CIA DIRECTORTorrey Friberg stood in the east wing of the White House, staring out the window at the black D.C. sky. It was a dark day and he knew, without a question, that it would only get darker. Twenty-two years in the service of this country, and now it all threatened to blow up in his face. All on the account of one agent.

He turned away from the window and glanced at his watch. In less than five minutes they would brief the president. It was insane. Less than a week ago it had been business as usual. Now, because of one man, his career teetered on the edge of disaster.

He glanced over at Mark Ingersol, sitting with crossed legs. The man had pretty much figured things out, he assumed. With David Lunow’s help he could hardly not. But his new appointment to Special Operations would ensure that he keep this one to himself—he had too much to lose.

The door suddenly banged open and the national security advisor, Robert Masters, walked into the room with Myles Bancroft, director of Homeland Security. Bancroft held the door for the president, who walked in ahead of two aides.

Friberg stepped past Ingersol and extended his hand to the president, who took it cordially but without greeting. His gray eyes didn’t sparkle as they did for the cameras. They peered past a sharp nose—all business today. He swept a hand through his graying hair.

The president seated himself at the head of the oval table and they followed suit. “Okay, gentlemen, let’s skip the formalities. Tell me what’s going on.”

Friberg cleared his throat. “Well, sir, it appears that we have another threat on our hands. This one’s a little different. Two hours ago—”

“I know about the threat we received,” the president interrupted. “And I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it held some water. The question is how much water.”

Friberg hesitated and glanced at Bancroft. The president caught the glance. “What can you tell me about this, Myles?”

Bancroft sat forward in his seat and placed his arms on the table. “The message we received two hours ago was from a group claiming to be the Brotherhood, which, as I’m sure you know, is a terrorist organization. They originate out of Iran, but they’ve been largely inactive over the past few years—since our crackdown on Afghanistan. They’re a splinter group outside Al qaeda gone underground. They’re reportedly giving us seventy-two hours to deliver a recently defected agent to the Hotel Melia Caribe in Carabelleda, Venezuela. If within seventy-two hours the agent isn’t delivered, then the group threatens to detonate a nuclear device that it claims to have hidden in the country.”

The president waited for more, but none came. “Is this a real threat?”