SPECIAL AGENT SKIP Mcmahon of the FBI looked down at the White House from the Secret Service's Joint Operations Center on the fifth floor of the Executive Office Building.
From his vantage point he could count the bodies of nine Secret Service officers. He had been told there were more on the other side of the building, but an accurate number was impossible to ascertain. Even now, four hours after the attack, information was sparse. No one knew what was going on inside the building.
Mcmahon was a twenty-six-year veteran of the FBI who had seen it all, or at least he thought he had. He had started with the Bureau right out of college and after doing a four-year stint investigating bank robberies in Las Vegas he was moved back to Washington, where he started working counterintelligence cases. After almost a decade of chasing spies he was moved into the FBI's violent crimes unit. It was a transfer that led to the downfall of his marriage and almost his career. The former defensive tackle for Perm State had quickly found that he had a knack for getting inside the twisted minds of the individuals he was charged with catching. Six years of sloshing through the septic tank of American society had taken its toll. Mcmahon had been asked one too many times to step into the shoes of a serial killer and visualize how some sick pervert had abducted, raped, tortured, and then killed an innocent little girl.
Fortunately for Mcmahon he had seen the writing on the wall and gotten out before the job destroyed him. Mcmahon had recently been put in charge of the Bureau's Critical Incident Response Group, or CIRG, which was the lead organization in resolving hostage situations. The FBI's elite Hostage Rescue Team, or HRT, was under his command along with another half dozen investigative and support units. But not once in the hundreds of meetings that Mcmahon had attended on urban terrorism had he ever heard someone postulate that the White House was vulnerable to a full-scale assault.
Mcmahon shifted his attention from terra firma to the horizon. On a more immediate note, he was not happy with the current command-and-control situation. Both FBI and Secret Service sniper teams occupied every rooftop within a block of the White House. Each team reporting to and taking orders from its own agency. In short, it was not the way to handle a crisis, and it was something that needed to be rectified immediately.
A female agent standing next to Mcmahon held her watch in front of his face.
"You'd better get moving. The meeting is in twenty minutes."
Mcmahon nodded. With sagging shoulders, he looked at the fallen officers on the South Lawn and asked, "What's the body count?"
Special Agent Kathy Jennings looked at a small notebook and said, "We have it at eighteen, with God only knows how many more inside the building." Mcmahon shook his head as he took in the carnage. He looked tired, and the crisis was only in its infancy. After a moment, he turned and headed for the door. Mcmahon dreaded attending meetings with the bigwigs. On his way out, he thanked several of the Secret Service agents for allowing him to take a look from their vantage point.
Jennings followed a half step behind, and as soon as she was sure no one could hear, she said, "I don't think they were too happy to see us. Do you think they know we're going to be running the show?"
"I don't know. They've lost at least eighteen men… probably double that, and the White House is their baby." Mcmahon turned for the stairs and started down.
"But they're not set up for this kind of thing. This is clearly ..
Jennings stopped talking for a second as they passed two Secret Service officers who were on their way up the stairs. In a lower voice, she continued, "This is clearly the Bureau's territory. It's a domestic terrorist activity."
"A lot of people are going to want to stick their hands in this pie before it's over."
"Like who?"
"Like the United States military, and again, the Secret Service."
The confident young agent shook her head in disagreement.
"The military is forbidden from .. "started Jennings.
Mcmahon raised his hand and stopped her.
"Save the lecture for one of your law-school buddies. "The senior agent was very proud of the fact that he was one of the few people in the Bureau without an accounting or law degree. "I'm talking reality here, and I'm talking from experience. Why do you think this meeting is being held at the Pentagon?
"Mcmahon let her think about the question while they descended another flight.
"If we're so clearly in charge, why isn't this meeting being held at the Hoover Building or over at Justice?" Jennings slowly started to see his point and nodded as they reached the first floor. While they continued toward the Seventeenth Street exit, Mcmahon said, "While I'm at the Pentagon, I want you to get the mobile command post in order. Get the shift changes set up, and don't take any crap from anyone."
With his voice raised an octave, he added, "And you tell those clowns I'm in a surly mood, and that when I get back from this stupid dog-and-pony show, I'm going to be looking to blow a little steam."
Mcmahon's temper was well known among his fellow law-enforcement officers at the Bureau.
"No one works longer than an eight-hour shift unless I authorize it, and I don't want people loitering around when their shifts are over. We could be here for weeks, and I don't want burned-out people sitting at the controls."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah. Make sure HRT gets priority on everything. I want them in position ASAP!"
THE EXPENSIVE SUIT was gone, replaced by drab green military fatigues, a holstered pistol, and a gas mask that was secured to his web belt.
Rafique Aziz sat at the head of the long table and stared at the bank of television sets located on the far wall of the Situation Room. Three of the six TVS were tuned to the major networks, and a fourth was tuned to CNN. all of them were covering the White House crisis from their studios in New York and with live shots from across the street at Lafayette Square.
Much of aziz's original anger at missing the president had dissipated.
With typical thoroughness, Aziz had prepared for this contingency, and if given enough time, everything could still be achieved. Now he had to at least allow himself a moment of satisfaction. He had done it. He controlled the most famous and decadent symbol of the West. He had taken his jihad, his holy war, to the heart of the enemy, and once he pried the president from his bunker, he would be able to complete his plan. No longer would America meddle in the affairs of the Arab world.
There was a knock on the door, and without turning, Aziz said, "Enter."
The usually stoic Muammar Bengazi walked into the room with a smile on his face, an AK-74 slung over his shoulder, and a notepad in his left hand. He approached Aziz and said, "We are in complete control of the building. As you ordered, all outer walls and points of entry have been wired with explosive charges. "A gleam appeared in the terrorist's eye.
"And as you predicted, we also have control of the Secret Service's weapons and security system." Bengazi stepped forward and placed his hands on the back of one of the table's chairs.
"As ordered, I have taken their perimeter system off-line. We are using only their rooftop-mounted cameras and have disconnected the computers from their modems. They are no longer feeding their headquarters with images."
"Good. I do not trust them. With all of their technology, who knows how they might have tried to trick us."
Bengazi nodded in agreement.
"As you requested." He handed Aziz the notepad that was under his left arm.
"Here is a list of all the hostages by name and position. I circled the most important ones."
Aziz leaned back in the chair and flipped through the pages, his chin resting on his chest.
"Seventy-six total hostages."
"That is correct."
Aziz found what he was looking for on the third page—it was the name of the first person he would kill. He tapped the name with his finger and then asked, "How many Secret Service agents?"
"I did not include them with the seventy-six hostages. They are on the next page. Nine alive, four of whom are in need of medical attention. We also have several marines and other military types mixed in with them."
"Do you have them separated from the others?"
Yes. They are upstairs, as you planned."
"Bound and hooded?
"Aziz asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Of course."
"Have any of the civilians tried to distinguish themselves as leaders?"
"None so far."
Flipping the notebook back to the first page, Aziz said, "When the first one stands up"—he held up his forefinger-"and tries to show bravado, I want you to come and get me. I will deal with him personally. We are spread thin enough as it is. I do not want to have to worry about some cowboy giving us trouble from within."
Bengazi nodded and suggested, "I think it might be a good idea to let the civilians go to the bathroom."
Aziz looked at his watch. It was a reasonable request, and one that would help calm them.
"Fine, but leave the Secret Service agents and the marines to wallow in their own excrement."
"Yes, Rafique. Do you wish to inspect the explosives?"
"No. I trust that you have done your job. Now I have to make a phone call." Aziz pointed at the TV.
