FIFTY SEVEN.

    The sun was down and rush hour was over as Rapp turned onto the Chain Bridge and hit the gas. His turbo Volvo S80 shot across the low-slung bridge like a rocket. When he reached the other side he hung a right and again floored it. He was already fifteen minutes late for his 8:00 dinner date with his wife. At Reservoir Road he hung a left and shot across a lane of traffic and into a residential neighborhood just north and west of Georgetown University.

    Anna had picked the restaurant. It was in Glover Park on Wisconsin Avenue. Austin Grill was a little hole in the wall that served great margaritas and decent Mexican food. Unfortunately, Rapp wouldn't be drinking any margaritas tonight; as soon as dinner was over he'd have to head right back to Langley. They were no closer to finding out who Prince Omar's minion was than they were eight hours ago.

    Kennedy had given them the green light to bring in the counterterrorism people at the FBI, but had decided against alerting France or Israel. Bourne had done a routine search through Interpol's database, shuffling John Doe's photograph in with a half dozen others they were interested in. The intent was to make Interpol think it was a standard query, and nothing to get excited about. Against everyone's hopes, the search came up empty.

    The pressure from the White House wasn't helping. If they didn't know more by tomorrow morning, Rapp was prepared to get on a plane and fly to France. He had a few ideas about how he could crack this thing open and his best hope lay with Prince Omar's personal assistant, the effeminate Devon LeClair. The Brits had provided a brief bio of the man, and it appeared he was the most likely person to handle Omar's nefarious activities. Rapp was willing to bet he could get the guy to crack inside of five minutes. In the meantime he'd given Dumond orders to take a close look at the Frenchman.

    Rapp took a left onto 37th Street, braking for several students who were lolly gagging in the crosswalk and then accelerated up the hill.

    Less than a minute later he turned, heading south onto Wisconsin Avenue and grabbed the first available spot. Climbing out of the car he winced slightly as he put weight on his bad leg and then did a quick three hundred and sixty degree check of the area.

    Rapp entered the bar with the collar of his jacket turned up and his head down, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. He squeezed past the young crowd that was bellied up to the bar. Even on a Tuesday night the place did great business. With every step he scanned faces and checked things out. He headed for the balcony where they always sat and hobbled up the stairs.

    Just like a good girl he found his wife sitting in the corner with her back to the wall. Rapp smiled without hesitation, his deeply tanned face showing a pair of creased dimples. He hurried over to her and said, "Sorry I'm late, honey."

    Anna smiled and offered her lips. She was usually the one who was late so she couldn't complain.

    Rapp kissed her and took off his jacket, careful not to let his suit coat open too far and alarm any of the other patrons by revealing the gun in his shoulder holster. He took a seat next to his wife so they both had their backs to the wall. Taking her hand he asked, "How was your day?"

    Anna took a drink of water and said, "Pretty hectic. People are really freaking out about the Palestinian Ambassador."

    "Tell me about it," responded Rapp.

    "I heard the President went ballistic when he found out."

    Rapp thought about it for a second.

    "He wasn't happy, but I don't think I'd describe it as going ballistic."

    Anna wasn't sure if her husband was spinning her or telling the truth.

    "You guys have any idea who did it?"

    "We've got a few leads…"

    "Nothing you can talk about," finished Anna.

    Rapp smiled and kissed her again.

    "You're figuring this game out."

    She laughed and said, "Oh, I'm not done with you yet." Staring at him with her emerald eyes she said, "The word on the street is that the President thinks the Israelis are responsible."

    Inside Rapp felt his gut tighten. The President had no business letting a rumor like this get started. At this point, any suspicion aimed at Israel was based on the President's hatred and distrust of Ben Freidman and nothing more. What little evidence they had pointed in a very different direction, and one that he could not share with his wife.

    "We have very little to go on right now, but I don't think the Israelis did it."

    A waitress showed up at the table and dropped off a red, white and blue swirly margarita. She asked Rapp what he wanted and as tempted as he was to follow suit, he settled for a bottle of Lone Star beer instead.

    When the waitress was gone, Anna asked, "Why don't you think Israel did it?"

    Rapp frowned.

    "Let's change the subject. How's your mother?"

    Anna took a sip of her drink and said, "You never ask about my mother."

    "That's not true. How is she doing?"

    "She's fine… now tell me why you don't think the Israelis did it."

    Rapp was about to put up the stone wall and then remembered where it had gotten him lately. She was his wife and as long as he didn't get into details, there was probably no harm in explaining his opinion.

    "I know a lot of Israelis, and although they're a little crazy at times, they are far from stupid. Unless there's something about Ambassador Ali that we don't know, I see no benefit to Mossad taking him out."

    "Unless," said And, "they feel so isolated their only choice was to lash out."

    Rapp was already shaking his head.

    "Not here in the United States."

    "What if they're thumbing their nose at the UN?" Anna took another sip.

    "Why not kill him when he's in the West Bank and avoid offending their one true ally?"

    "Maybe they couldn't get at him when he's in the West Bank?"

    Rapp laughed. His wife obviously knew very little of Mossad's capabilities.

    "Trust me, Mossad could have taken him down any one of a dozen times in the last year."

    "Well," Anna said a bit defensively, "I'm hearing the President is pretty convinced it was the Israelis."

    Rapp was tempted to tell his wife that the President didn't know what in the hell he was talking about, but discretion won out and he simply said, "We'll know a lot more in a few days, and until then I think we should all keep our theories to ourselves."

    Anna smelled dissension and pounced.

    "So the CIA and the President are in disagreement."

    Smiling and shaking his head, he said, "You're awful. I never said any such thing. You asked your husband his personal opinion and that's what I gave you. In no way does it reflect the official opinion of either the President or the CIA."

    Anna made a funny face while sucking on her straw. When she came up for air she said, "Nice try. I'm going to lead the news with it in the morning." She held her drink in front of her mouth like a microphone.

    Using her fake on-air voice she said, "Breaking news here at the White House. Major dissension between President Hayes and the CIA."

    Rapp almost took the bait and then caught himself.

    "By the way, aren't you wondering how my ass is doing?"

    Anna shook her head.

    "Nope. Your current ailment is nobody's fault but your own. You'll get no sympathy from me."

    Rapp pulled a woebegone face.

    "My doctor tells me I might never be able to have sex again."

    Anna tried her best not to smile.

    "The divorce papers will be on your desk in the morning."

    Rapp burst out laughing. It was the first time in several days and it felt great. As he looked into his wife's eyes he wished he didn't have to go back to the office, but he did. He had to find out who this guy was and when he did he would demand that the President allow him to launch an operation that set an example, an operation that would send a warning to people who wanted to finance terrorism. He knew the President would be reluctant to grant him the authority to do what he wanted, so he would have to work that much harder to make sure he had overwhelming evidence and sound reason on his side.