HIS FINGERS TAPPED the shiny surface of the conference table of the White House Situation Room and his eyes stayed transfixed on the computer screen. Rafique Aziz sat in the president's leather chair, rocking slightly. Aziz brought his wrist up and checked the time. The balance of the Swiss bank account hadn't changed in almost half an hour.
Two more minutes and the spectacle would start. Aziz's eyes lifted an inch above the top of the computer screen and looked at the bank of television screens that dominated the far wall.
The three major networks and CNN were all broadcasting live from the other side of Lafayette Park. NEC and CBS were interviewing family members of the hostages; ABC was talking to a psychiatrist who had written a book on hostages identifying with their captors, the so-called Stockholm syndrome; and CNN was talking to a retired FBI agent, whom Aziz thought to be typically smug.
A thin smile creased his lips as Aziz thought about just how predictable these Americans were. The smile widened even further. Aziz put his hands behind his neck and rocked back and forth in the chair. A mailbox icon appeared on the second laptop, and an electronic voice alerted him to an incoming E-mail. Aziz quickly tapped the proper keys, and a second later the message was up on the screen. As Aziz read the message, he moved closer to the screen, reading the first line over and over, unable to get past the shock of it. It couldn't be. How could they have gotten their hands on him? Why now?
The message read, "Fora Harut abducted in early morning commando raid yesterday. Croup suffered heavy casualties. Harut assumed taken alive.
Do not know who conducted operation, but assume either America, Britain, or Israel."
ACROSS THE STREET in the Executive Office Building, Vice President Baxter was holding court in a separate conference room down the hall from the FBI's command post. As always Dallas King was sitting next to Baxter, General Flood was on the vice president's left, and farther down the table FBI Director Roach, Cia Director Stansfield, and Secret Service Director Tracy had taken their seats. The secretaries of state and defense were also present, along with a dozen aides and several Secret Service agents from the vice president's detail. The door was closed, and each occupant stared expectantly at the black speaker placed in the center of the table. After twenty more seconds of silence the black box announced the ringing of the phone in the Situation Room.
AZIZ WAS STILL staring at the message when the phone started to ring. He was furious, outraged that such a thing could happen, and now of all times. His eyes burned a hole in the screen as his mind raced to calculate the potential damage this catastrophe could inflict on his mission. All the while Aziz tried to keep emotion out of it. Fara Harut was his mentor, the man who had wooed him from the classroom to the battlefield, the man who had shown him the evil of the Zionists.
Harut was the reason he was where he was today, and now, he was gone.
The phone continued its irritating noise, and Aziz had to catch himself from answering it—not now, not until he calmed down and put himself in the proper mind-set. There was the plan, and he had to stick with it.
After he had more time to think, he could deal with this calamity.
Laying his hands flat on the table, he forced all of the tension from his body and immersed himself in his role. Finally, after the phone had rung at least a dozen times, he reached out and slowly brought the receiver to his mouth.
"Yes."
"Mr. Aziz," stated a calm and confident female voice, "this is Attorney General Margaret Tutwiler. We are having some problems getting together all of the money. "There was a pause on the line and then, "So far we have managed to transfer—"
"One point three billion dollars." Aziz gave her the sum as he stood abruptly. Anger coursing through every inch of his body. This was too much. He had done his research on the Americans.
He knew who all of the players would be. He knew that with Hayes out of commission the transfer of power would take place, and with Vice President Baxter came an increased role for the already important attorney general. But to insult him in such a way was inconceivable. It was such a blatant affront that there was no way it could be anything other than intentional.
A slightly surprised Tutwiler said, "Yes, one point three billion."
She stammered for a second.
"It's going to take some time to gather all of the money… It would be a big help, as far as expediting the transfer of the remainder of the money, if you could show us a sign of your good faith."
Aziz closed his eyelids tightly, commanding himself to continue forward with the plan. In a pained voice, he asked, "What would you propose?"
"The release of several hostages would go a long way in showing us you are sincere."
This was beyond belief. In a voice that was near breaking, Aziz asked,
"How many would you like me to release—ten, twenty… maybe thirty of them?"
Tutwiler, unsure of how genuine the offer was, tentatively replied, "Um… thirty would be great… and after they are released, we can work on getting more of the money transferred."
Aziz stood looking down the length of the table, staring at everything and nothing at the same time, his instincts sharp, his anger funneling into a direct beam of energy. Plan or no plan, this had moved into the realm of the personal. They were trying to insult him by sending this woman to talk with him. They were testing him to see how far he would go. Was it a trap? He thought not. It was too early for an attack, it was broad daylight, and the media was right across the street. If they wanted to test his resolve, he would show them just how strong and determined it was.
