The G-3 executive jet descended through the thin mountain air toward the old Soviet-era airport. They were in Northern Alliance territory; a small section of the country that had refused to be ruled by the Taliban. It was Sunday night. There were no clouds and a three-quarter moon bathed the rugged landscape beneath. It was almost 11:00, and from the air you would have no idea that Mazar-e Sharif was a city of over 100,000. There were only a few streetlights here, and an occasional floodlight. Very few cars were on the move. Even the runway lights appeared in spotty condition. Considering the sketchy shape of runways in this part of the world Scott Coleman had relieved one of his men and taken over the controls. If anyone was going to ruin his fifteen-million-dollar plane it would be him.

He'd received the call from Rapp just before 11:00 p.m. He had been expecting to hear from him, just not so soon. They'd spent the morning and early afternoon together at the facility talking about where they would start once Rapp was in good enough shape mentally and physically. Coleman had left that meeting and called his team. He knew they were already in-they had all individually approached him to offer their services. "Anything Mitch needs, just ask and we'll be there." The guys-Charlie Wicker, Dan Stroble, and Kevin Hackett-were all former SEALs, and they had all worked with Rapp before, as recently as the op they'd run in Canada.

Everyone had been assembled by midnight, and they were wheels up by 1:00 a.m., streaking across the Atlantic at nearly 40,000 feet. They'd stopped in Germany long enough to refuel and were back in the air in under thirty minutes. No customs to clear, no hassles to deal with. Operators like Coleman and his men were used to a lot of hurry up and wait. Deployments, such as this one, where they literally had to fly to the other side of the world, took some time. For this reason Coleman kept the plane well stocked with DVDs, paperback novels, and magazines. Coleman was happy they had them, because after Wicker, Hackett, and Stroble had offered their condolences to Rapp, which was before they even got off the ground, none of them knew what else to say. Special Forces operators like these guys were not exactly in touch with their feminine side. They had no problem discussing death when it was some guy they'd blown away in combat, but when it was someone's wife who had been tragically killed, they were at a complete loss for words.

Coleman and Hackett took turns flying, and everyone else either slept or tried to sleep on the way to Germany. The second leg of the journey was spent watching movies, reading books, and talking to Rapp about anything other than his dead wife. With the landing lights on, Coleman made a diving pass at the runway to see if there were any unusually large craters he should try to avoid. He was surprised to see the strip patched up and in relatively good shape. No doubt, courtesy of the U.S. taxpayers. He circled around and came in on his final approach. The G-3 touched down and settled at the far end of the runway.

Coleman leaned into the center aisle and looked back into the cabin. "Where to now, Mitch?"

Rapp had a satellite phone up to his ear. He covered the mouthpiece and said, "South end of the terminal. There should be a fuel truck and a Toyota 4Runner." Rapp removed his hand and said, "Sorry about that, Irene. You were saying?"

"Ross agreed to keep the State Department out of it for now."

"And the FBI?" Rapp asked.

"Yes."

"Good work."

"That remains to be seen. Last night someone set off a grenade in downtown Leesburg injuring five people. Two of them seriously. Five minutes later an RPG was fired into the Loudoun County Sheriff's Department."

"A diversion?"

"I would assume so."

"Has anyone asked about the racket at our place last night?"

"Yes. Local nine-one-one received a complaint at nine thirty-eight last night. They finally got around to calling this morning."

"And?"

"We told them we had a corporate event and shot off some fire-works."

"They bought it?" Rapp asked.

"So far."

"What about the house?"

"The front gate is being replaced this afternoon and the house is covered in scaffolding and tarps. They've already started sandblasting the bullet marks from the brick and replacing the doors and windows. All the evidence will be gone by tonight."

"The bodies?"

"Incinerated."

"And what about my prisoner?" Rapp asked.

"Dr. Hornig is working on him."

Rapp considered that for a minute. The Agency had two principal interrogators with distinctly different approaches. Dr. Jane Hornig was one; Bobby Akram, a Pakistani immigrant and a Muslim, was the other. Hornig had advanced degrees in both biochemistry and neurology and was considered the foremost expert in America on the history and evolution of human torture. She specialized in experimental drugs and exotic techniques. Bobby Akram, on the other hand, wore his subjects down by manipulating Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs and putting them through tough, well-researched interrogations. Rapp liked Akram, but he didn't like Hornig. She gave him the creeps, but when time was short, no one was better.

"Has she found out who hired him?"

"Not yet, but we found an interesting link. Two years ago, the DEA arrested a Saudi immigrant who was importing heroin through his contacts in Afghanistan. It turns out the guy used to work for Saudi Intelligence. While he was in jail, his lawyers started working on a plea bargain. The lawyer said that his client could provide proof that his former employer provided training to several of the nine-eleven terrorists and helped plan the attack."

Rapp frowned. "What does this have to do with some Latino thug?"

"Castillo, that's his name by the way. Anibal Castillo. He says back then he was approached by the same man that hired him to kill you two days ago. He paid Castillo a hundred grand to have MS-13 kill this former Saudi intel officer while he was in the federal pen. I made a few calls and it all lines up. This former Saudi was ready to start singing and the day he was supposed to sign the plea bargain he was killed in his cell."

"Who hired him?"

"We don't know yet, but we have Castillo looking through our database of Saudi intel officers."

The plane lurched to a stop, and Rapp said, "Listen, I have to run. Call me as soon as you find out."

"Are you going to tell me what you're up to?"

"You don't want to know." Rapp peered out the small window.

"Yes, I do, Mitchell. I just lied to my boss and the president to protect you."

"I thought the president was on board."

"All right…Ross, then."

"Yeah, well…tell Ross if he gives you any more crap I'm going to add him to my list."

Kennedy was tempted to take him up on the offer. "I have one last thing for you." There was a pause and then Kennedy asked, "Have you ever heard of an Erich Abel?"

Rapp thought about it for a second. "No. Why?"

"East German-born. Worked for the Stasi during the eighties and early nineties."

"Does he go by any other names?"

"Not that I know of, but I'm looking into it."

"Why the sudden interest in this guy?"

"I'm not sure, but I'll let you know when I find out."

"All right. I've gotta run." Rapp punched the end button and tossed the phone on the leather seat as he stood.

Coleman was already down the steps and supervising the refueling. Rapp made his way down the small steps carefully. His legs were sore from the long flight. He walked stiffly across the tarmac.

Jamal Urda was waiting for Rapp. Urda was the CIA's station chief in Kabul. He had worked with Rapp the previous spring on a nasty bit of business, and although things had started off a bit rocky between the two men, Urda had a lot of respect for Rapp. Urda extended his hand. "Mitch, I'm sorry about your wife."