Chapter 1

March, 2001, Washington DC.

Monday.

Ahmed Al-Zavad coughed quietly into the grey dawn.  He really would never get used to the cold and damp mornings in the capital of the most powerful nation in the world.  The snow was at least holding off.  He was longing to be warm again.  And after four long years, it seemed like he might finally be getting closer to fulfilling his mission.  Then he would return to his home, his family, his way of life.  Of course, first, he had to finish what he had started.  It was a bold, but dangerous plan that exposed him in ways that he would not have contemplated had he not longed for home.

He rose slowly from his prayer mat.  It was time.  His body ached, his throat was sore, he had a fever.  What was that American saying, "The show must go on," he muttered to himself.

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Across the city, the White House prepared to greet the morning.  Donatella Moss was one the first to arrive.  In her mind, she replayed her debate with Josh from yesterday on terrorism:

"Look, right or wrong -- and I think they're wrong -- it's probably a good idea to acknowledge that they have specific complaints.  The people we support; troops in Saudi Arabia; sanctions against Iraq; support for Egypt. 

     "It's not just that they don't like Irving Berlin."

     "Yes, it is," she had said.

     "No, it's not."

     "I don't know about Irving Berlin, but your ridiculous search for rational reasons why somebody strapped a bomb to their chest is ridiculous," she argued.

     "You just called me ridiculous twice in one sentence."

     "Hardly a record for me."

     "And you just made my list."

     "Nothing happens on the list."

Her last retort.  She hoped that she had been right.

In her hurry she ran directly into four men who were struggling under a heavy burden of many tools and boxes.

"I'm so sorry," she exclaimed.  Taking in what the four were carrying, she remembered that today was the day that all the bathrooms in the West Wing and the Executive Office Building were retrofitted.  Idly, she thought of the irony of this being part of Josiah Bartlet's legacy.  Somewhere in there lay the nugget of another debate with Josh on the importance of what they were doing here.

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250 miles away, Danny Concannon was in New York City, covering a story about one of the New York senators interested in entering the next Presidential race.  He was just heading out to the complimentary continental breakfast when the phone rang.

"Hello."

"Mr. Concannon is that you?  It's Joe."  Joe was an intern at the Post.  Danny wondered why he'd be calling.

"Call me Danny.  What's up Joe?"

"A man called this morning looking for you.  I think he was Australian or something...an accent, kept calling me mate. Said his name was Rocky Ayers."

Under his breath so Joe wouldn't hear, Danny muttered "Rocky Ayers, huh?  People think they're so funny."

"He said it's urgent, that you'd definitely want to talk to him because he has an important story.  I said you were out of the office, but he said it couldn't wait, even a day.  He left a number. Said to call this morning right away. He's in London I think.  Danny, do you have a pen?" Danny grabbed his notebook and a pen.

"Okay, shoot."

"4 4 0 2 0 ..."

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The Fast Flow crew gathered their tools, materials and thermoses.  A brief battle strategy was given by Drips, the foreman, and the crew dispersed.  They had a busy day ahead of them.  Even for an experienced crew such as themselves who had spent four years perfecting teamwork, this was a large job.  With purpose they moved into the halls of the building, heading off in different directions, intent on doing the best job possible in this daunting setting.

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Checking the time and calculating just how late he could be for the complimentary breakfast, Danny dialed the overseas numer.  It was answered on the first ring.

"Mr. Concannon, thank you for returning my call.  I have a story for you, a major story.  I'm sorry, but I've had a few disagreements with your government and I'm unable to meet you in the US.   You need to come here, to London."

"What's the story?"

"We can't discuss it on the phone. There's an envelope for you at the desk at your hotel.  It will cover your expenses.  There's no risk to your paper; this isn't a goose chase.  There's a Concorde flight out of Kennedy in 90 minutes so you'll need to hustle.  Find yourself a hotel for two nights in North London.  Meet me at a pub called "The Park" at 7:30.   We'll go to a football match-ah, soccer game.  Dress the part...Tottenham Hotspur, mate."

This guy was talking fast.  His tone was all business.  Danny's reporter's sense told him he was legit, but he had to try again.  "Mr. Ayers, what's the story?"

"The story is here and I'll tell you tonight.  This is not a joke.  The only thing I can tell you now is that your President and everyone who works at the White House is in danger -- life and death danger.   Once you're here, I'll tell you everything I know.  You can write a story.  Or, if you decide to, you can help me pursue it further. Unless I am misjudging you, you'll choose the latter. Once you know what is at stake, you will help me. To do that, we need to be in Saudi Arabia by day after tomorrow.  You must handle the transportation and accreditation so please start that process before leaving the US.  You can always put the breaks on if you decide just to take the story as is."  Then he paused, but Danny said nothing, having sat, abruptly, down with the mention of the danger to all in the White House.

"I have an Australian passport as Baden Walker.  I'll be your photographer.  Get us press credentials for Saudi Arabia ... Riyadh."

"Mr. Ayers...Mr. Walker, the only way I can get a press credential for Saudi Arabia in two days is if the White House requests it.  Even then ..." "Sounds good.  That's your beat, after all." "Mr. Walker ..."

"Mr. Concannon.   Tell them specifically we have interviews to conduct at the Ministry of Health and the Veterinary Disease Lab in Jeddah.  You'll have more details this evening.  Just get it going before you leave."

"Okay," Danny replied tentatively.

"One more thing ... I need you to call Jasper Jacks in Port Charles.  You may have heard of him.  Tell him a mutual friend is sick -- Simon is very ill.   Tell him he needs to go see Simon soon because the doctors say he might not make it. We should know in four or five days. Simon needs that expensive specialist, and he needs those medical supplies.  Do you have that? He'll know what that means.  Don't embellish because he won't be the only one on the line and he is expecting this specific message.  Have a nice flight.  It should be a good game tonight."

Danny hung up.  He turned to the window and looked out in the quiet, falling snow for a moment, while his brain went into overdrive.  This sounded crazy and yet it sounded like an opportunity.  The danger to those in the White House brought one Claudia Jean Cregg foremost to his mind. If CJ was in danger, what choice did he really have?  He picked up the phone again.

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As the day got into full swing at the White House, the Fast Flow guys moved swiftly through their assigned tasks. 

One moved a little slower than normal, extra thorough, making sure that he checked everything twice, touching every bolt.  He wanted to do a good job. 

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"Larry, it's Danny."

"Hey Danny, how's New York?"

"New York is nice.  I am leaving right away for London. I'm onto a much bigger story. I need you to put someone else on this."

Danny had been a White House reporter for more than eight years.  He knew that Larry would trust his nose for a scoop.

"I'll start the ball rolling at the White House to request the Saudis to authorize my trip.  I'll cover the story on behalf of the White House.  I need you to create a personnel file for a Mr. Baden Walker.  Make him an occasional contract ... a photographer.  I expect the White House to call later this morning to confirm."

"Danny, the Saudis? I thought you said London? And I need details on the guy if you want his record to stand up to a White House review."

"Yeah, the Saudis. It's complicated, and I have more calls to make before my flight. For now, just make up Walker. Find some stories we covered in the Middle East, Asia, even Indonesia. Anything in the last few years for which we can claim that Walker was engaged as a photographer."

"Make it up?"

"Yeah, we'll be in and out of Saudi Arabia before they can check out the information and they probably won't anyway. Larry, he's not my photographer, he's my source...and my guide.  There's no story without him."