It was all too much. First the news that Fara Harut had been taken, and now this stupid woman insulting him. Finally, unable to hold it in anymore, he yelled, "What did I tell you yesterday? I said all of the money by nine! I didn't say part of it; I said all of it! Don't insult me by talking to me of the difficulty of transferring the money! Your Treasury Department could transfer ten times the money I asked for in one hour if they wanted to! I think it is time to teach you stupid Americans a lesson! Look out your windows, and I will show you what happens when you play your idiotic games with me!"
ANNA RIELLY sat on the floor uncomfortably, her stomach growling. She seriously wondered if she'd be able to make it another hour without wetting her pants. Several of the other hostages had already done so, and the room was beginning to reek of urine. Rielly heard the sound of heavy boots approaching, and then the head terrorist entered the room.
The entire group cowered at the sight of the obviously enraged man.
Aziz walked right up to the edge of the hostages and pointed to a man.
"You! Stand up right now!" Whoever he was yelling at didn't respond fast enough, and Aziz yelled even louder, "Now!"
As the hostage stood, Rielly immediately recognized him.
It was Bill Schwartz, the president's national security adviser.
The terrorist screamed at the woman who was clutching Schwartz's leg and said, "You too! Come!"
The woman also did not move fast enough, and Aziz reached down and grabbed her by her hair, yanking her to her feet like a rag doll. With the help of another terrorist he led them out of the room.
Aziz pushed the two hostages in front of him up the stairs to the first level of the West Wing. Then, before stepping out underneath the small portico on the north side of the building, Aziz pulled a mesh hood down over his face. He took a small remote control from his drab green combat vest and punched in a code, disarming the explosive device that was attached to the door.
Aziz kicked open the double doors and marched outside.
All alone in the morning sunlight, he crossed the narrow driveway and stepped back onto another sidewalk near the edge of the small portico.
Aziz defiantly looked around at the dozens of guns that were trained on him. The long barrels of sniper rifles could be seen bristling from every rooftop in sight. He knew they wouldn't shoot, they couldn't shoot, not in America. That command had to come down through layers of bureaucrats, and it was far too early for that. Aziz raised his AK-74 in the air and unleashed a loud eight-round burst. Defiantly, he cradled his weapon across his chest and stood his ground, showing the Americans that he was not afraid. After he had made his presence felt, he marched back into the building and looked at his watch. He had decided he would give the media thirty seconds to get their cameras focused on the entrance.
Aziz was following his script precisely, with one exception.
The rage. It had been his plan from the start to kill the national security adviser. But now, he decided to deviate slightly from his plan and allow himself some personal satisfaction in retaliation for Harut.
In an almost spastic flurry, Aziz wheeled and slapped Schwartz across the face.
His face within inches of Schwartz he yelled, "How does it feel to be terrified, you dog?" The national security advisers eyes welled up with tears, and the woman standing next to him began to sob. Schwartz wrapped his arms around his secretary. He knew what was happening, he knew it was the end, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Aziz continued to scream and taunt him with questions.
"How many times have you ordered the death of my Arab brothers? How many times?" Aziz's eyes were maniacal with rage. Schwartz gave no answer, and Aziz slapped him again; then, grabbing him by the collar. Aziz forced the national security adviser toward the door with his secretary's arms still wrapped tightly around her boss's waist. As they reached the door, Aziz placed his boot on the woman's butt and shoved.
Schwartz and the woman tumbled out into the light and fell to the pavement. Aziz stood in the doorway and yelled through his mesh hood for them to get up. The woman was crying harder now, and Schwartz's tears were flowing freely down his cheeks. The presidential adviser stood and pulled his secretary to her feet. Aziz screamed at them to start walking, and after several seconds they began to do so, though slowly.
Standing in the doorway, Aziz watched the two hostages walk toward the north gate. When they reached the halfway point, when they were within clear view of the news cameras, Aziz raised his rifle and took aim.
"Stop!" he yelled. When the presidents national security adviser turned to look over his shoulder, Aziz had Schwartz's face in the center of his sights. He squeezed the trigger once, the powerful rifle bucked, and he brought it right back to level, the woman's head now framed in the cold black sights. A quick squeeze of the trigger and the second body was tumbling to the pavement just behind the first. As the woman came to rest on top of Schwartz, Aziz zeroed in and unloaded another dozen rounds. The loud clacking of the Kalashnikov rifle reverberated across the pristine north grounds of the White House.
When Aziz was satisfied, he closed the door, the smoking muzzle of his AK-74 hanging at his side. Before starting back for the basement, he rearmed the booby-trapped doorway and then started down the hall, his eyes full of hate, his breaths deep, and his pace quick When he reached the staircase, he ran down the steps, through the hallway, and into the empty Situation Room. Grabbing the phone, he yelled, "Are you still there?"
SKIP MCMAHON HELD the phone to his ear and looked down at the two bodies lying in the driveway. The man he recognized.
