FIFTY EIGHT.

    It wasn't quite 7:00 on Wednesday morning when David entered the tiny garage behind the house he was renting. Inside was a stripped-down white Ford minivan with no seats or windows in the rear passenger area. David had done all of his dry runs without the van. Even though he was confident the bomb wouldn't go off unless it was armed, he erred on the side of caution and kept it locked up in the garage. As he slid the key into the ignition he couldn't help but catch himself worrying that starting the engine might bring about a premature end to his plans.

    The concern was foolish. He'd read all the manuals all nauseam.

    There were ample materials available on explosives if one was willing to look, and besides, his people had become experts on bombs over the last two decades. The more difficult aspect of the plan had been obtaining the amount of explosives he needed and then getting them into the Unite States. The now deceased General Hamza had been kind enough to supply him with three separate shipments of Iraqi-made Semtex, a very powerful plastic explosive, and then using a series of export companies he had shipped a large cargo container from Jordan to Indonesia and then finally to the busy port of Los Angeles.

    From there the container had made its way east to Richmond Virginia where it sat in a storage facility for two months while David made sure it wasn't being watched. Twelve forty-pound blocks of the clay like Semtex sat in the back of the van under a canvas painters' tarp.

    Underneath the tarp was a maze of detcord and blasting caps that would ensure the near simultaneous detonation of the 480 pounds of explosives.

    David backed up slowly until he reached the street and then headed south. Due to all the government jobs, D.C. was not a city of early risers and the traffic was still light. He cut down a cross street and then turned the van onto Georgia Avenue. A short while later he passed Howard University and then Georgia turned into 7th Street. He was now less than a mile from the White House. After stopping for a red light he took a right onto Rhode Island and continued in the right lane avoiding as many potholes as he could.

    He was more nervous now than when he had killed Ali. There was something about D.C. All the cameras and various law enforcement agencies each presented the possibility of capture. To David it was truly unbelievable that a city with so many cops in it could have such a high murder rate, but that was America.

    He tried not to be overly optimistic about his odds of succeeding.

    He'd covered his tracks diligently and monitored the FBI's Web site hourly waiting for a photograph of him to appear at any moment, but it hadn't. They had no idea who he was, and if the papers were to be believed, the entire world, even the Americans, believed that the Israelis were responsible for the assassination of Ambassador Ali. Everything was going according to plan. Now all he needed to do was make one last grand statement. An act of pure violence that would force Israel to concede.

    He turned onto the desired street less than a quarter mile from the White House and slowed for a car that had abruptly pulled out in front of him. David continued north for two more blocks in search of the optimal parking place. Much of the credit for this last bold move had to be given to Omar. He had convinced David that the best way to force Israel to the table was to enrage the Americans. Spill blood on their soil and watch them lose their patience with Israel.

    Now more than ever David was convinced it would work. The French Ambassador to the UN was scheduled to bring a resolution for Palestinian statehood before the Security Council at 11:00 this morning.

    So far everyone was onboard, minus the United States, but unfortunately that wasn't enough. As a permanent member of the Council, the American Ambassador had veto power. As things stood right now, the Americans were not ready to back the French resolution, but that was about to change. After David was done this morning the vote would probably have to be postponed, but its odds of passing would be greatly increased.

    David carefully parallel-parked the van and then plugged the meter with enough quarters to last into the afternoon. Standing next to the parking meter he took one last look at the van and made sure he'd done everything. The tabs were up-to-date, the meter was full and the bomb could not be seen from the front window: As casually as his nerves would allow, he turned and began walking away from the vehicle.

    He would wait to arm the bomb when he got back to the house.

    After he was sure his target was on the way.