Monday

"A new weapon."

The slim man in a conservative suit eased forward and lowered his voice. "Something terrible. And our sources are certain it will be used this coming Saturday morning. They're certain of that."

"Four days," said retired Colonel James J. Peterson, his voice grave. It was now 5:00 p.m. on Monday.

The two men sat in Peterson's nondescript office, in a nondescript building in the suburban town of Reston, Virginia, about twenty-five miles from Washington, D.C. There's a misconception that national security operations are conducted in high-tech bunkers filled with sweeping steel and structural concrete, video screens ten feet high and attractive boys and babes dressed by Armani.

This place, on the other hand, looked like an insurance agency.

The skinny man, who worked for the government, added, "We don't know if we're talking conventional, nuke or something altogether new. Probably mass destruction, we've heard. It can do quote 'significant' damage.'"

"Who's behind this weapon? Al-Qaeda? The Koreans? Iranians?"

"One of our enemies. That's all we know at this point...So, we need you to find out about it. Money is no object, of course."

"Any leads?"

"Yes, a good one--an Algerian who knows who formulated the weapon. He met with them last week in Tunis. He's a professor and journalist."

"Terrorist?"

"He doesn't seem to be. His writings have been moderate in nature. He's not openly militant. But our local sources are convinced he's had contact with the people who created the weapon and plan to use it."

"You have a picture?"

A photograph appeared as if by magic from the slim man's briefcase and slid across the desk like a lizard.

Colonel Peterson leaned forward.

Tuesday

Chabbi music drifted from a nearby café, lost intermittently in the sounds of trucks and scooters charging frantically along this commercial street of Algiers.

The driver of the white van, a swarthy local, stifled a sour face when the music changed to American rock. Not that he actually preferred the old-fashioned, melodramatic chabbi tunes or thought they were more politically or religiously correct than Western music. He just didn't like Britney Spears.

Then the big man stiffened and tapped the shoulder of the man next to him, an American. Their attention swung immediately out the front window to a curly-haired man in his thirties, wearing a light-colored suit, walking out of the main entrance of the Al-Jazier School for Cultural Thought.

The man in the passenger seat nodded. The driver called "Ready" in English and then repeated the command in Berber-accented Arabic. The two men in the back responded affirmatively.

The van, a battered Ford that sported Arabic letters boasting of the city's best plumbing services, eased forward, trailing the man in the light suit. The driver had no trouble moving slowly without being conspicuous. Such was the nature of traffic here in the old portion of this city, near the harbor.

As they approached a chaotic intersection, the passenger spoke into a cell phone. "Now."

The driver pulled nearly even with the man they followed, just as a second van, dark blue, in the oncoming lane, suddenly leapt the curb and slammed directly into the glass window of an empty storefront, sending a shower of glass onto the sidewalk as bystanders gaped and came running.

By the time the crowds on rue Ahmed Bourzina helped the driver of the blue van extricate his vehicle from the...