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Ibrahim pointed the knife at Rodgers. "That man didn't act like a scientist. He knew just how far to go when you threatened the girl."

"As if he'd done this before, you mean," Mahmoud said. "Aywa--yes. I had that same feeling but I did not know why."

"Everyone has even been very quiet," Ibrahim said. "No one has pleaded or asked for a drink." He pointed from Pupshaw to DeVonne. "Those two took their bondage without complaint."

"As though they had been trained," Mahmoud said. "And would security guards have secreted themselves as these two did?"

"Not security guards," said Ibrahim, "but commandos." Mahmoud looked around the dark van as though he were seeing it for the first time. "But if not for research, then what is this place?"

"A reconnaissance station of some kind," Ibrahim said tentatively. Then, more confidently, he said, "Yes. I believe it could be."

Mahmoud grasped his brother's arms. "Praised by the Prophet, we can use such a thing--"

"No!" said Ibrahim. "No--"

"But it can help to get us out of Turkey," Mahmoud said. "Perhaps we can listen to military communications."

"Or they to us," Ibrahim replied. "And not from the ground but from up there." He pointed at the sideview mirror with the knife. "It is quite possible that they are already watching us, waiting to see where we move."

Mahmoud looked from his brother to Rodgers, who was bent over the pit in the floor and had resumed working on the batteries. "Abadan!" the Syrian cried. "Never! One way or another I will blind them." He snatched Ibrahim's knife from him. Turning to Mary Rose, he bent and cut away the rope which held her to the chair. Her hands and feet were still tied together and he threw her forward, onto her face. Then he handed Ibrahim the knife and knelt beside the young woman. He grabbed her hair so tightly that she screamed. He pulled his.38 from its belt holster and pressed the barrel of the gun against the base of her neck.

Rodgers stopped working again. He didn't get up.

"Hasan!" Mahmoud shouted.. "Tell the American that I know what this vehicle is. Tell him I wish to know how it works." Mahmoud sneered, "And tell him that this time he has until I count to three."

* * *

TWENTY-FOUR

Monday, 3:35 p.m.,

over Maryland

Lieutenant Robert Essex was waiting for Colonel August when the Striker chopper set down at Andrews Air Force Base. The lieutenant handed him a diskette with a pressure-sensitive piece of silver tape on top. Only August's thumbprint on the diskette, scanned by his computer, would allow him to access the data.

While August accepted the diskette, Sergeant Chick Grey hustled the sixteen-soldier Striker team onto the C-141B. A converted C-141A Lockheed StarLifter, the C141B had a fuselage which was 168 feet and four inches long--twenty-three feet, four inches longer than its predecessor. The retooling of the aircraft added flight-refueling equipment which increased the troop carrier's normal operating range of 4,080 miles.

The aircraft's crew of five helped the Strikers stow their gear. Less than eight minutes after the soldiers had arrived, the four powerful Pratt & Whitney turbofans carried the jet into the skies.

Colonel August knew that Lieutenant Colonel Squires used to chat with the crew about everything from favorite novels to flavored coffee. August understood how that could relax the team and make them feel closer and more responsive to the commander. However, that was not his style. And that was not the style he taught as a guest officer at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center. As far as he was concerned, one of the tenets of leadership was to make it impossible for the team to know you too well. If they didn't know which buttons to push, how to please you, then they had to keep trying. As his old Cong jailor used to tell him, "We keep together by keeping apart."

The poorly insulated cabin was loud and the bench was hard. That too was how August preferred things. A cold, bumpy plane ride. A landing craft in choppy waters.