He then turned to Marge Tutwiler, who sat motionless at the table, staring out the window. Mcmahon then looked at Irene Kennedy, who sadly shook her head.
"I'm here," answered Mcmahon.
"Who is this?" shouted Aziz.
"Special Agent Skip Mcmahon of the FBI."
"Good! Don't ever insult me by putting that woman on the phone again. My demands are unchanged! I will kill one hostage every hour until all of the money is placed in the account I have given you! When you do that, I will release one-third of the hostages! One hostage every hour! Am I understood?"
"I understand you very clearly, but one hour might be pushing it" Now was the time to shift gears.
"Listen to me, Mcmahon."
Aziz now spoke calmly, in an almost professional tone.
"I know your rules of engagement. I just killed two hostages, so now you must send in your Hostage Rescue Team." Aziz stopped and then added in a grave tone, "That will be a big mistake, and I will tell you why. If you attempt such a stunt, I will blow this great building of yours to kingdom come and all of the hostages with it. My men and I will gladly become martyrs for our cause, and you know it. "Aziz paused for a moment. "It does not need to come to that, however. The only reason I killed those two hostages was because of the stupidity of your attorney general. If you and I play by the rules, no one needs to die. You hand over all of the money in one hour, and I release a third of the hostages. It is as simple as that. Have I made myself clear?"
"Yes."
"Good. From now on, Mcmahon, I talk to you and only you. Now I will await the rest of the money." Aziz calmly placed the phone back in its cradle. He knew exactly how to play them. THE VICE PRESIDENT and the others sat in silence around the conference table. There was a knock on the door followed by a slight pause. Then the door opened cautiously and Mcmahon and Irene Kennedy entered. The men sitting around the table were sullen. FBI Director Roach looked up and asked, "Who did they kill?"
Irene Kennedy answered. "We don't know who the woman was, but the man was Bill Schwartz."
Every person in the room lowered his or her head. They had all worked with Schwartz at one time or another, and he was well liked. After a long period of silence. Vice President Baxter asked" If we give him the money, will he release a third of the hostages?"
The question was greeted with shrugs and uncertainty by all of the men sitting at the table. Eventually all eyes turned to Kennedy. She was the expert. Slowly, she nodded her head and then said, "I think he will keep his word."
The vice president took in the analysis with pursed lips. It was what he wanted to hear. Dallas King leaned over and cupped his hand over his boss's ear. Whispering, he said, "If he starts killing a hostage every hour, we are in some serious trouble.
I don't care how much it costs, or what they do with the money, if we can free a third of the hostages, I say we do it."
Baxter nodded as King eased away and back into his seat.
King was right. They were boxed in, and there were only two ways out. As far as Baxter was concerned, one of them wasn't even an option. The vice president looked at FBI Director Roach and said, "Brian, would you start the wheels in motion for transferring the rest of the money into the account? It is my decision that we will wait until he releases one third of the hostages, and then we will proceed from there. Any questions?"
Baxter looked around the room and everyone shook their heads. Baxter then looked back to the head of the FBI. "Let me know if you run into any problems, and make sure it's done within the hour. We don't need to see any more hostages gunned down."
Roach nodded, and he and Mcmahon left the room.
The aged director of central intelligence sat in his chair and observed.
He hadn't had a lot efface time with the vice president prior to the crisis and was still trying to get a good read on him. Baxter seemed to despise the fact that he had been put in this situation. That worried Thomas Stansfield. Great leaders rose to the occasion. They almost thrived when confronted with a crisis. This man seemed to shrink from it.
Turning in his chair, Stansfield got back to the business at hand.
"Mr. Vice President, we need to make some contingency plans."
Baxter nodded.
"I know… I know, but let's just take it one step at a time. Let's get some of the hostages released, and then we'll deal with the next demand."
"I'm afraid we don't have that luxury, sir." Stansfield paused.
"What if his next demand is untenable?" Stansfield had decided to wait until he had a full report from Dr. Hornig before he briefed the vice president on what they knew from Harut.
"I really don't want to think about that right now."
General Flood leaned forward, miffed at Baxters reply.
"We have no choice but to think about it. We have to be ready to move if this thing gets out of control." Baxter squirmed. All eyes in the room were on him, and he desperately wanted to avoid making a decision. Why would he have to be the butcher? Finally, reluctantly, he let out the difficult words, though they didn't exactly ring with confidence.
"Get everything in place, and if the time comes, I'll be ready to give the order" The large warrior turned to Stansfield, and the two men exchanged knowing glances. Baxter did not have what it would take. He was in over his head and would blow in the wind until the last possible second.
The vice president placed his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes.
Without looking up, he said, "Let's take a break and meet back here in thirty minutes. I need some time alone… to think."
Everyone, with the exception of King, rose and started for the door.
Baxter looked at his chief of staff and said, "You too, Dallas. Go check on Marge, and see how she's doing." King nodded and left with the others.