"They are getting ready to meet at their Pentagon."
Bengazi nodded.
"If you do not need me for anything else, I have some details to attend to."
"One more thing," said Aziz, as he tilted his chin upward.
"How is our little thief coming along?"
"All of his equipment is in place, and he has started work."
With a shrug, Bengazi added, "He tells me he is on schedule."
"Good. Keep an eye on him." Aziz lowered his chin.
"He is, after all, not one of us."
"I told him not to go anywhere other than the bathroom unless he calls me first," Bengazi said with a smile.
"I told him there are booby traps everywhere and I wouldn't want him to accidentally set one off."
With a smile, Aziz placed a flat hand on his radio and said, "If I need anything, I will call." He watched Bengazi start for the door and said,
"Muammar, relax. They will not be coming tonight. The politicians are in charge right now. They will keep the FBI at bay until we are ready."
Bengazi nodded. "I know; you told me how things would proceed, but the time for them to attack would be now, before we get settled in. The hostages are still strong and fresh. They could give us trouble. In three days we will have them weakened and confused. If I were them, I would attack now."
Aziz grinned at his friend.
"You have to understand how Washington works. The military will advise to move quickly and with overwhelming force, but the politicians will want to move with caution."
"What about the FBI?"
"They will stay in the middle and take orders like they always do.
Relax, my friend, they will not be coming for a while.. With a look of amusement, Aziz added, "In fact, I will probably have to provoke them into attacking."
Bengazi raised his thick eyebrows.
"When the time is right."
Precisely. You are wearing the special clothes I gave you?"
Bengazi shook his head.
"No."
"Why not?" asked Aziz with a touch of anger.
"I don't feel right abandoning the other men if it comes to that."
"The plan will not work if everybody is in on it, Muammar.
I am ordering you to put them on. If the Americans come, it is our only chance." Bengazi nodded reluctantly and then left. Aziz watched him go and thought about his plan for escape. It had a chance of working. Some things had to go their way, but at the very least, it gave them a fighting chance. If he could just get his hands on the president, none of it would matter.
Aziz returned his attention to the TVS, where the networks were now talking to their Pentagon reporters. He grabbed the remote and turned up the volume on the TV carrying CNN.
Aziz listened as the correspondent announced that the vice president and other federal authorities were holding an emergency meeting at the Pentagon. The terrorist smiled as he looked around the opulent Situation Room. Such meetings were usually held in the very room he occupied.
THE JOINT CHIEFS briefing room is located in the inner sanctum of the monolithic five-sided building that houses the United States Department of Defense—the E Ring. The wide hallway that cuts in front of the modern crisis center is cluttered with more stars and bars than any other government building or military base in the world. Colonels and captains that walk the corridor find themselves saluting as often as a private fresh out of basic training. The E Ring is not known for being a lighthearted, casual workplace, and on this particular day the mood had taken on an even more serious tone.
Two marines stood post by the wide double doors as Washington's biggest players filed into the soon bristling room.
With aides in tow, the president's entire cabinet trickled into the room until it was filled almost to capacity. The secretary of the interior was first, followed by the secretary of health and human services, and then the secretary of state. Within five minutes the entire cabinet had arrived, minus the attorney general. The room quickly took on the sound of a crowded bar as aides talked to their bosses and propped them on the most recent news.
When FBI Director Roach and Special Agent Skip Mcmahon entered the room, they were hit with a flurry of questions. Fortunately for Roach and Mcmahon, General Flood entered the room with the other members of the Joint Chiefs just seconds later. Flood walked to the far end of the table and placed a large black ceramic coffee mug on the table.
"Everyone take a seat." Flood's commanding voice carried through the large room, and the talking was instantly reduced to a trickle.
"Let's go, people." Flood clapped his hands together and pointed at the chairs arranged around the forty-foot rectangular conference table.
"We have a lot of work to do."
As the attendees took their seats. Vice President Baxter entered the room with Attorney General Tutwiler and Dallas King. The three of them proceeded to the opposite end of the table from General Flood, where chairs had been saved for them. The secretary of state, a close friend of President Hayes, leaned over and immediately began asking Baxter just what in the hell was going on. While he was doing so, CIA director Stansfield entered the room with Irene Kennedy and Mitch Rapp. Flood pointed to three seats near his end of the huge table and then motioned for one of his aides to close the doors.
An Army major walked over to the tall double doors and swung them closed with a finality that let everyone know the meeting was starting.
"People," announced Flood, "I'm not going to pussyfoot around on this.
There are a lot of rumors going around about what happened over at the White House this morning—some of them scratch the surface, but most of them are way off base.
Here is what happened. At approximately oh-nine-hundred a group of terrorists attacked and took control of the White House."
Before Flood could continue, the room erupted into a series of fragmented conversations and expletives.
"People!" bellowed Flood, restoring order.
"We have a lot of ground to cover, so keep a lid on it." Flood angrily eyeballed the group, daring someone to defy him. After making sure everyone understood implicitly that his patience was thin, the general continued.
"As I was saying, this group is in control of the White House and holds an unknown number of hostages the only good news we have in all of this is that President Hayes was safely evacuated to his bunker during the raid.
Communications have been cut, but we know the president is safe. This brings us to our first point of order. It is obvious that President Hayes is not in a position to discharge his duties as commander in chief. So, according to the Twenty-fifth Amendment, the powers of the president of the United States have been transferred to Vice President Baxter until such time as President Hayes may resume his duties. I have been informed that the majority of the cabinet has agreed to this, and I apologize to those of you who could not be reached earlier, but things have been rather hectic."
The general brought his hands together and clasped them tightly in front of his chest.
"Let us be clear about this. For the time being. Vice President Baxter is the acting president and the commander in chief of our armed forces."
Flood again looked around the substantial table, giving the group a moment for thought, and then added, "However, for reasons of clarity, we will continue to refer to him as Vice President Baxter. Are we all clear on this?"
General Flood waited a brief moment to see if anyone was crazy enough to draw his are and then looked to his left at the director of the Secret Service.
"Director Tracy is now going to give us the specifics on what transpired this morning. Again, hold all questions until he is done."
A solemn-faced director of the Secret Service stood and walked to the podium located at General Flood's end of the table. Alex Tracy was a squat man with a sizable head and the standard amount of intensity required to run one of the world's finest law-enforcement agencies.
Tracy walked toward the podium with the enthusiasm of a man being sent to the gallows.
He set a file on the top shelf and placed his hands on the sides. With a look of exhaustion and a shaky voice, he started.
"Late last night DNC Chairman Piper called over to the White House and obtained a meeting with the president. That meeting was scheduled for this morning at nine. White House staff broke with Secret Service policy and granted Piper and his guest a meeting without giving us time to run a background check on the chairman's guest. We now know that guest to be Rafique Aziz, the world-renowned terrorist." Tracy looked up at no one in particular and then continued.
"It appears that Aziz approached the Democratic National Committee under the assumed identity of a Prince Kalib of Oman.
Aziz gave a five-hundred-thousand-dollar check to the party and, in return, requested that he meet with the president personally."
This time when he paused, the director focused his look more precisely on the group of politicians at the far end of the table.
Almost every cabinet member was a Democrat, and a murmur broke out as they shot each other anxious looks. This little nugget of information had "congressional investigation" written all over it.
Tracy continued after about six seconds.
"Aziz and Chairman Piper arrived at the White House this morning at about the same time that we received a tip from the CIA that the White House was targeted for a terrorist attack. Whileaziz and Piper were entering the White House, a locally contracted linen truck arrived at the Treasury Building, as it does every morning, Monday through Friday.
