THE WHITE HOUSE was silent as the clock approached midnight. Aziz left the Situation Room and walked down the hall to Horsepower. The door was open, and Aziz entered without knocking. Sitting in a swivel chair, Bengazi was keeping an eye on a bank of black-and-white security monitors. The monitors showed different areas of the grounds around the White House and shots of all the main entrances. Normally the system also kept an eye on areas within the White House, but Bengazi had disabled the cameras for fear that the FBI might find some way to pirate the images and spy on them.
Aziz placed his hand on the back of the chair and asked, "How does everything look?"
"Nice and quiet."
"Good. Have you been getting sleep?"
"Yes."
"How about the men?"
"They are doing fine."
"And the hostages?"
"Asleep."
As Aziz looked at the monitors, the walkie-talkie on his hip squawked and his name barked forth.
Bringing it to his mouth, he said, "Yes."
"Rafique, I have made progress. I think you should come see."
"I'll be right down." Aziz had been not-so-padendy waiting for this update. Having succeeded beyond all of his people's wildest dreams, he was still not content, and would not be until he wrestled the cowardly president from his bunker. He held the White House hostage and the entire government of the United States had come to a grinding halt, but that wasn't enough.
Aziz reached the third basement and headed for the bunker. When he rounded the corner, he found his man sitting on a toolbox, drenched in sweat, and smoking a cigarette.
The short, fat man looked up with a large grin, his nicotine stained teeth topped by a pointy nose and a graying mustache.
Goggles hung from his neck and a pair of orange ear protectors were perched atop his head, giving him the appearance of a plump rodent.
The man placed his large and thick horn-rimmed glasses back on his face and waved toward the outer door to the bunker with a smile.
"Open sesame."
Aziz stepped forward and pushed on the steel door. It swung inward, revealing a room and a shiny vaultlike door at the other end. A rush of emotion swept over him as he thought of the president and his bodyguards sitting on the other side of the door, thinking they were safe. Aziz walked slowly across the concrete floor and stopped just in front of the vault door. Extending his hand, he placed his palm flat on the smooth surface. Clenching his fist, Aziz hammered on the door twice. No sound reverberated. Spinning away from the door, Aziz looked at the last minute addition to his cause.
The frumpy man before him was a gift from Aziz's newest benefactor. A man who had a very personal stake in how Aziz's mission turned out. The slovenly safecracker standing in the doorway had come complete with his own look and unique talent. As it was explained to Aziz, the door that was installed on the president's bunker was of the same type that the U.S. military used for all of their command-and-control bunkers, and was designed to withstand large blasts, not drills and acetylene blowtorches.
Aziz looked at the man and asked, "How long will this door take?"
The safecracker exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, "If I push it and risk burning out one of the drills, I could probably have it open in thirty hours."
"What happens if you lose one of the drills?"
"Then we are in trouble." The little thief shrugged.
"It could end up taking three to four days."
"And if you play it safe?"
"I can have it open in forty-eight hours."
Aziz put his hands in a prayerful grip and bounced them off his chin twice.
"Forty-eight hours will suffice." And with a wave of his finger, he cautioned, "But no longer than that."
Aziz walked past him and slapped him on the shoulder.
"Good work, Mustafa." Aziz left the room, leaving his little thief to retrieve the crown jewel. As he walked down the hallway, he thought. All I have to do is keep them at bay for two more days.
THE LIGHTS WERE off in the bunker, and everyone was trying to get some sleep. Warch was lying on the bunk closest to the door. The Secret Service agent was wide-awake. He could hear President Hayes snoring at the far end of the room, and every minute or so squeaking springs could be heard as someone turned on the narrow beds.
Warch wondered how his wife and children were doing.
His family would be afraid, but that couldn't be helped. Being married to someone who was trained to throw himself in front of an oncoming bullet was a little nerve-racking, but Sara was strong. She would have the kids to keep her busy, and her parents were in Baltimore. The Service would tell her and the kids that he was all right. Warch's thoughts turned to the other wives and husbands that weren't as fortunate. Over and over again, Wirch had replayed the frantic radio traffic that had barked out over his earpiece while they rushed the president to the bunker.
