"Wait a minute, Shane," Tarrington said. "We don't know anything for sure. It does look like Steve Johnson, but that should be impossible. He's dead."

"But . . . this. . . ." Shane waved the photo. He understood the picture was poor quality, but it certainly looked like Steve. "When was this taken?"

"36 hours ago. The compound is located near Siwa, in western Egypt, not too far from the Libyan border." Tarrington looked at Shane. "We think it's run by Alamain."

"Lawrence? What does he have going in Egypt?"

Tarrington explained. "The compound's a makeshift science and medical facility. Our European agents tracking the virus found about the facility. We no longer think the virus was tested there, but they investigated the compound anyway. That photo came out of their investigation."

Shane studied the photograph again. It couldn't possibly be Steve, but if it wasn't, it was a blurry twin brother of his. "So if it's Steve, he could have the virus?"

"It's possible. We have no idea."

Shane thought some more. "Egypt's a friendly nation."

"You're starting to see the ISA's problem."

Yes, Shane could see the problem. Attacking the compound could destroy diplomatic ties between the U.S. and Egypt, and with things so volatile in the Middle East after the Gulf War, losing ties with Egypt would be disastrous. "So why did you bring this to me?"

"Johnson was working with you when he was killed," Tarrington said. "Plus, he's been part of your family. If there is a raid, it would be 'Shane Donovan's mission to rescue a friend.'"

"The ISA wouldn't be involved at all?" Shane asked, trying to make sense of that possibility. There was no way he could go into a compound like that on his own. He needed a team, aerial support, weapons, and intelligence.

"No, of course, the ISA would give you everything you need for an assault, Shane." Tarrington walked over to the bar and began fixing himself a brandy. "But there's a catch. If word gets out to anyone that this was an ISA mission, we'll be forced to disavow the report. This would be a rogue operation and you'd be a rogue agent. And-"

"And my career with the ISA would be over." Shane finished the sentence for Tarrington.

Tarrington nodded. "That's if you're lucky. You could also be charged with espionage, but the ISA attorneys have concluded it might be tough to get a conviction."

"Thank goodness for small favors," Shane muttered.

"But in this political climate, who knows? And that's assuming you survive the rescue mission."

"Tarrington, are you trying to convince me not to do this?" Shane realized he was pacing back and forth in front of the couch. The same couch where, only 15 minutes earlier, the woman he loved had been dreaming of the man who appeared to be in the picture.

"Shane." Tarrington took a sip of his brandy. "I'm telling you this so you can make your decision with a full understanding of the risks involved. It may not even be Johnson. We would understand if you chose not to risk your life and career on a mere suspicion."

Shane set the photograph down on his desk and ran his hands through his hair. "When do I have to decide?"

"Our analysts say Sunday night/Monday morning presents optimal conditions for a nighttime attack. Good weather, no moon. We should be able to drop your team within five miles of the compound without detection." Tarrington paused. "If we don't go Sunday, the next possible date is at least a month away, and we can't predict weather conditions, so you'll need to decide by tomorrow."

Not a lot of time to decide, Shane thought, but he understood. Sunday was only five days away. "What kind of team would I have?"

"You'd have an ODA from the Fifth Special Forces Group. They're skilled in desert operations."

Shane shook his head. An Operational Detachment Alpha or "A-team" was a highly-trained special forces unit. Green Berets. "How would you explain a rogue ISA agent getting an A-team to do an unsanctioned mission?"

"Their involvement will never be revealed," Tarrington said. His tone made it clear that Shane would be expected to keep that secret as well, even if he faced charges. "Nor would the aerial support. Two Blackhawks would take you in and be available for extraction once you've located Johnson and brought him out or, if you find out the man isn't Johnson, to bring you and the team out without him."

Shane took a deep breath. "Let me sleep on it, Tarrington. I'll give you an answer in the morning."

"Of course." Tarrington set down his now-empty brandy snifter and headed toward the door. "I'll see myself out."

Shane walked back over to the desk, picked up the photograph and studied it intently. The man looked like Steve, but long hair and an eye-patch was pretty minimal evidence on which to risk his life and career.

And in the back of his mind, there was a thought that he was trying to ignore, namely, that if he succeeded in the mission, he would lose the woman he loved. Yet if he declined the mission and continued his relationship with Kayla, he would have to live with the deception, the knowledge that her true love might still be alive and suffering.

It was a Morton's fork if ever there was one. Either choice had an undesirable outcome.

Shane took another look at the photo, then walked over to the brandy decanter and poured himself a large drink. He had asked Tarrington to let him sleep on it, but Shane knew there was no chance that he would sleep that night.