In a complete breakdown of security, the truck was allowed admittance into the underground parking facility by a uniformed Secret Service officer without being properly inspected." Tracy forced himself to straighten his posture. Out of sheer embarrassment he paused and looked down at his notes. Aziz getting into the White House could be blamed on Chairman Piper, but the truck was the Secret Service's fault.
"It appears the back of this truck was loaded with an unknown number of terrorists and equipment that was used to breach the security of the Treasury tunnel.
This was a major breakdown on the part of my agency, and we have already started an internal investigation." Tracy looked down the length of the table at Vice President Baxter.
"We will have a preliminary report ready by this evening."
Looking back to his notes, he continued, "After receiving the tip from the CLAJACK Warch, the special agent in charge of the president's detail, left his office in the EOB and went over to the West Wing to consult with President Hayes. When Warch arrived. Piper and his guest were already in the Oval Office. As soon as Warch found out about the unauthorized visit, he entered the Oval Office to check on the president.
After that things happened very fast. A sniper on the roof of the Washington Hotel opened fire on the Secret Service officers posted on the roof of the White House. Within seconds the outer door to the Treasury tunnel was breached, and Warch ordered the president's evacuation to his bunker. As many of you know, the old bunker at the White House dates back to World War Two and is really nothing more than a reinforced tunnel. Construction of a new bunker, located in the third basement of the mansion, was completed this past January. The Army Corps of Engineers did the work. They used the standard military design that has been incorporated into all of our command-and-control centers…
Excuse me." Tracy turned his head to the side and coughed.
"This new facility is not, however, fully operational. The actual construction of the bunker is completed. Its biological, chemical, and radioactive filtration systems are in place and operational, but its communications package has not been installed. That was to take place this summer. The bunker has been stocked, however, with rations and other necessities." Tracy was slowly gaining back some of his normal confidence.
"We know with one hundred percent certainty that Special Agent Warch succeeded in evacuating President Hayes, Valerie Jones, and eight other Secret Service agents to the White House's basement bunker. Up until approximately nine-fifteen we were in contact with the bunker via our encrypted radios, and then all communication was severed. My technical advisers have informed me that the terrorists are using a jammer to block the radio signals.
"We have confirmed that eighteen secret service agents and officers have been killed and fifteen are unaccounted for."
Tracy's voice wavered slightly.
"We assume that the fifteen have either been killed or are being held hostage. "Tracy felt a lump forming in his throat and paused to collect himself. After thumbing through his notes for several seconds, he continued, "Our best estimates are that aziz and his men hold somewhere between eighty and one hundred hostages, with an unknown number of fatalities. We have secured the perimeter of the White House, and our counter assault team is in place and prepared to retake the building if and when you ask them to do so." Tracy closed his file and again looked down the length of the table at Vice President Baxter. He finished by saying, "The only good news I have to report is that the president is safe. I have spoken to the engineers who built the new bunker, and they say there is no way Aziz can get to him."
Vice President Baxter sat leaning back in his chair with one hand under his chin and the other dangling from his armrest.
He and Dallas had rehearsed this next part. As a newcomer to the unique power circles of Washington, he needed to let everyone in the room know he was in charge. An example had to be set, and Tracy's head was on the chopping block. Baxter kept his eyes on Tracy, as he uncrossed his legs and let his chair tilt forward. In a voice devoid of compassion, he asked, "Director Tracy, would you mind explaining to me how in the hell something like this could happen?"
Tracy stood silent at the podium, a little caught off guard by the bluntness of the question. Vice President Baxter looked at him while drumming his fingers on the table. After a long moment, Baxter said,
"Director Tracy, your agency has failed our country miserably. You have put us in dire straits, and now you stand before us with nothing to say." Baxter looked around the table trying to build a mood of consensus. "I have decided that the FBI will relieve your people as soon as Director Roach can have his agents in place." Baxter turned to look at FBI director Roach.
Secret Service Director Tracy's embarrassment was quickly replaced by anger.
"Sir," he protested, "the White House falls under the Secret Service's jurisdiction. We are—" Baxter raised his voice and cut Tracy off.
"I have been advised by the attorney general that although the White House normally falls under the purview of the Secret Service, it is still a federal building and that makes it the FBI's territory."
"But my men have an intimate knowledge of the building and its grounds," stated Tracy in earnest.
"We have agents that are being held hostage…"
Baxter shook his head vigorously, "Director Tracy, the Secret Service had its chance, and they have failed… miserably, I might add."
The humiliating public rebuke caused Tracy's cheeks to flush. He couldn't believe it was happening. He had worked in Washington for twenty-nine years and had seen countless others thrown to the lions in situations far less serious than this. He should have seen it coming, but everything had happened so fast. He had spent the last several hours worrying about the men he had lost, not the political fallout of the crisis. Tracy stood a little straighter and tried to salvage some honor.
"We saved the president's life today and lost at least eighteen of our own men… I would hardly—" Baxter slammed a fist to the table, and with a rage no one in the room had witnessed before, other than King and Tutwiler, he cut Director Tracy off in mid-sentence.
"You have lost the White House, and you have embarrassed the entire country!" Baxter glared at Tracy a moment longer and then sat back in his chair. After taking a deep breath, he reined himself in a notch and continued in a quieter but equally firm voice, "I have consulted with Treasury Secretary Rose and have decided I want your resignation on his desk before I address the nation tonight." Shaking his head, Baxter added, "It is entirely beyond me how you could have let this happen."
Rather than cowering, the tenacious director stood his ground. The combination of the murder of his people and becoming the sacrificial lamb to satisfy the media sent Tracy's blood pressure shooting upward.
Baxter had no idea what it was like to devote one's life to the pride-sucking job of guarding men such as him, some of whom had fewer scruples than a pimp. Tracy's complexion reddened as he stared at Baxter. In the briefest of moments he had to decide if he would bow to protocol and be dismissed like a servant or stand and fight. He decided on the latter. He owed at least that much to the men and women who had died under his command.
"I'll tell you how it happened. It happened because you and all of your esteemed colleagues have ignored every request the Secret Service has made for increased security since I have taken over the agency." Tracy raised his voice.
"It happened because in your obsession with raising money for your beloved party, your chairman sidestepped Secret Service procedure and invited the most notorious terrorist in the world to the White House!"
Baxter shouted, "That will be enough. Director Tracy! You may gather your things and leave!"
Tracy stared down the long table with a look of flagrant disrespect. In a voice dripping with contempt, he said, "You go ahead and blame all of this on the Secret Service when you address the nation tonight, and when I hold my press conference tomorrow morning, I'll be sure to remind everyone of your comment regarding the Secret Service during the last election." Tracy shook his head.
"I remember it verbatim because it seemed rather inconsiderate of you to be taking a shot at the very people who were putting in one-hundred plus-hour weeks protecting you. You said that 'the Secret Service is comprised of a paranoid group of people, who, although well-meaning, have an inflated sense of self-importance." I'm sure those words, combined with your and President Hayes's recent refusal of a request for an increase in our budget, will go over just great with all of your voters. And let's not leave out the fact that while my people were being killed, you were getting ready to attend a five-thousand-dollar-a-plate breakfast with all of your network buddies in New York."
Tracy turned his rage on the secretary of the treasury.
"And let me remind my boss of his response to my request to expand the security perimeter around the White House. In a letter this last February, Secretary Rose refused, saying that the White House is one of the securest buildings in the world and that any further requests to expand the buildings security perimeter will be denied."
Tracy grabbed his file from the podium.