"Agents down! Agents down!
"And then there was the explosion and the machine gun fire. And now, over twelve hours later—nothing.
Everything added up to one conclusion: Aziz and his terrorists were in control of the White House. Warch ran down a list of the faces and names of his agents who were on the day shift. He couldn't help but wonder which ones had made it out alive and which ones were dead.
Still, despite what was undoubtedly the worst day in the history of the Secret Service, they had at least saved the president from the talons of Aziz. Warch savored that one accomplishment as he felt sleep coming on.
He rolled toward the wall and let out a yawn When most of the air was expelled from his lungs, he froze.
Warch had not heard the noise before; he was sure of that.
Craning his neck toward the door, he tried to listen. It was a clanging noise, metal on metal. There were several more clanging noises and then a low whine, almost like an electric razor.
Warch listened for another moment and then sprang out of bed, throwing his blankets to the side. The concrete floor felt cold to his feet. In his white T-shirt and boxers he knelt on the floor and pressed his left ear to the door, and then it hit him. It was a drill. They were drilling through the vault door, which meant they had already broken through the outer door.
Warch's palms became sweaty on the cool metallic surface, and he swore out loud. Standing, he turned on the light and said to the room at large, "Wake up, people. We have trouble."
A FAINT METHODICAL beep could be heard in the distance.
Rapp felt as if he were swimming upward for it, out of a deep black hole. The noise became more pronounced with each kick and downward stroke. It was getting lighter; he was nearing the surface.
Suddenly, Rapp sat up in bed, his thick black hair sticking out in Medusa-like fashion. It took him a second to realize he'd been dreaming.
It was the same damn dream he'd been having for as long as he could remember. Drowning, it was always drowning. He was always swimming for the surface, gasping for air.
Several shakes of the head later, Rapp realized where he was. The faint gray light of early morning was spilling through his bedroom windows. He turned to make out the red digital numerals of his alarm clock. There was a four followed by another and then a five.
God, it was nice to be home, Rapp thought. Without looking, he reached over and swatted the snooze button. Then he flopped backward onto the crisp white sheets and stretched out, kicking the blanket to the side.
Not quite ready to get out of bed, he allowed his mind to drift. Outside the bedroom window, he could hear the gentle waves of the Chesapeake lapping against the rocky shore. They were calling his name, tugging at him to get out of bed. Rapp turned diagonally across the queen-size bed and stretched his arms way above his head, letting out a drawn-out yawn.
He had forced himself to go home and sleep after a meeting at Director Tracy's house. There was nothing else to do. Dr. Hornig had promised a full report on the results of her interrogation with Fara Harut in the morning, and until then it was a waiting game—something Rapp wasn't very good at.
Now, as he rolled onto his side, he suddenly remembered the events of the day before and of the little crisis that was taking place thirty-some miles to the west. A small voice in the back of his head screamed something, and Rapp was on his feet instantly. Naked, he walked across the hardwood floor of his bedroom and stopped in front of a set of French doors.
They were open, and through the screens he could now hear bird songs filling the still morning air. Across the bay, on the tree lined horizon, the sky was brightening. The sun was coming up over the Atlantic, and a memorable day was about to begin, whether he liked it or not.
The lapping water continued to call his name, and with more enthusiasm than any sane person would have had, Rapp turned and headed across the worn and creaky wood floor of his beach house. Once he'd finished negotiating the precipitous staircase that led down to the main floor, he walked to the kitchen and then the mud room. Hanging on a brass hook by the back door was a faded, salt-stained blue swimsuit that looked as old as its owner.
Rapp put the worn trunks on, grabbed his goggles and a towel, and headed out the back door. The thermometer on the deck railing told him it was a comfortable sixty-two degrees.
Just cool enough to wake him up, but not so cold as to dash his enthusiasm. With several shakes of his arms, he continued across the brand-new deck to the stairs that led down to the water. Rapp had bought the house the previous year, and his only home improvement to date was to tear down the rotted wood deck and stairs and replace them. After a thirty-foot descent, he put on his goggles and picked up the pace. Rapp ran across the long, flat section of dock that jutted out into the water. On the right was a twenty-four-foot Boston Whaler, and at the end of the dock was a bench that sat atop an eight foot section that turned at a ninety-degree angle to the left. By the time Rapp reached the bench, he was at a full jog without breaking stride, he tossed the towel onto the bench and dove into the salty water.
