"You realize you just took down the top-ranked UFC prospect in the United States?" asked Bond.

"I wish someone had told me that before I got in the ring," said Dewey, rubbing his eye. "How the hell'd you find me?"

"I broke into your town house."

"That's breaking and entering. You can get a ticket for that in D.C."

"Sue me."

"Hector send you?"

Bond nodded.

"I can't imagine why he'd be worried about you," said Bond, shaking his head. "Let's go."

12.

ABOARD THE LONELY FISHERMAN.

MEDITERRANEAN SEA.

Faqir stood in the wheelhouse, chain-smoking cigarettes, his eyes flashing between the rudimentary navigation equipment and the four-foot waters of a wind-driven ocean, illuminated now by halogen lights at the trawler's foredeck. It was almost midnight.

The wooden deck of the trawler was soaked in seawater. The steel along the balustrade was rusted. Near the bow of the ship, a watch tower stood thirty feet high, put there in order to spot schools of tuna. A cable was draped between the tower and the wheelhouse. Christmas lights were wrapped around the cable, though most of the bulbs were burned out. The few that remained created a dim, murky glow on the deck.

The wheelhouse had a strong stench of fish, body odor, oil, and cigarettes.

The boat was chugging along at twenty-four knots, thick smoke spewing from a pair of stacks behind the wheelhouse. The engine was loud and made an unhealthy grinding noise. It didn't, however, concern Faqir. Not only had he crossed the Atlantic in far less seaworthy vessels, he also had the preternatural calm of a jihadist. He didn't care if he died, believing in his heart that whatever was next was paradise.

It had been twelve hours since they'd refueled in Bizerte, on the coast of Tunisia. By Faqir's estimates, the trip through the Strait of Gibraltar would take another day. Until then, Faqir did not intend to leave the wheelhouse.

He heard rapid footsteps on the deck and turned as the door to the wheelhouse burst open. One of the crew stood at the door, panting.

"Vrach dolzhen vam srazu."

The doctor needs you immediately.

"Sledit' za ognyami," said Faqir. "Krichat', yesli vy vidite kakoy-libo. Vy ponimayete?"

Watch for lights. Scream if you see any. Do you understand?

The young crew member nodded and walked to the wheel.

Belowdecks, Faqir passed the engine room, then came to a large cargo hold near the middle of the ship. Outside the room hung several pink hazmat suits, designed to protect against chemical, biological, radiological, and nuclear exposure. Each had a self-contained breathing apparatus. Faqir put one on, then opened the door.

The bomb lay on its side on a steel frame. A section had been removed, exposing a steel cylinder near the center of the device.

Dr. Poldark, also dressed in a hazmat suit, was standing over the bomb, looking at the cylinder.

"What is it, Doctor?"

"We have a problem," said Poldark. "The explosives in the gun assembly are shot. They will not work."

Faqir shook his head.

"I'm not a nuclear scientist, Dr. Poldark."

Poldark took a deep breath, then smiled patiently. He pointed at the steel cylinder that stuck out from the bomb.

"This is a fission bomb," he said. "That is the gun assembly. The way it works is simple. At the very end is a conventional high explosive. When that is detonated, it causes a bullet-made of highly enriched uranium-to fire down the barrel into a larger piece of highly enriched uranium at the other end. When it strikes the other piece of uranium, a chain reaction occurs. Critical mass. Boom."

Poldark patted the steel cylinder.

"The problem is, this bomb is old. It was assembled in 1952 or '53. I was a teenager then. Your parents, Faqir, were probably not even born yet. That's how old it is. The uranium is, of course, pristine. It will last forever, or at least long enough for our purposes. But the conventional explosive that begins the chain reaction is, I'm afraid, useless."

"I brought explosives, Doctor," said Faqir.

He turned to one of the men standing against the wall.

"Guzny, gde zhe detonatorov?" he barked at the young Chechen.

Guzny, where are the blasting caps?

The Chechen's eyes darted about nervously. Finally, he spoke, barely above a whisper.

"Ya iskal vezde. Ya, dolzhno byt', zabyli ikh."

I looked everywhere. I must have forgotten them.

Faqir's face turned red as his expression flared in anger. He pulled a handgun from a holster at his waist, raised it, and fired. The slug struck the young Chechen in the center of his forehead, spattering blood across the wall of the hold. He fell to the floor.