"How dare you call into question my commitment and professionalism! I have spent twenty-nine years of my life protecting presidents and their families!" He started for the door and then stopped abruptly, turning to look at the assembled crowd.
"Right now we need to be worried about saving the men and women who are trapped inside the White House… not worrying about our careers."
Having spoken his piece, Tracy turned for the door, and with a stiff arm, he slammed it open and disappeared into the hallway.
Director Tracy's exit left the room in a shocked silence.
After several moments the attendees began to whisper comments to one another, and then the room broke into a series of regionalized conversations. At the far end of the table Dallas King asked his boss if he had, indeed, made such a comment, and all Vice President Baxter could do was nod in frustration.
King then turned to Treasury Secretary Rose and asked him if he had put his words in writing. Rose confirmed that he had, and Dallas King turned back to his boss and stated the obvious, "We're screwed."
Baxter shot his chief of staff a look of irritation and then turned his attention to General Flood at the far end of the table. The vice president twirled his finger in the air, signaling to the general that he wanted to get things moving. The general nodded, and with his baritone voice, he quieted the room.
Flood then nodded to Irene Kennedy, who rose from her chair and made her way to the podium.
RAFIQUE AZIZ LOOKED at the Situation Room's TVS and then his watch. It had been almost twenty minutes since the vice president had arrived for the meeting. The timing should be about right, he thought to himself.
Aziz studied the large phone next to him and looked at the twenty or so labels that marked preprogrammed telephone numbers. Most of the labels Aziz didn't recognize, but some were familiar. Not far down the first column he found the one he was looking for. It was marked Pentagon JCBR, which he understood to be the Joint Chiefs briefing room. Aziz went over his scripted words one more time, and then picked up the phone and pressed the button.
GENERAL FLOOD WAS listening to Kennedy give the background briefing on Aziz when he heard the quiet ring of the phone next to him. Flood glanced down and looked to see where the call was coming from. The screen at the top of the phone read "WH SIT ROOM." Flood raised one hand to stop Kennedy from talking, and with the other, he snatched the handset from its cradle.
"General Flood here."
"I hope I'm not interrupting your meeting." Flood squeezed the phone and asked, "Who is this?"
"That is none of your concern. Put me on speakerphone so I can talk to the entire group. I do not want to have to repeat myself."
Flood considered the demand for a moment, and then reluctantly gave in and pressed a button. He then placed the handset back in its cradle and folded his arms across his chest.
"You are on speakerphone. Go ahead."
Aziz's voice came pouring down from the room's overhead speaker system. "I have complete control of your White House.
Any attempt to retake it will be futile. The United States currently holds fourteen point seven billion dollars in frozen assets that belong to the country of Iran. You illegally seized this money when the corrupt government of the Shah was overthrown by the people of Allah. If you return all of this money to Iran by nine tomorrow morning, I will release one-third of the seventy-six hostages I currently hold. This is nonnegotiable. If this demand is not met precisely as I have stated, I will kill one hostage every hour until it is met. I will remind you one more time, any attempt by you to rescue the hostages will be futile.
FBI's vaunted Hostage Rescue Team is no match for my men; just as your highly touted Secret Service was no match. In fifteen minutes I will place all of the wounded and dead outside of the West Entrance. Medical technicians in short-sleeve shirts and pants will be allowed to come in groups of two, one stretcher at a time, to pick up the bodies. No equipment or bags. Only two men at a time and a stretcher.
Anything unusual and we will open fire."
The voice paused for a second and then said more firmly, "The account numbers that the money is to be transferred to are as follows…"
IT TOOK AZIZ a little over a minute to give all of the numbers. Then without giving them a chance to ask any questions, he repeated the demand one last time and hung up the phone.
Aziz leaned back and took in the moment. Keep it short, keep them off balance, and most important, let them know who is running the show. Aziz knew what would happen at nine tomorrow as sure as if he had a crystal ball. He had read all of the books that had been written by former agents on hostage negotiations, and most important, he knew Vice President Baxter was in charge, and with Baxter came Attorney General Tutwiler.
Aziz had done his homework on Tutwiler. Via the Internet he had obtained copies of her speeches and lectures. She had been an outspoken critic of the FBI's techniques at Ruby Ridge and Waco. In Tutwiler's opinion the FBI should have worn the captors down over time and obtained the incremental release of hostages through negotiation and actually giving in to some of the group's smaller demands.
What a fool she was to speak in public and give him the chance to study her, Aziz thought. These Americans were fat and lazy. He knew what her every move would be. He would break her within two days, and when Baxter finally realized he should listen to his generals, it would be too late.
Aziz would have the president, and everything would be in position for his final demand.
PRESIDENT HAYES LOOKED at Valerie Jones and asked, "What in the hell happened?"
The two of them were sitting next to each other on the couch. Jones looked very uncomfortable. Hayes had finally got around to asking the obvious question, and his chief of staff didn't know how to answer it.
Shaking her head and looking at the ground, she replied, "I don't know."
Hayes had met Jones years ago when she worked on his congressional staff. After that, the Ivy League—educated New Yorker had gone to work for CBS and risen through the ranks.
Jones was bright, hardworking, and at times a little pushy. If she were a man, she'd be called a hard-ass, but because she wore skirts, she was referred to by some as a real bitch. Jones knew this and didn't let it bother her. As gatekeeper to the president, it worked to her advantage.
Every day she received dozens of requests for the president's time. If she were patient and nice with everyone that called, those requests would double within a week. The very definition of her job required that she be blunt and firm. Not enough time. Not enough energy.
"Valerie, you have to have some idea who in the hell that was." Hayes watched her for a response. He got none and expanded his questioning.
"What did Russ tell you?" Hayes asked, referring to the chairman of the Democratic National Committee.
"He said the man was a wealthy Arab prince who wanted to make a donation to the DNC."
"A foreigner making a donation to the DNC" Hayes shook his head in anger.
"Russ said it would all be legit."
Hayes frowned.
"I thought I told all of you people, "No funny stuff." I want everything to be aboveboard." Hayes kept his voice low, but it was obvious he was angry.
Without looking up, Jones replied, "It was a lot of money, and it was going to be legal."
Hayes almost lost it. This was something he had been adamant about since the day he had decided to run for president.
The expression on his face told his chief of staff that the amount of money would not make the transgression any easier to take.
Jones realized it had been the wrong thing to say.
"Sorry' might not be good enough for this one."
Jones looked up with a fair amount of fright.
"What are you trying to say?"
"Exactly what I said.
"Sorry' might not be good enough.
People have died Val, and there are a lot of questions that are going to have to be answered." President Hayes stared at her, making sure she truly understood the gravity of the situation.
Across the bunker, near the door. Special Agent Jack Warch was sitting on his bunk, sprawled against the cool concrete wall. The usually rigid Warch had removed his tie and jacket, both of which were neatly folded next to him on the hinged navy-style bunk. The thirty- by twenty-foot room had eighteen sturdy bunks. Two sets of four, one lower and one upper, were bolted along each of the long walls and two more on the wall by the door. The bunks were of the no-frills military style.
One side of the bed was attached to the wall by two hinges, and the outer corners were each attached to a three-foot chain that was bolted to the wall. When not being used the bunks could be swung up and out of the way. The floor and the first four feet of the wall were covered by the same plain brown carpet that adorned the floor and walls of the evacuation tunnel. At the opposite end of the bunker there was a small bathroom and kitchenette. In the middle of the room was a square arrangement of two couches and two love seats, all four made of brown vinyl trying to disguise itself as leather. The seamless ceiling and walls were painted an off-white that helped to soften, just slightly, the room's bleak appearance.