He found his rhythm within six or seven strokes and settled in for the one-mile swim up the coast. Rapp no longer competed professionally, but just three years earlier he had been one of the world's top-ranked tri athletes In the Mount Everest of triathlon competitions, the Ironman in Hawaii, Rapp had posted three top-five finishes and a first place. But his work with the CIA had picked up considerably in the last five years, and the hectic and unpredictable schedule had forced him to give up competition.
Rapp returned to the dock in front of his house at twenty to six feeling fresh and loose. After toweling off, he made it back up to the house and into the shower. Fifteen minutes later he was shaved, dressed, and out the door, with a cup of piping hot coffee in his hand. Rapp slid behind the wheel of his new black Volvo sedan and eased it out of the narrow garage. He took it slow as he drove down his crumbling asphalt driveway.
That was another project he would have to tackle before winter came.
When he reached a sturdier surface, he increased speed and began to enjoy the performance of the new sedan.
It felt good to be back in civilization.
Several minutes later he was on Route 50 and on his way to a meeting at Langley. Dr. Hornig was to give a briefing at seven a.m. on everything she had learned from her session with Fara Harut. Rapp was not overly excited about sharing breakfast with Dr. Strangelove, but considering the information she would provide, he was willing to bite the bullet.
Twenty-two minutes later, Rapp caught the Beltway and took it around the northern part of D.C. Traffic was picking up, but at this early hour it still moved along at a brisk ten miles per hour over the posted speed limit. Fifteen minutes after reaching the Beltway, Rapp pulled through the first security checkpoint at Langley and parked his car. After passing through the main security checkpoint of the old building, Rapp took the elevator to Director Stansfield's office on the seventh floor.
Stansfield's administrative assistant reported his arrival over her headset, and a moment later Irene Kennedy appeared.
Kennedy escorted Rapp into the director's inner sanctum, where the man himself was seated behind his large desk, a pair of bifocals perched at the edge of his nose, his attention focused on an open file.
Stansfield took another moment to finish and then closed the file.
Before standing, he grabbed a stack of documents, opened one of the drawers behind his desk, inserted them, closed the door, and locked it with a key.
Stansfield left his suit coat hanging on the coatrack and came around the desk, pulling up his suit pants another notch.
"Good morning, Mitch. I hope you got some sleep last night."
"I did, sir. And you?"
Stansfield placed his fragile hand on Rapp's shoulder. The DCI was almost a full head shorter than Rapp.
"When you get to my age, Mitch, sleep becomes a very elusive thing."
Stansfield turned his young specialist away from his desk and started walking him across the office.
"I've set up a meeting for you this morning, but we'll talk about that later. Dr. Hornig is waiting for us, and I'd like to hear what she's found out before we get into anything else."
As Rapp followed Stansfield and Kennedy through a door and into a windowless conference room, he wondered who his mystery meeting was with. Dr. Hornig was already seated on one side of the table and was looking over her own handwritten notes. Stansfield took his seat at the head of the table, and Rapp and Kennedy sat across from Hornig. Rapp noticed she was wearing the same clothes as the day before. It appeared as though she had not slept.
Taking off her black horn-rimmed glasses, Hornig set them on top of her notes and rubbed her eyes, saying, "We have a lot of information. An incredible amount, really." She lowered her hands and shook her head.
"It's going to take months to sort through all of it. But having said that, I know you are more interested in information involving Mr. Aziz and the current White House crisis."
Hornig looked down at her notes. "I apologize for the lack of summaries and transcripts, but I was working on Mr. Harut right up until I left for this meeting."
"No explanation needed, Dr. Hornig," stated Stansfield.
"To start with"—Hornig grabbed a piece of paper—"I have the names of the other ten terrorists who are with Mr. Aziz at the White House. It was very difficult to get this information out of him." Hornig handed Stansfield the sheet.
