excited. This is something they will write about. In a few days the entire Arab world will be talking about these new lions of al-Qaeda and their leader, the great Karim Nour al-Din, who have struck at the heart of America.”

“We have done nothing yet.”

“Is it wrong to hope?”

Karim made a brooding face and finally said, “I suppose not.”

“And think of the faces those old women will make when the news finally reaches them in the mountain hideouts. Zawahiri will be furious that he and his millionaire boyfriend do not receive the credit.”

“Do not speak of him that way,” Karim said angrily.

“I’m sorry, but you know I think Zawahiri has poisoned him.”

“He still deserves our respect.” Karim was disgusted with the al-Qaeda leadership, but his fellow Saudi Arabian did not deserve to be spoken of in such a manner. “So,” Karim said, “tell me of your grand plan. Do you really think we will just sail ashore and unload your drugs?”

“That all depends on the Coast Guard.”

“And if they show up?”

“We will outrun them.”

“What if it is a helicopter? Like you mentioned last night.”

“You keep going straight, and I will worry about the helicopter.”

“That is it? That is the extent of your grand plan?”

Hakim showed off his bright white smile. “No, I have a few tricks.”

“Ahmed?”

“Yes, he is one of them, in fact now is the perfect time to show him the present I brought along for him.” Hakim climbed around the windscreen and went below deck. A moment later he appeared with a long, black rectangular case. He looked into the other boat and said, “Ahmed, I have something for you.”

The twenty-four-year-old Moroccan hopped from one boat into the other as the others came to the edge. Hakim set the case on the flat cushion just aft of the cockpit and popped the clasps. He swung the case open to reveal a very large gun.

Ahmed gasped as he said, “A Barrett fifty-caliber. I have dreamt of shooting such a gun.”

“Can you handle it?” Hakim asked.

“Of course,” Ahmed said enthusiastically. “Where did you get it?”

“Nashville, Tennessee.”

“Isn’t that where they are made?”

“Near there.”

Ahmed picked it up and looked through the Barrett Optical Range Scope. “When do I get to fire it?”

“Hopefully not anytime soon, but just in case you have to, are you familiar with the weapon?”

“There is not much to know. It is one of the finest rifles ever constructed. Robust… accurate… very easy to shoot.”

“Good. There are three ten-round boxes already loaded.” Hakim pointed at the case.

“What type of ammunition?”

“Fifty-caliber BMG, armor-piercing incendiary.”

Ahmed tore his eyes away from the gun and said, “Only NATO troops have that ammunition.”

“And you.” Hakim laughed loudly.

“Where in the world did you get…?”

“I’ll tell you on the long drive to Washington. We’ll have plenty of time, but now we must get moving.” Hakim turned and looked up at his old friend, who was standing on the other side of the windscreen. “Are you ready, my friend?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Hakim said with unbridled enthusiasm. “Just like we practiced last night. Everybody get in your proper place and we will start the engines.” The men started scrambling into their assigned boats. “Remember,” Hakim said, “keep your weapons hidden unless Karim or I tell you to get them out.” He then turned to Ahmed and whispered, “Stay close to me, and make sure your new toy is ready to use.”

Hakim started his engines one at a time and waited for his friend to do the same. After another minute Hakim ordered the lines to be undone and then got under way at a leisurely fifteen knots. With the wind whipping over their heads, Hakim turned to Ahmed and asked, “Are you familiar with the MH- 65C Dolphin helicopter?”

Ahmed shook his head.

“Not to worry.” Hakim popped the small glove box on the dashboard and retrieved several pieces of paper. “Here are the schematics. I’ve circled the three places where it is most vulnerable. If we come across one it might be useful information.”

CHAPTER 38

WASHINGTON, D.C.

RAPP had to laugh at the irony of the situation. Here he was in an orange prison jumpsuit shackled to a metal table in a room that reeked of urine. The cinder-block walls of the ten-by-ten-foot interrogation room were covered with a variety of body fluids that Rapp did not want to attempt to identify. The fact that America treated terrorists better than its own citizens was just another example of how upside down things were. He was in the Central Detention Facility, or D.C. jail, as it is more commonly known. A place located in one of the most run-down, crime-ridden neighborhoods in America. Every year for the last thirty, Southeast D.C. helped the capital city finish in the top five for most murders – usually number one. The jail was filled with gangbangers and crackheads and every other kind of reprobate that roamed the not-so-safe streets of the nation’s capital.

It was obvious that the political forces behind his arrest thought they could somehow unravel him by sticking him in this place, which was proof that they were either very stupid or very petty or probably both. When they’d finished fingerprinting and photographing him, they took away all his clothes and gave him the orange jumpsuit and the paper slippers and stuck him in general holding. No lawyer, no phone call, just Ridley standing there, doling out threats like a kindergarten teacher on a field trip. Ridley warned them it was a mistake. Told them over and over not to dump him in general holding, but the jailers stuck with their official line that everyone gets the same treatment.

Rapp lasted less than five minutes in the big thirty-by-ten-foot cell. A wiry black perp, all strung out on drugs, got in his face almost the second he walked in the door. Rather than engage the man in conversation, Rapp hit him with a quick jab to the solar plexus and sent him to the floor, where he lay gasping for air like a fish out of water. Two slightly larger and younger black men took umbrage at this and strolled across the cell hooting and hollering about all the hurt they were going to put on their new bitch. In five seconds Rapp sized them up, drew them in, and dismantled them. The man on the left got a half a step ahead of the other guy and threw the first punch. Rapp moved his head a mere six inches and let the fist sail past. With a slight pivot he brought up his right leg and then sent his foot crashing down on the outside of the man’s right knee. Having thrown his punch and missed, the man was left for a second with ninety-five percent of his weight resting on that front foot. When Rapp’s foot made contact and pushed through the target, the man buckled as if he’d been walking on a pair of flimsy stilts.