The special agent in charge of the presidential detail reached out and picked up his black Motorola encrypted radio.
His flesh-toned earpiece and hand mike lay uselessly coiled on the bunk's pillow. Not more than ten minutes after they made it into the bunker the expensive little radio had dropped code—the Secret Service's euphemism for the radio not working.
It was not just Warch's radio. All ten agents had looked at each other at the exact same moment, knowing Instantly that they were cut off. The terrorists had gotten to the digital encryption system and crashed it, taking all of the radios offline. Warch had switched to his digital phone, and for five minutes he tried frantically to reestablish contact with the Secret Service's joint operations command. The phone was working, but they weren't answering. Then the line went dead.
They were completely cut off from the outside and could only assume the worst. If the Secret Service had fended off the attack, they would not still be sitting in the bunker. With or without communications, his people knew the codes and could simply come and open the door. The worst had to be assumed. They had lost the White House. Warch looked across the bunker at a disheveled President Hayes and his chief of staff. They were sitting on one of the couches talking in whispers.
It was time to tell him the truth. AFTER AZIZ'S ELECTRIFYING phone call, chaos had once again broken out in the Pentagon's Joint Chiefs briefing room. To Mitch Rapp's left, his bosses were conferring with the Joint Chiefs, and to his right. Vice President Baxter was holding court with the cabinet. Rapp, having a fairly good idea how most of the people to his left would handle the situation, decided to focus his listening on the politicians to his right.
After several minutes, Rapp concluded that no one in Baxters group knew their head from their ass, and in the process of coming to this conclusion, he also discovered a correlation between their opinions and the conviction with which they stated them. It seemed that the less someone knew, the more forcefully he tried to state his case.
Words like "caution" and "prudence" crept into every sentence, and every time Rapp heard them uttered, he couldn't help but think that these men and women had no idea whom they were dealing with. On more than one occasion, Rapp fought the urge to interject his frank opinion and correct the neophytes to his right. Twice he actually started to come out of his seat, but caught himself in time. Kennedy was right. It was best for him to keep a low profile.
The fragmented conversations continued for several more minutes, and then Vice President Baxter began snapping his fingers and calling for the group's attention. The discussions trickled to a stop, and then Baxter said, "Attorney General Tutwiler has a plan, and I would like everyone to hear her out."
All eyes went from Baxter to the attorney general as she pulled her chair forward. Tutwiler took off her glasses and held them in both hands.
"Treasury Secretary Rose has confirmed that this money does in fact exist, and as most of us know, it was frozen by our government when the Shah was overthrown.
There is a case to be made that this money is not ours."
Tutwiler set her glasses down and centered them on her leather briefing folder.
"I strongly believe that as a sign of good faith and willingness to negotiate for the hostages we should release part of the money at nine tomorrow, and in return, we will ask Mr. Aziz to show his good faith and release some of the hostages."
In unison her end of the table turned to see how the idea would be received by the other end, which was anchored by the representatives from the Joint Chiefs, the CIA, and the FBI.
Admiral Nelson, the chief of naval operations, was the first to speak.
With his bald head and gaunt face. Nelson said, "I would advise against giving them anything! It will set a horrible precedent! Our policy on terrorism has always been zero tolerance and no negotiation. Zero!"
Nelson brought his hand up and formed the number with his thumb and fingers.
"The entire world is watching… Now? is not the time to reverse our course."
Vice President Baxter looked at his military advisers. He had known this would be their position, but now he needed them on board. He needed to build some consensus. That way if everything blew up, he wouldn't be the only one holding the bag. Baxter decided to play up the compassion factor.
"Let me remind everyone that we have hostages in there. American citizens. Yes the president is safe, but we still have to do our best to get our people out of there alive. These are troops we left behind, and if we have to pay a little money… that isn't even ours"—Baxter looked around the room nodding his head-"to get some of them out… then that is what we are going to do." The vice president focused his attention on the opposite end of the table, looking each of the military officers in the eye, one at a time. He would call them later individually to shore up support where it was needed.
After finishing his Dale Carnegie personal-eye-contact maneuver, the vice president moved on to his conclusion.
"In light of the recent news, this is what we are going to do." Baxter pointed at Director Roach of the FBI.
"I want you and your people to take charge of the entire area surrounding the White House. If you need to use any of the Secret Service's people in an advisory role, feel free to do so."
Director Roach leaned forward.
"I assume you would like us to draw up plans for rescuing the hostages?"
"Of course, but no action is to be taken unless I say so. If we have to go in, I want to have secured the release of as many hostages as possible beforehand."
Baxter then turned to Attorney General Tutwiler and said, "Marge, please fill us in on how things will proceed tomorrow."
Tutwiler inclined her head forward so she could see all the way down the table.
"At nine tomorrow we will call Mr. Aziz and inform him that we are prepared to transfer part of the money into his accounts. This will be fairly easy to do. Secretary Rose tells me the money is in a dozen separate banks, so we will simply transfer the proper amount of money from one of the banks to Iran. The sum will be around a billion dollars.
We will tell him we are working on getting the rest of the money, but it would help if, in a sign of good faith, he would release some of the hostages." Tutwiler paused for a moment, distracted by a man halfway down the table who was shaking his head vigorously.
Tutwiler started speaking again but kept her eyes on the man.
"I have done quite a bit of research on hostage negotiations and have found that in these situations if you can get the captors to acquiesce to even the smallest request, you have significantly increased your chances for freeing the hostages."
Tutwiler stopped speaking as she watched the man shake his head one last time and then drop his face into his hands. The attorney general was not the only one who noticed.
Rapp couldn't take it anymore. Every time Tutwiler uttered a word, he felt as if someone were driving a nail further and further into his temple. As Rapp buried his face in his hands, he said to himself. This can't be happening. Please tell me this isn't happening. I have put in all of this work, and I'm so close. Rapp squeezed his head in his hands and thought to himself, This woman has no idea what the fuck she is talking about.
At least half of the people at the table were looking back and forth between Marge Tutwiler and the unknown darkhaired man who seemed to be in danger of suffering an aneurysm before their very eyes. That the others were watching also did not go unnoticed by the attorney general. Tutwiler cleared her throat loudly and asked, "Excuse me, is everything all right?"
Rapp didn't hear her at first, and then he felt Irene Kennedy touch his arm. Slowly, Rapp let his hands fall from his face and looked up, to find the attention of everyone at the table on him. When Tutwiler repeated her question, Rapp looked at her and said, "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."
In an extremely impatient tone, the attorney general asked, "Is there something you would like to add, or should we get you some aspirin for your… headache?" Rapp turned briefly to his bosses, who gave him no signal one way or another, and then directed his attention back to the attorney general. As he registered the condescending expression on her face, something told him now was not the time to be meek. This was it.
For the first time in this shitty journey, he knew where Rafique Aziz was and where he would be for the immediate future. Cover or no cover, there was a good chance this was going to be the last battle, and there was no sense in going home with a lot of unused ammo.
Rapp straightened himself and said, "I would most definitely like to add something… Actually I would like to add a lot." He paused briefly and then said, "First of all, if you only give him part of the money and ask him to release some of the hostages, he will blow his screwy lid. He will take one or more of the hostages right to the window, so all of the cameras can watch, and he will kill them. He will blow their heads off on national TV" Tutwiler threw? her head back and, with a disapproving look, said, "Is that right, Mr…"
"Mr. Kruse."
"And what exactly is your expertise in regards to negotiating with terrorists, Mr. Kruse?"
Rapp found the question so ridiculous, he shook his head and laughingly replied, "None."