The DCI looked at the yellow piece of paper for no more than five seconds and then handed the sheet to Irene Kennedy, who studied it with Mitch Rapp looking over her shoulder.
Stansfield gave them about ten seconds and asked, "Irene?"
Kennedy looked up and brushed a strand of brown hair back behind her ear.
"This will be a big help. Off the top of my head, I know about half of them. I can run the rest through our data banks, and any of the ones that we don't get a profile on, we can ask Mi-Six or Mossad."
"Good. I want full traces and profiles prepared on each and every one of them as soon as possible." Stansfield turned back to Hornig.
"Now, what do we know about the demands?" Hornig looked down at her notes and flipped through several pages.
"Mr. Harut knew in detail about the first demand, involving the return of the frozen assets to Iran. We can infer, since Mitch took him before those demands were made public, that he has intimate knowledge of what Mr. Aziz is going to ask for—up to a point, that is."
Rapp ignored the first part of Hornig's comment—the part involving the rookie detective work—and asked, "What does 'up to a point' mean?"
"I'll get to that in a minute," replied Homig.
"His second demand involves the lifting of all UN sanctions against Iraq."
Homig looked at her audience to gauge any reaction, and then continued.
"The third demand involves the U.S. recognizing a free and sovereign Palestinian state." With a furrowed brow, Rapp asked, "Where?"
Hornig cleared her throat and said, "The West Bank and the Gaza Strip."
Rapp set his coffee down.
"The Israelis are going to shit their pants."
"I would concur." Stansfield looked to Hornig.
"What else?"
"There's one more demand… one final demand, but Mr. Harut doesn't know what it is."
Rapp tilted his head skeptically.
"Come again?"
"I really don't think he knows," replied Hornig a touch defensively. "I spent almost two full hours delving into this specific subject. I pushed as hard as I felt I could."
"Maybe you need to push harder," stated Rapp.
Hornig leaned back slightly and folded her arms.
"I plan on it. Just as soon as Mr. Harut gets some rest."
"As soon as you both get some rest," interjected Stansfield.
"I don't want you burned out. Dr. Hornig." Hornig was slightly frustrated by all of the unsolicited advice. She didn't tell them how to do their jobs, and she'd appreciate it if they would return the courtesy.
Stansfield, oblivious to Hornig's issues, turned his attention to Kennedy.
"Any thoughts on what the final demand might be?"
Kennedy stared off into space for a moment and then said, "A few, but I'd like to do a little research before I come to any conclusions."
Looking at one of his most trusted advisers, Stansfield thought of pressing for more information and then decided it was better to let Kennedy develop her theories in time. With some of his people he had to engage them in a game of mental gymnastics to get the best out of them; with Kennedy she was best left alone. Stansfield turned his chair back toward Hornig, who was once again shuffling through her notes.
"What else do you have for us. Dr. Hornig?"
Hornig began reading down a long list of information that would be sifted through by Agency analysts for months, possibly years, to come.
Rapp listened intently, gathering more and more insight into how Aziz had put his master plan together.
Hornig covered the selection of the men Aziz had brought and where they were trained. She discussed how several of them were sent to America almost a year earlier to start their cover and avoid drawing the attention of the FBI or the Secret Service.
She even provided the name of the South American clinic and doctor who had given Aziz his new face. Rapp made a mental note to talk to Kennedy and Stansfield about paying the plastic surgeon a little visit at a later date. The man would live as long as he agreed to cooperate and inform for the Agency. A plastic surgeon who kept company with men like Rafique Aziz could be a very valuable informant, if Aziz hadn't already killed him. Hornig was providing a bevy of facts that on their own held no great significance, but as they were pieced together, they would hopefully provide a very valuable map of aziz's final intent. Hornig shared her information for almost a full thirty minutes. Rapp and Kennedy took notes while Stansfield sat back and listened. As the clock neared eight, Hornig moved on to something she had discovered just before leaving the safe house.
"Early this morning, Mr. Harut kept mentioning a certain name. He was slipping in and out of consciousness and was often incoherent. Despite this state of mind he kept repeating the word "Nebuchadnezzar."