Faqir looked at the two other men.

"Throw him in the ocean," he ordered.

He looked at Poldark.

"I apologize for the incompetence of my man," he said.

"Without some form of propellant, the bomb is useless," said Poldark.

Faqir glared at the scientist.

"I will find you explosives, Dr. Poldark."

"How?" asked Poldark, shaking his head in disgust and resignation. "We can't go back. There is no way."

Faqir ignored Poldark.

He turned to one of the Chechens and spoke to him in Akkhiy, an Arabic-influenced dialect of Chechen: "Get the weapons ready. Night optics too."

13.

PRIVATE RESIDENCE.

THE WHITE HOUSE.

Amy Dellenbaugh, along with the Dellenbaughs' two daughters, Summer and Sally, were waiting in the living room of the White House private residence. The two sisters, ages nine and twelve, both had lacrosse sticks in their hands and were throwing a ball to one another. The president walked toward them, a big grin on his face. The Dellenbaughs were headed to Montana for their annual July Fourth vacation.

"Who's psyched for Montana?" asked Dellenbaugh.

Sally tossed the hard rubber lacrosse ball to her sister. It went wide of Summer's stick, then bounced on the marble floor, ricocheted up, and struck the wooden archway over the door. The ball shot left. It sailed toward a large oil painting of a man rowing a boat in an angry ocean by Winslow Homer. As it was about to hit the canvas, Dellenbaugh's right arm shot out and caught the ball.

Sally stared at her father, whose smile had vanished.

"I'm psyched for Montana," she said enthusiastically.

He shook his head, smiled, then underhanded the ball back to his daughter.

"Sorry, Dad," she said, squinting her eyes.

"It's okay, sweetheart," said Dellenbaugh, walking to her and putting his hand on her head. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "You're lucky you're so cute."

Dellenbaugh glanced at his wife, who was rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

"Honestly, J.P., you're the biggest softie. That girl has you wrapped around her finger. How is she ever going to learn?"

"She's supposed to have me wrapped around her little finger," said Dellenbaugh, picking Sally up and walking toward the elevator.

The Dellenbaughs entered the elevator. Summer pressed a button for the first floor, and they descended. Outside the elevator, Calibrisi was standing, arms crossed, waiting. His face was ashen.

"Morning, Mr. President," said Calibrisi. "Amy, Summer, Sally, how are you?"

"Hi, Mr. Calibrisi," said Summer.

Calibrisi smiled, then shot Dellenbaugh a look.

"I'll be right there," Dellenbaugh said to his wife.

"No, I don't think you will, sir," said Calibrisi.

Amy saw the expression on Calibrisi's face. She walked toward her husband and wrapped her arms around him.

"It's okay, honey. I'll save a hot dog for you."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she whispered in his ear. "You're president of the United States. Montana will be there when you're done."

Dellenbaugh walked his family through the Map Room and outside to the South Lawn, where Marine One, the presidential helicopter, was already waiting to take the first family to Andrews Air Force Base. Behind Marine One were two more helicopters. One looked exactly like Marine One; this craft served as a combination decoy and attack chopper, lest anyone attempt an action against the president while on board Marine One. The other helicopter was the one used by the CIA director.

Dellenbaugh cut back through the Rose Garden, then through a terrace door that led into the Oval Office. Calibrisi was already seated on one of the tan Chesterfield sofas, along with Josh Brubaker, the president's national security advisor. Dellenbaugh sat down on the other sofa, across from Calibrisi.

"How bad is it?"

"Bad."

"Let's hear it."

"This is not going to be a straightforward deal, Mr. President," said Calibrisi.

"I'm not sure what you mean by that, Hector."

"What I mean is, this is developing into an attack pattern that falls squarely into the Vulnerability Matrix, sir."

Prepared for the president's eyes only, the Vulnerability Matrix was a top secret analysis coauthored by the CIA, the Pentagon, and the RAND Corporation. Every quarter, the brief, highly classified analysis laid out America's critical security vulnerabilities for the president. It was a chilling document.

Calibrisi pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to Dellenbaugh.

"I took the relevant page," said Calibrisi as Dellenbaugh grabbed it from him and quickly scanned it.

POTUS EYES ONLY.

VULNERABILITY MATRIX 997-A-554.