Tutwiler, not used to being treated in such a manner, turned to Baxter and said in a loud enough voice for half of the room to hear, "What is this man doing here?"
Her arrogant question drove Rapp up and out of his chair with Irene Kennedy's hand gripping at his forearm. Rapp pried his boss's fingers loose, saying firmly, "I've put way too much into this."
Rapp began walking toward the podium. His suit, white shirt, and tie did a decent job of helping him blend in, but to anyone who cared to notice, it wasn't hard to figure out he was more than an analyst. When Rapp reached the podium, he repeated Tutwiler's question to the group.
"What is this man doing here?" Rapp stared up at the ceiling as if mulling the question over.
"You know, I've asked myself that question a lot of times over the last decade, and I'm afraid I can't answer it for you." Rapp turned back toward Tutwiler, a look of feigned wonderment on his face.
"But I can answer your other question… the one about negotiating with terrorists." Rapp paused and then said casually, "I don't negotiate with terrorists, Ms. Tutwiler. I kill them."
Grabbing the podium, Rapp looked down the length of the table and said,
"I hunt them down, and I kill them."
Tutwiler sat up a little straighter, attempting to appear unfazed by the unusual admission. Trying to gain some composure, she asked the first question that came to mind.
"Who do you work for, Mr. Kruse?"
"I'm afraid that's on a need-to-know basis, ma'am. "With his smart-ass grin, Rapp gave the standard spy craft reply, "And you don't need to know."
"Well, Mr. Kruse, if we decide it's time to kill these terrorists," said Tutwiler, repeating his words in a mocking tone, "we will make sure we give you a call. Until then, we would all appreciate it if you would take a seat so we can get on with the business at hand."
Tutwiler's smugness was really starting to irk Rapp, and his temper was dangerously close to reaching a level that he couldn't control. He studied her for a second and then asked, "Ms. Tutwiler, have you ever been to Beirut?" Rapp waited a moment for her response and then said, "I didn't think so. Just in case you were wondering, that's where Rafique Aziz is from.
How about Iran? Have you ever been there?" Rapp gave her less than a second to answer. "I didn't think so. I was in Iran last night," Rapp added casually. "Actually, I spent most of the last week there. And since we don't have an embassy in Iran, you can probably figure out that I wasn't on official government business. Do you by chance speak Farsi or any Arabic dialects?"
Rapp shook his head, answering the question for her.
"I didn't think so. How about the Muslim faith, the jihad? Are you up to speed on the customs of Rafique Aziz and his people?"
"What's your point, Mr. Kruse?" asked a defiant Tutwiler.
Rapp looked down the long table at the smug attorney general and growled in a voice that was barely beneath a shout, "The point is, Ms. Tutwiler, you don't have the slightest clue who you're dealing with!" Rapp pointed at her with each word.
"While you were running around on the talk-show circuit criticizing law-enforcement officers, who have done more in one week to stop crime than you will do in your entire academic-theory-laden lifetime, I was crawling around in the gutter of every hellhole in the Middle East trying to find Rafique Aziz." Rapp watched Tutwiler fold her arms tightly across her chest and roll her eyes.
The last gesture did it, and in a voice intended to shake up more than just the attorney general, he yelled, "Hey, lady, this isn't a game!
This isn't about who has the most master's degrees or the biggest job title. People have died, and before this thing is over, more people are going to die!" Rapp turned his face to the side, showing the pinkish mark that angled downward across his bronzed face.
"Do you see this scar? Let me clue you in on a little secret. It isn't a paper cut. It was given to me, in person, by none other than Rafique Aziz. So when I offer my opinion about a man who you have never met… who you know nothing about, you should sit up and listen." Rapp tightly gripped both sides of the podium.
"The man we are talking about here isn't a bank robber, and he sure as hell isn't some hack like David Koresh. He's a religious zealot who also happens to be a very highly trained and intelligent killer. Your little plan for tomorrow might stand a chance if we were dealing with some pissed-off employee who had taken over a bank or a post office, but this is the big leagues." Rapp zeroed in on Tutwiler.
"Aziz isn't some two-bit criminal. When you jerk his chain tomorrow, by only giving him part of what he's asked for, he's going to take a bite out of your ass, and he's going to bite hard." Rapp leaned forward, elbows bent, poised over the podium, looking for even the smallest sign that he was getting through to the politicians at the other end of the room.
The expressions on their faces said it all. Everything he said was falling on deaf ears. The men and women at the opposite end of the table were looking at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. Rapp couldn't believe it. Rafique Aziz was his cause. It had become his personal crusade; he'd devoted a full third of his life to hunting this one man. And that was only the start. It had grown to be much more than that as the death toll mounted. It had turned into a race to stop him from killing again. There was no one in this room, and probably no one in the world, who understood the mind of Rafique Aziz better than Rapp, and after all that he had given, how was he being repaid at the exact moment when they should be listening to him most? He was being regarded as if he were some crazed idiot.
Rapp bit down hard on his tongue and fought back the urge to scream at the top of his lungs. At that moment he realized he had one course of action. If the smug Marge Tutwiler wanted to put her little theories to work and these idiots wanted to follow her, then so be it. Tutwiler had given herself more than enough rope to hang herself with, and Rapp knew that as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow, she would be swinging from the gallows in the morning.
Rapp shook his head and said, "I've given you fair warning." As he started for the exit, he yelled over his shoulder, "Call me after you're done playing games, and I'll come in and clean up your mess." With that Rapp opened the door and disappeared into the hallway.
General Flood watched Rapp leave the room and then swiveled his chair away from the table, beckoning one of his aides over with a discreet wave of his forefinger. When the general had asked Director Stansfield to bring the young operative, he had not envisioned the scene that had just unfolded, but he was happy somebody had stepped up to the plate. An Air Force captain bent to the general's ear and Flood whispered, "Please detain Mr. Kruse for me, and have him wait in my office until we're finished."
ALL OF THE hostages, with the exception of the Secret Service agents, had been moved to the White House mess. The tables and chairs that normally occupied the room had been thrown into the main hallway that led out onto West Executive Drive and now formed a tangled blockade. The hostages were seated on the floor, bunched in a tight circle like corralled cattle. Anywhere from one to four terrorists were watching over them at a time, and they came and went with no apparent pattern, often stopping to kick and scream at the hostages.
Anna Rielly was relieved as she sat back down on the blue carpet of the White House mess. She had made it to the bathroom and back without being hit or kicked. The woman in front of her had been slapped for daring to look up at one of the terrorists. Rielly had kept her eyes down with only one exception. One of the terrorists had followed her into the stall and to her complete humiliation had watched her go to the bathroom. Rielly was frightened by the expression on his face.
He had stared at her intently while she relieved herself, and when she stood to pull her pants up, his eyes had followed her every move. The thought caused Rielly to clutch the neck of her blouse and shudder.
After the World Trade Center bombing Rielly had done a piece on Islamic terrorism for the NBC affiliate in Chicago.
That two-week project had given her enough insight into the minds of radical Islamic fundamentalists to know that they were crazed in a way that was difficult even for the daughter of a Chicago cop to understand.
In her captors' minds women were objects to be owned or discarded, no different than a piece of livestock. Women who were not "of the faith" were deemed impure and evil, another way of saying, "fair game."
What a first day on the job, she thought to herself. Rielly had wanted to be in the thick of real news, and now she was an actual part of one of the biggest stories in decades. She brushed a strand of her brown hair behind her ear, and with her head tilted toward the ground, she looked up toward one of the guards. The guard turned in her direction, and she quickly averted her eyes. Don't make eye contact, she told herself. Look submissive and try to blend in.