"As if on cue, Stansfield, Kennedy, and Rapp all leaned forward.
Hornig, looking surprised by the unified reaction, asked, "You all know what, or I should say, who Nebuchadnezzar was?"
"Was and is," answered Kennedy.
"Nebuchadnezzar was the king of Babylonia from 605 to 562 b.c. His great claim to fame in the Arab world is that he destroyed Jerusalem in 586 and then enslaved the Israelites. Saddam Hussein fancies himself the second coming of Nebuchadnezzar. He feels that it is his destiny to unite all of the Arab people and destroy Israel."
"He doesn't really believe it," added Rapp with a frown.
"He just uses it as a PR ploy to get all of the religious zealots whipped into a frenzy."
"And it works," added Kennedy while leaning forward.
"Tell me more about the context in which he mentioned the word."
"I was asking him about the financing for the operation.
And again he kept mumbling this word. I looked it up and found out who the historical Nebuchadnezzar was. I had no idea he could have been referring to Saddam Hussein."
"Where was Matt Shipley when all of this was being said?" Shipley was one of the two hundred plus employees who worked for the Counterterrorism Center. His specialty was Arabic languages, and Kennedy had sent him out to the safe house the previous evening to help with the interrogation of Harut. Kennedy didn't show it, but she was irritated that Shipley had missed such an obvious reference.
"I had sent everyone to bed around five this morning. We been working nonstop since the previous afternoon." Hornig shrugged her shoulders.
"We needed to give the subject some rest, and I needed to get my notes organized for this meeting.
This oversight was not Mr. Shipley's fault."
Kennedy accepted the explanation.
"How did you stumble across this reference if Harut was asleep?"
"I was in the room with him, organizing my notes. Someone has to keep an eye on his vitals, so I was sitting near him when he began to mumble about Nebuchadnezzar. It is not at all unusual for my subjects to continue to talk while they are sleeping."
"Was this recorded?" asked Kennedy.
"Of course the recording equipment is always running."
"Good." Kennedy jotted herself a note to call Shipley and tell him to review the tapes immediately.
"What," began Stansfield, "was the general context of his ramblings about Nebuchadnezzar?"
"Money—he kept talking about Nebuchadnezzar and money."
Kennedy finished her note.
"This corroborates what we heard from our other sources—that Saddam was funneling money into Hezbollah and Hamas." Looking at his watch, Stansfield said, "Dr. Hornig, do you have anything else for us?"
"No, but I should have more for you this afternoon."
Stansfield looked at Rapp and Kennedy.
"Any other questions?"
"Yeah," said Rapp.
"How does Aziz plan on getting out of here when it's all over?"
Hornig blinked her eyes as an expression of embarrassment spread across her face. "Ah… I haven't got around to that yet."
Rapp looked at her harshly.
"You might want to move that one up to the top of your list."
"Yes." Hornig jotted herself a note.
Stansfield again looked to Rapp and Kennedy.
"Anything else? "They both shook their heads, and then Stansfield looked to the other side of the table.
"Nice work so far. Dr. Hornig.
Now, if you'll excuse us, I need to discuss a few things with Irene and Mitch."
Hornig gathered her papers and stood. After she'd placed her notes in a tan canvas shopping bag, she left the room.
Rapp noticed the canvas bag and, after the door was closed, said, "I hope you have somebody baby-sitting her."
"I do. "The director nodded.
"But we might want to bring it up a notch." Stansfield looked to Kennedy.
"Irene, I think we need to get some more bodies out there to keep a close eye on things. Around the clock. I want someone from CTC in that room with Harut every second of the day. And I want them awake."
Kennedy shook her head and said, "I apologize. I already made a note to take care of it."
"Now, Mitch." Stansfield turned his focus back to Rapp.
"Irene and I are heading downtown. Considering how the meeting went at the Pentagon yesterday, I think it would be best if you did not join us."
Rapp had expected this, and in truth, he really didn't want to be there to see his predictions come true. There were times when there was no joy in being right, and this would be one of them.
"What would you like me to do?" Retrieving a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, Stansfield unfolded it and slid it across the table.
