52

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Annie Stewart closed the door behind her and tossed her keys on the counter.

With her boss out of town, she had enjoyed the rare opportunity to sleep in, have a late, lingering breakfast with her most nonpolitical of friends, and still get in her daily five-mile run through the nation’s capital.

Annie adored Washington in the spring. The winter rains had passed. The trees and flowers were bursting with color. The world was quiet. And finally she was seeing someone romantically. It was all her girlfriends had wanted to talk about, and she had not minded a bit.

Still smiling, humming a little under her breath, Annie stepped into the washroom off the vestibule and turned on the faucet. After washing the perspiration from her hands, face, and arms, she removed her headband and pulled her hair back in a ponytail. Then she tossed both the towel and the headband into the laundry chute and headed to the living room. There, as was her habit, she scooped up the remote from the coffee table and clicked on the large flat-screen TV, which was set to CNN. Neither waiting nor caring to see what the headlines were, she turned on her heels and went into the kitchen, where she grabbed a cold bottle of water from the refrigerator.

By the time she returned to the living room, she was startled by the live image of the spiritual leader of Hezbollah speaking from some “undisclosed location.” The Sheikh never did interviews. Or speeches. She could not think of a time he had ever previously addressed the Lebanese people.

Annie hadn’t bothered to take her phone on her morning run. She certainly hadn’t been listening to the radio. She’d simply been enjoying a much-needed day off from the intensity of life as a senior advisor to the ranking minority member on the Senate Intelligence Committee. She’d had no inkling that another war had broken out half a world away. Now she tried to make sense of Sheikh Ja’far ibn al-Hussaini’s speech—being delivered in Arabic with simultaneous translation into English by a CNN translator—though it quickly became evident that she had already missed most of it.

“. . . those who ought to tremble most are those who live and work and vainly try to run the world from Washington,” the Shia cleric sneered. “To President Clarke—leader of the Great Satan—I warn: The day of your doom is fast approaching.”

As Annie listened to the words, her eyes scanned the text scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

Israel invades Lebanon. . . . Lebanese president pleads for the world to come to his country’s aid. . . . Kremlin denounces Israel’s “unwarranted provocation.” . . . Beijing urges U.N. to condemn Israel, impose “the harshest of sanctions.” . . . Security Council to convene Monday in emergency session. . . .

Annie was astonished. She had lived and worked in Washington for nearly two decades. She had seen crises blow up out of nowhere. But this was unreal. When she had woken up that morning, the world seemed quiet. How had things gone so bad so quickly? She glanced at her watch. It was nearly noon. That made it almost seven in the evening in Beirut and almost 8:30 p.m. in Tehran.

“Judgment is coming, Mr. Clarke,” said al-Hussaini, his eyes growing wild behind those thick lenses. “The Great Day of Judgment for you and your people is fast approaching. The stench of your corruption—so vile, so profane—has risen to the heavens. It has reached the nostrils of the Holy One. It has turned his stomach as it has turned ours. Do you think you can escape from the fires? Do you fancy you can somehow avoid the destruction that awaits you? Don’t fool yourself. Our victory is certain, as is your utter and cataclysmic defeat.”

Grabbing her mobile phone from its charging unit on the kitchen counter, she discovered she had thirteen missed messages. Nine were from her boss, Senator Robert Dayton, the Iowa Democrat. Annie winced. She had known the man since the day he had hired her fresh out of graduate school at Georgetown University’s School of Foreign Service, where she had earned a master’s in international relations. She didn’t agree with the senator on every issue. Certainly not social and economic issues. But she deeply respected his patriotism and his commitment to U.S. national security. And she knew he was a man with a precious low tolerance for being unable to reach his staff.

She was just about to return the senator’s calls when the Sheikh said something that stopped her cold.

“This morning, Mr. President, Allah delivered three of your cowardly fighters into our hands. All of them work for your State Department. All of them were captured along the border. They did not even resist my men. They surrendered instantly—weeping, bowing, crawling, begging for their lives. Today they are alive. But I will not guarantee they will be so for long. I told you, Mr. President. Judgment is coming. Once Allah delivers his decree, all three will be executed. One by one. Live on television, for all the world to see.”

Annie knew instantly that Marcus was one of them. It wasn’t instinct or intuition. Marcus had told her in confidence that he and Kailea were heading to Israel ahead of Secretary Whitney’s visit. He’d said they would be doing an advance trip on the Lebanon border. It was all routine, Marcus had insisted. He’d be back in a few days. Still, he’d wanted her to know and asked her to pray for them. And she had.

The Sheikh then read out the names. Sure enough, the first was Special Agent Kailea Curtis.

Annie felt sick to her stomach. She knew Kailea. She liked and respected the woman. They had first met on Air Force One on the flight from Ben Gurion International back to Andrews after the peace summit in Jerusalem. That was nearly eighteen months ago. Since then, they had done countless things together, usually with Marcus, often with Pete Hwang, and sometimes with Geoff Stone. This could not be happening.

Annie braced herself for Marcus’s name, but it never came. The next two names, in fact, she had never heard before, though al-Hussaini said that they, too, worked for the State Department’s unit for the protection of diplomats.

Thomas Millner?

Daniel Case?

Who were they? Why had Annie never heard of them? And regardless, where was Marcus? If Kailea had been taken, why hadn’t he? Had Marcus been killed in the raid? She was tempted to call Pete. He had to know what was going on. But she stopped herself, deciding it was more important for the moment to hear the rest of al-Hussaini’s speech.

“President Clarke, I ask you: is there any price that you could possibly pay, any sacrifice that you could ever make, that would compel Allah—holy and righteous is he—to command me to release and return these three Americans to you and to their families?” the Sheikh taunted. “I cannot imagine so, but I will say this: if you choose to aid and abet the Zionist criminals—if you help the Jews shed a single drop of our blood or make even one of our warriors a martyr—then all hope for your people will be lost. And not only for these three, but for the entire American nation. Do not test us, Mr. President. We are ready to strike a lethal blow at the heart of your country. More than ready. We are hungry. Our mouths are watering.”

Annie pulled up Pete’s number on her iPhone and stared at it for several moments but then thought better of it. Instead, she speed-dialed the senator, who picked up on the second ring. “Where is he?” she asked, not mentioning Marcus’s name or needing to.

“Annie, I’m sorry; I can’t talk right now—not on an open line,” Dayton replied. “I’m boarding a flight back to National. I’ll call you when I land. We’ll meet in my office, and I’ll tell you what I know.”