Anna Rielly was blessed with a healthy sense of street smarts. Having grown up in the heart of Chicago, she had been exposed to the seedier side of life at an early age. Her mother, a social worker, and her father, a Chicago cop, made sure their five sons and only daughter understood that life was much different from what was shown on TV. All of this exposure had given the young woman a very strong survival instinct. Several years earlier in Chicago it had saved her life, and here in Washington she was hoping to repeat the performance.
Rielly had already removed all of her jewelry and as much other makeup as possible. She knew that the less attention she attracted to herself the better. There had already been two men who had had their noses split wide open, and there was another woman who had been slapped so hard on the side of her head that her ear had started to bleed. Rielly kept repeating to herself, "Just keep a low profile, and you might make it out of here alive."
Less could be said for Rielly's new office partner. Stone Alexander, who was sitting at her side. He hadn't wandered more than several feet from her since the onset of the attack.
Not that he was protecting her—if anything, it was Rielly who was protecting him. Alexander leaned closer to her and asked, "How long are they going to make us sit here?"
Without moving her lips, Rielly whispered, "The only thing I know is, if one of these guys sees you talking, he's going to come over here and crack his rifle over your surgically altered nose… So for the last time, shut up."
Alexander shrank away and dropped his head onto his folded hands. He had already cried twice. Pathetic, Rielly thought to herself. Her father had always said people show their true colors in a crisis, and Alexander had shown his. It was yellow.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone new enter the room, and she glanced up at the man, careful to keep her head down. Rielly had not seen this one before. He looked different from the others. He was wearing the same green fatigues, but his hair was well styled and he lacked any facial hair. Rielly noted that the man was actually quite handsome.
That was when it hit her. It was the same man that Russ Piper had introduced her to. A Prince somebody or other. Oh, my God, Rielly thought. Where is Russ? With her head down Rielly scanned the mass of people, looking for her parents' friend. Piper was nowhere in sight, and she could not remember seeing him since this morning.
Rielly scrutinized the man again. This man was the leader.
It was obvious by how the others spoke to him and looked at him. When this supposed prince had entered the room, the other three terrorists had done everything short of snapping off salutes. The bald terrorist, who Rielly had originally thought was the leader, entered the room and approached the prince. He began whispering in the leader's ear, and Rielly instantly noticed a change in the prince's eyes.
RAFIQUE AZIZ STOOD with a demeanor that looked to be teetering between confidence and rage. As Muammar Bengazi whispered in his ear, the scales began to tilt in favor of rage. Aziz had known this moment would come.
The fact that he had already played it out in his mind a hundred times would not take away from his performance.
Bengazi finished relaying to his friend the information that had been requested. Without hesitation, Aziz yelled, "Where?"
Bengazi pointed to a hostage sitting near the edge of the group, and then followed Aziz as he walked briskly toward the man. Aziz stopped five feet from a man in a white shirt and loosened tie. Pointing to the man, Aziz asked Bengazi, "Him?"
Bengazi nodded.
Aziz looked down at the man and commanded, "Stand!"
The man did as he was told and rose to a height several inches taller than Azizthe man looked to be in his early to mid fifties with short brown-and-gray hair. In a voice loud enough to make sure everyone heard him, Aziz asked, "You have a request?"
"Ah," the man started out somewhat nervously, "we have a pregnant woman in the group, and several other people who are older. I had asked… ah… your man"—the White House employee pointed to Bengazi—"if we could get some blankets and food for…"
Aziz cut him off with a loud, "No!" The man took a quarter of a step back. "But"—he gestured with an open hand to a woman on the floor—"she's pregnant."
Aziz looked at the bulging stomach of the woman on the floor. She was lying on her back with her head resting on an older woman's lap. Without taking his eyes off the expectant mother, Aziz slid his right hand to his thigh and found the grip of his gun. He pulled the pistol from his holster and turned to the man standing before him. Without saying a word, without the slightest expression on his face, Aziz raised the gun to the man's forehead and, from a distance of one foot, pulled the trigger.
The loud crack of the gunshot caused everyone in the room to jerk involuntarily. Before the report of the gun had died, the man was propelled backward and into the huddled mass of hostages—his blood, brain matter, and skull fragments showering a half dozen shocked individuals.
As the room erupted, Rafique Aziz turned and marched for the exit. His cold expression masked a perverse satisfaction in completing another chapter in his plan. Aziz left the room to the noise of his men screaming at the hostages. As he walked down the hall to the Situation Room, a smile creased his lips.
When the time came, the hostages would give him no trouble.
From this point forward, they would be as docile as a flock of lambs.
AS THE CHAIRMAN of the Joint Chiefe, General Flood was the highest-ranking officer in the U.S. military. The size and opulence of his office, located just down the hall from the Joint Chiefs briefing room, was fitting for a man who wielded such power. The walls were covered with photos and plaques that documented his rise through the ranks of the Army. In typical military fashion the show was arranged in order—starting in one corner with a photo of a young plebe at West Point and then documenting his ascension through the ranks until he reached his current and final post.
The room was set up in thirds. At the far end was a rectangular conference table that seated twenty. In the middle of the room was the general's substantial Thomas Aquinas-style desk.
The expansive wood surface curved so the desk literally wrapped its way around the general's healthy midsection. This allowed Flood to swivel in his chair and go from project to project without having to exert too much effort.
The last third of the office was dominated by an assortment of couches and chairs arranged around a long glass coffee table. Mitch Rapp sat in one of the chairs facing the office's entrance. General Flood's aide had escorted him into the room almost thirty minutes earlier. Since then, Rapp had been eyeing an expensive bottle of Booker small-batch bourbon that was sitting behind the general's well-stocked wet bar on his right.
Rapp was tired and edgy. He hadn't worked out in almost a week, and since he was used to putting in at least two hours a day, six days a week, his body was rebelling. The sleep he had gotten had been minimal, the food had been awful, and now it had all come down to this. His expertise was being called into question by someone who had been teaching law students for the last decade while he had been putting his ass on the line. Rapp had never felt such frustration. Aziz was right across the river, sitting in the White House, and there was nothing he could do about it but sit and wait.
After another ten minutes or so. General Flood returned to his office.
He was accompanied by Rapp's two bosses and General Campbell, the commander of the Joint Special Operations Command. Rapp stood to meet them and tried to get a read from Director Stansfield as to whether he was going to have him taken out and shot. Rapp quickly realized it was a futile effort. Trying to gauge Thomas Stansfield was like trying to read the expression of the Sphinx. The longer you observed the more you thought you saw. But in reality you saw nothing.
In the case of the Sphinx, it was because there was nothing, but in the case of Thomas Stansfield, there was a lot.
General Flood began to undo the gold buttons of his military blouse almost immediately.
"Well, Mr. Kruse, you sure as hell caught a lot of people's attention in there." Flood pulled his jacket off and threw it over the back of one of the chairs.
"I'm sorry if I…"
Flood cut him off with a flip of the wrist.
"No need for apologies. It was exactly what they needed. "The general continued for the bar.
"Who needs a drink? I sure as hell do."
Hood turned over a glass tumbler and grabbed a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Mccall an single-malt scotch. The general poured in three fingers' worth and then added a handful of ice. After swirling the cubes around in the glass, he brought the drink to his lips and took a long pull. He closed his eyes and set the drink down, savoring the taste. After a moment of silence, he opened his eyes and exhaled, a look of satisfaction on his face.
"Irene, what would you like?"
Kennedy was not a big drinker, but from past experience she knew that with the general it was not important that you drank your drink; it was just important that you had one in front of you.