"That is the address and phone number of miltadams the man we discussed with Director Tracy last night. He is expecting your call."
"How do you want me to handle it?"
Stansfield's eyes narrowed while he thought about the question. After several seconds, he said, "Go ahead and use your cover, and tell him you're with Langley. Mr. Adams is a very patriotic individual. We can trust him, but there's no need to tell him anything more than he needs to know."
Stansfield got up, and Kennedy and Rapp followed. As they walked back into the director's office, Stansfield said, "Mitch, it's impossible to overstate how important this is. If you find a way in. General Flood and I will do everything we can to make it happen. Just make sure you give it to me straight. I want realistic odds on whether or not it can be done. Am I understood?"
Hiding his excitement, Rapp replied with a simple, "Yes, sir."
RAFIQUE AZIZ LOOKED at the computer screen to his left and smiled. They are so predictable, he thought to himself.
The laptop computer to his left was hooked up to one of the Situation Room's secure modems. He was staring at the account balance of the Swiss bank that would receive the money before it was to be safely transferred to Iran. The account was at a little over a billion dollars and holding.
With about forty-five minutes to go, he doubted that they would transfer the remainder of the money.
The second laptop, to his right, was for a special purpose.
Every time Aziz looked at it he beamed with pride. It had been a stroke of genius. Aziz had no doubt that the Americans would come. If he got his hands on the president, his chances might improve, but in the meantime the second laptop was his failsafe.
Studying American counterterrorism tactics, he understood that above all they loved their technology. They would try to jam his ability to remotely detonate the bombs, and in the process they would start a countdown to destruction.
Each of the twenty-four bombs he had brought contained a digital pager that acted as both a receiver and a detonator.
Hooked up to the laptop was a digital phone. Every two minutes the computer would dial the group paging number for all twenty-four bombs and then send a five-digit number. If that code wasn't received every two minutes, the pagers would go into a sixty-second countdown mode. If the countdown reached zero, the bombs were ignited. Aziz also carried a pager and a digital phone as a backup measure. If the pager beeped and the countdown was started, it meant only one of two things. Either the Americans were attacking or the computer had malfunctioned. If the computer malfunctioned, he could abort the countdown with his own phone.
If that didn't work, it meant the Americans were coming.
THE CRITICAL INCIDENT Response Group's crisis management unit had set up their command post on the fourth floor of the Executive Office Building in a conference room that overlooked the West Wing of the White House.
The large wood conference table had been pushed against the inner wall and was covered with a half dozen phones, two radio-charger trays, and several laptops. The rest of the room's furniture had been removed with the exception of about half of the chairs.
Against the two side walls, portable tables had been set up and were cluttered with more laptops, phones, televisions, and fax machines. Many of the phones had masking tape on the handsets and were labeled with black felt-tipped marker. Almost half of the phones were dedicated to the FBI's Strategic Information Operations Center, or SIOCTHE SIOC, which fell under the purview of the Bureaus criminal investigative division, was charged with handling almost all of the Bureau's high-profile cases. Maps of the White House compound and blueprints of the inner structure were pasted to the walls, and men and women in blue FBI polo shirts were busy pecking away at computers and talking into phones. Two negotiators who were fluent in Arabic were on-site and ready to man the phones for as long as the siege lasted.
Special Agent Skip Mcmahon stood at the window and glared at the spectacle taking place in Lafayette Square, across the street from the White House. He was fuming; actually pissed was the word he had been using repeatedly since around five A.M. Within hours of the terrorist attack on the White House the media had moved in and set up shop smack dab in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue. They began broadcasting their live reports from right in front of the White House's north fence. When Mcmahon had arrived on the scene, one of his first orders was to have the media moved back, way back.
Hours earlier, in the predawn darkness, Mcmahon had been attempting to steal some sleep on the couch in his office at the Hoover Building when one of his agents came in to inform him that a federal judge had intervened on behalf of the networks. Now, as Mcmahon looked down at Lafayette Square, the media circus was omnipresent. On the north end of the park, a mere hundred yards from the White House, the three networks and CNN were all broadcasting live from atop elevated platforms, and FOX was scrambling to join the group.
They were all there with their morning shows as if it were a goddamn state fair. Good Morning America, Today, CBS This Morning—all of them.
For the last two hours, Mcmahon had been fighting the urge to pick up the phone and start chewing ass about the judge's ruling. He had instead decided it was a better use of his time and energy to wait until all of the big shots were together.
Mcmahon looked down at his watch. It was 8:34, and they should be arriving any minute.
SHE HAD MADE it through the first twenty-four hours without getting hit.
Anna Rielly felt pretty good, considering what she had been through. Her back was a little stiff from sleeping on the floor or, at least, trying to sleep on the floor.
The terrorists had made sleep next to impossible by waking them at least once an hour from sundown to sunup. And to make matters worse, they also pulled people from the group and beat them in front of everyone.
For the women, there was something else to be afraid of.
Sometime after midnight, a young blond woman had been yanked from the group by the terrorist that had followed Rielly into the bathroom.
Rielly could not say for sure how long the young woman had been gone—the terrorists had taken everyone's watch in an effort to further disorient them-but it seemed to be at least several hours. When the woman finally returned, her clothes were partially torn and she had a look in her eyes… a look Rielly had once seen in her own eyes.
Rielly glanced down at Stone Alexander, who was lying crunched up in a fetal position, his jacket neatly folded under his head for a pillow.
She was grateful that he had stopped crying.
The less attention drawn to them the better.
Brushing a wisp of hair back behind her ear, she looked around the room, careful to keep her head down. Two guards were by the door talking to each other. Rielly knew she wasn't the only one who had to go to the bathroom, but no one dared ask after what had happened the night before.
Folding her legs Indian style, she glanced over her shoulder and then quickly turned her head back. The terrorist, the one with all of the jewelry and slicked-back hair, was staring at her with a cigarette hanging from his mouth—the same man who had plucked the young blonde from the group the night before.
Anna Rielly had been through that nightmare before, and she had sworn to herself that she would rather die than let it happen again. Four years earlier, Rielly had taken the Loop from the TV station in downtown Chicago to her apartment in Lincoln Park. It was late when she stepped off the train.
When she reached the street, two men jumped her from the shadows and dragged her into an alley and raped her. That harrowing event had left her bruised and battered, but her physical wounds were easy to overcome compared to the deeper mental scars. Even these were starting to heal, though, thanks in no small part to Coreen Allen, Rielly's therapist.
Rielly had been going to Allen twice a week for almost four years.
Before the rape she had been a fun-loving, outgoing young woman who very much enjoyed male companionship.
The rape had given her a hard edge and an understandable distrust of men with the help of Allen she had again grown to enjoy the company of men who were interested in her, but the physical boundary still had not been crossed. When she took her new job in Washington, Rielly thought it was the perfect chance for a fresh start.
One of the only benefits of the personal disaster was her hyper awareness Rielly had already had street smarts, but the rape had raised her awareness to an almost paranormal level. It was hard to imagine how her current situation could get any worse, but Rielly sensed that when nightfall came, it would.
IRENE KENNEDY WAS almost run over as she attempted to enter the FBI's command post. Two stocky men in SWAT uniforms came barreling out the doorway. The first almost butted Kennedy in the forehead with the brim of his blue baseball cap, but stopped just shy, grabbing her by the shoulders. He apologized without realizing whom he had almost knocked down, and then recognized Kennedy.
"Oh, Irene, I'm sorry." Sid Slater, aka the Jewish Terror, was still holding her by the shoulders.
"Sid," said Kennedy, also surprised, not used to seeing the commander of the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team in full SWAT gear. Slater had the physique of a bricklayer. Several inches shy of six feet and in his mid-forties, he had a barrel chest and strong, thick hands attached to Popeye-like forearms. Slater wasn't built to run marathons, rather, he was more suited to run through bolted doors.
"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" asked Kennedy.
"I'm trying to get some last-minute intel before they start talking."
Slater pointed with his thumb over his shoulder and shook his head.
"And I sure as hell don't want to be in there when the shit hits the fan."
Kennedy looked into the room.
"What's going on?"