"Vodka, please."
Hood knew what Stansfield and Campbell drank and had already begun pouring their drinks.
"Mr. Rapp—" Hood looked up.
"I assume it's all right that I call you by your real name." Rapp nodded.
"What's your poison?"
"Bourbon. Booker's, please."
Flood glanced up from his bar tending duties with a raised eyebrow. Rapp wasn't sure if the general was impressed or thought him crazy. Flood finished with the drinks and brought them over to the group, saying, "As I was saying, Mr. Rapp, you really got their attention in there. Dallas King, Vice President Baxter's chief of staff, came up to me after the meeting and wanted to know who in the hell you were." Flood handed Kennedy her drink.
"Here you go, Irene."
"And…" asked Rapp.
"And"—Flood snorted—"I told him he needed to get a higher security clearance if he wanted to discuss such matters.
I could hardly tell him you were an analyst after your little performance."
Flood finished delivering the drinks and took the chair opposite Rapp at the long end of the coffee table.
Kennedy and Stansfield were seated on one couch, and General Campbell faced them on the other.
Rapp looked to his bosses and said, "I'm sorry if I was out of line, but I've come too far to watch a bunch of hacks screw this up."
The director of the CIA held his glass of scotch with both hands. After a moment, he nodded his head slowly and said, "I would have preferred you to have kept quiet, but you did say some things that needed to be said." Stansfield took a sip and then added, "And in a way that none of us could have."
General Flood nodded in agreement.
"And more importantly, you have made it very clear what's at stake.
Right now Baxter has put all of his chips behind Marge Tutwiler, and thanks to your blunt critique other game plan, her position is fully exposed. If her strategy backfires tomorrow, Baxter will drop her in a heartbeat, and he will have to listen to us."
Rapp sat back.
"So we sit around and wait for this to blow up in Tutwiler's face?"
"Nope." General Flood shook his head.
"I never like to sit around and wait. There are always preparations to be made before one goes into battle." Flood shifted his ample frame and placed his drink on the end table to his right.
"The four of us here"—Flood motioned to Kennedy, Stansfield, Campbell, and himself—"are in agreement that in all likelihood there is only one way this crisis will be resolved. We will have to retake the building by force. Aziz will string Vice President Baxter along until we're in an untenable situation… a situation where we cannot and should not meet his demands When that time comes, we have to be in a position to move, and as I said before, I don't like sending men into battle unless I'm prepared."
Flood paused and took a sip of scotch.
"Now, you people are in the intelligence-gathering business"—Flood gestured to Stansfield, Kennedy, and Rapp—"so I don't have to explain to you that a battle plan without good Intel is iffy at best. So the bottom line is we need real, hard intel, and we need it now."
Leaning back. Flood crossed his legs.
"Someone has to get inside." Looking at Rapp, Flood added, "We need a volunteer.
Someone who is willing to take some risks. Someone who understands Rafique Aziz. Someone with unique talents such as yours, Mr. Rapp." The general's words felt like warm sunshine after a cold swim. Rapp couldn't keep himself from grinning. With confidence, he replied, "I'm your man."
Flood smiled. "I thought so. "Then turning to the director of the CIA, Hood asked, "Thomas?"
Stansfield thought about it for a second and nodded.
"I think it's a good idea, but it might be tough getting approval for it. The FBI won't like it."
"I could give a damn," growled the general.
"This is war, and in war we fight by a different set of rules. Now, I like Brian Roach," said Flood, referring to the director of the FBI,
"but he needs to understand that we cannot afford to play by one set of rules while Aziz plays by another. We need our a-Team on the front line, not the junior varsity, and"—Flood pointed to Rapp—"Mitch here is the A-Team." Flood took a sip of his drink, and then leaning forward, he placed his big hand on Stansfield's shoulder.
"You find a way to get him in, and I'll make sure we get approval."
Stansfield thought a moment and then nodded his head in agreement.
General Flood withdrew his hand and sat back. Looking around the room, he asked, "Now, does anybody have any ideas on how we're going to get him in?"
After a while Stansfield said, "No, but I have a good idea where to start."
THE SUN WAS setting as Vice President Baxter left the Pentagon.
Attorney General Tutwiler had gone back to the Hoover Building with FBI Director Roach and Special Agent Mcmahon. Baxter sat alone with Dallas King in the backseat of the armor-plated limousine. The vice president looked languidly out the window as Dallas King babbled on about what should be covered when Baxter addressed the nation—a move they had decided was both necessary and an opportunity that couldn't be missed.
Baxter would be guaranteed the largest audience in the history of presidential addresses. The only question for King right now was whether they should do a scripted address, with Baxter reading from a Teleprompter, or hold a more natural and impromptu press conference.
Baxter was only half listening to his subordinate. King was rambling on about focus groups and polling data while the vice president's mind kept drifting back to the dark-featured gentleman from the CIA. The terrorism specialist, Baxter reminded himself.
Baxter held his hand up and motioned for King to be silent. The vice president let his well-manicured fingers fall to his knee while he struggled to pin down what exactly it was that was bothering him. After a moment he pursed his lips and said, "Call our contacts over at the National Security Agency and see what you can find out about that Mr.
Kruse fellow."
"I'm already on it," replied King as he typed a note into his palm-top computer.
"Find out what he really does for the CIA." Baxter looked out the window again.
"If he's right, and we have to take the building back by force…"
Baxter shook his head.
King looked up from his computer and said, "We will lose hostages, and the American people will never vote for a trigger-happy presidential candidate that ordered the death of seventy-six Americans."
Baxter added an eye roll to his head shaking.
"This no longer appears to be the opportunity that you originally thought."
King closed his palm-top and placed it in the breast pocket of his suit coat.
"I never said it was going to be easy. With this much on the line, it's never easy. The trick, as always, will be to navigate our way through the minefield."
"There may not be a path through this particular one," Baxter sighed.
"I haven't come across a minefield yet that I couldn't get through."
King flashed his confident grin.
"Your job is to sit back and let everybody else look for the mines.
Tomorrow, for instance, we let Marge take the lead on this negotiation angle.
If it works, we're all one big happy family. If it doesn't, she takes the fall all on her own."
"What if we have to storm the place and we lose thirty… forty… hell, maybe all of the hostages?" Baxter pointed at himself.
"I'm the only one who can order that.
You said it yourself. The American people will never vote for a president who has the slaughter of that many hostages hanging around his neck." Baxter shook his head.
"Shit, I just thought of something else. What if I order the assault and it doesn't work? What if the nation sits down for dinner and they're treated to footage of FBI agents getting killed while trying to storm the White House? My career would be over, and yours too." Baxter's defeatist head-shaking continued, and with gritted teeth, he added,
"We're screwed almost any way you look at this thing."
"Not true," replied King.
"If we pull this off, you'll be a hero." King pointed at his boss.
"You'll be the next president of the United States of America. We just need to play our cards very carefully, and we need to start with Director Tracy.
We miscalculated how he would handle your public reprimand.
We can't have him holding a press conference tomorrow.
If he reads the comments you made when you were campaigning, it would make us look like shit. I think I should go see him. Offer him the olive branch and tell him we want him to stay in charge of the Secret Service and help the FBI.
I'll tell him it was Tutwiler's idea to can him, and you went along with it because you were so upset about the attack. I'll tell him you weren't thinking clearly, and that you're grateful for the service he has given this country… yada… yada… yada. You know the gig. I'll stroke him."
Baxter thought about it for a second and with a tired sigh said, "Go ahead. Do whatever it takes to keep him quiet."