"I don't have time to talk about it; Skip can fill you in. Are you gonna be at the planning meeting this afternoon?"
Kennedy nodded.
"I'll be there."
"Good… We can talk then. I have a lot of questions for you." With that, the Jewish Terror headed off down the hallway.
As Slater and the other man marched away, Kennedy watched them for a second, the bright yellow letters on their backs and their dark SWAT uniforms announcing to all that they were on the front line, that they would be the ones to storm the White House. Kennedy considered all the explosives Aziz had brought along and felt overwhelming dread as Slater moved off.
Kennedy entered the FBI's command post, which was buzzing with the activity of radios, phones, faxes, and people.
She had just left the conference room on the other side of the building where Vice President Baxter was gathered with select members of the cabinet and the intelligence and federal-lawenforcement communities.
From there that group would monitor the conversation between Aziz and the FBI negotiator and make any decisions if needed. At Mcmahon's request, Kennedy was to stay with him in the FBI's command post to offer any insight.
Across the room, by the windows that overlooked the West Wing, Skip Mcmahon was talking to a seated Attorney General Tutwiler and motioning to a group of phones. Kennedy walked across the room and stopped several feet away so as to not interrupt. She listened to what Skip was saying and quickly grew alarmed. Kennedy began to look around the room, and she did not like what she saw, or didn't see. It was getting close to nine, and she did not see anyone who appeared to be the FBI negotiator.
A short while later Mcmahon finished explaining to Tutwiler how the different phones worked and then turned to face Kennedy. With his back to the attorney general he rolled his eyes in frustration.
"Morning, Irene."
"Good morning." Kennedy nodded to Tutwiler and then looked back at Mcmahon.
"Where is your negotiator?"
Before Mcmahon had a chance to answer, Tutwiler said, "I'll be handling the negotiations."
In as passive a tone as Kennedy could muster, she replied, "No offense.
Madam Attorney General, but I don't think that is the most prudent course."
"And why is that?" asked Tutwiler aggressively.
"Because Rafique Aziz will take it as an insult that we have chosen a woman to negotiate with him."
"I am here, Ms. Kennedy, because I am the top-ranking law-enforcement officer in the land. I am here"—Tutwiler stressed the word and pointed at the ground—"to send a clear message to these terrorists that we are extremely serious about this situation."
Kennedy's thoughts drifted back to Mitch Rapp's words at the Pentagon the day before. They gave her the strength to state her opinion a bit more firmly.
"And I am here to advise you as the director of the Cia's Counterterrorism Center, you are making a grave mistake. I respect your accomplishments, Madam Attorney General, but Rafique Aziz will not. He will make you pay for what he will see as a blatant insult to his manhood." Tutwiler defiantly crossed her arms.
"I have encountered chauvinists all my life, and I have found that there is only one way to deal with them… head-on."
"Again, I respect your accomplishments, but you couldn't be more wrong.
You have absolutely no idea who you're dealing with." Seeing that Tutwiler was not going to budge, Kennedy left the room and started down the hallway to explain the new development to Stansfield. Midway down the hall she heard Mcmahon call her name.
A second later Mcmahon pulled up alongside her and placed his hand on her shoulder. "Irene, it's not worth it. I already went all the way to the top. For now, she gets her way."
Kennedy stopped, her cheeks slightly flushed. Murmuring more to herself than Mcmahon she said, "Now I know why Mitch got so mad yesterday."
Mcmahon didn't quite get Kennedy's comment and decided to ignore it.
"The way I figure it, Irene, is that Tutwiler's ass is hangin' out pretty far on this one. After she screws up this morning, she'll be out of our hair." Mcmahon studied Kennedy's tense face, not used to such a reaction from the almost always unflappable protegee of Thomas Stansfield.
"Take a deep breath, Irene; it's not going to do you any good to get upset right now."
Kennedy looked up at Mcmahon and bit down on the bottom corner of her lip.
"I'm usually the one giving you this lecture."
"What can I say; I'm a quick learner." Mcmahon gave her a fake smile and turned Kennedy back toward the command post.
"I need you with me during this call, all right?"
Kennedy nodded and went along reluctantly.