IT HAD BEEN an absolute bear to get from Langley to Capitol Hill.
Traffic was horrendous due to the street closures and the large crowds around the White House. Rapp turned his black Volvo from Second Street on to Pennsylvania Avenue and gunned it to get around a cabbie who was driving like he had his head shoved up his ass. The farther Rapp traveled away from the Capitol, the worse the neighborhood got. The mix of homes went from nicely restored to run-down and dilapidated eyesores.
Several blocks later, Rapp took a left and found the home he had been looking for, an immaculate turn-of-the century Victorian with fresh paint and ornate woodwork. The home was sandwiched in between two rotting houses of similar architecture that were in dire need of repair.
Rapp parked his car in front of the nice Victorian and looked at his dashboard clock: 9:16. Events at the White House would be under way. He reached for his digital phone, but decided against it. Irene would have enough going on. She didn't need a call from him, and besides, he wasn't in the mood for bad news. Rapp got out of the car, his holstered Beretta bulging underneath the right armpit of his suit coat. He pulled his sunglasses down a notch on his nose and started up the sidewalk.
Standing on the porch was Milt Adams, all five feet five inches of him.
His head was shaved and his dark black skin glistened in the sunlight. Despite his slight stature, he gave one the impression of a much larger individual.
As Rapp reached the steps, a rather large German shepherd was coming down from the porch straight for him. Rapp tensed at his natural urge to pull out his gun and shoot the dog.
He hated dogs—strike that—he didn't hate dogs per se just the guard-dog variety. They were an occupational hazard that he was none too fond of. Knowing that to show fear was suicidal, Rapp stood as stiff as a board with his hands at his sides. Sure enough, the dog came right up and stuck its snout in his crotch, Rapp's immediate reaction was to take a step back, but it did no good, the dog simply followed, sniffing loudly.
From the porch, Milt Adams shouted in a deep drill instructor voice,
"Rufus heel! "The dog immediately wheeled and headed up the steps, heeding the command and taking up a post at his owner's side. Adams reached down and scratched the dog under the neck.
"Good boy, Rufus. Good boy."
Rapp stared up at Adams, awed that such a deep, booming voice had just come from such a little body. Adams could not have weighed more than one hundred fifty pounds, and the voice Rapp had just heard could have given James Earl Jones, Isaac Hayes, and Barry White all a run for their money.
"Are you Mr. Kruse?" asked Adams. "Yes." Rapp walked up the first two steps and stuck out his hand.
"You must be Milt Adams."
"That's correct. It's nice to meet you."
"Likewise."
Adams motioned for Rapp.
"Follow me, I've got everything set up inside."
The two men walked into the house, the dog following at Rapp's side.
Adams continued straight ahead, down a long hallway to the rear of the house and the kitchen. The hardwood floors had been recently redone with a shiny coat of polyurethane, and the kitchen floor was tiled in a classic black-and-white checkerboard pattern. The trim was all restored to its natural wood finish with a light stain.
Adams opened a glass-paned cupboard and grabbed two mugs.
"You look like the black type."
"That'd be great." The German shepherd parked his butt right next to Rapp and leaned his head against Rapp's thigh.
The proximity of the canine made Rapp increasingly uncomfortable.
Adams finished pouring the coffee and turned around. He took one look at Rapp's stiff posture and said, "You don't like dogs." It was more a statement than a question.
"Ah… not really."
Adams handed him a cup.
"What's the problem? You been bit before?"
"Several times." Rapp winced as he thought of one time in particular.
Adams surveyed his guest; the longer hair and facial scar made him begin to wonder if this man really worked for the Secret Service.
"Don't worry," Adams offered.
"As long as you don't hurt me, Rufus won't hurt you." The owner of the house started across the room.
"Let's go down to the basement. That's where I have everything." Rapp watched Adams cross the kitchen and followed. The damn dog would not leave his side. Rapp was impressed with Adams, who hustled down the steep steps like a man half his age.
When Rapp reached the basement, he stopped and looked around the large room. It was a retired man's wet dream. The floor was painted a spotless gray and looked clean enough to eat off. Tools of every kind hung from brown pegboard along one wall, and each spot was labeled to ensure optimal organization. Along the far wall, six metal storage cabinets were lined up, each of them again labeled with a laminated catalog of the items within. Two drafting tables and a computer dominated the wall to the right. In the center of the room several white sheets covered something roughly the size of a pool table.
Cocking his head sideways, Rapp tried to sneak a peek under the sheets, but couldn't see anything.
The wiry Adams stopped at the drafting table on the left and turned on a bright overhead lamp. He motioned down at the three-by-four-foot blueprint on the table.
"This is an overview of the White House and its grounds. Director Tracy tells me you're interested in finding a way to get into the mansion unnoticed." Rapp nodded. Adams looked up questioningly, as if studying Rapp. After a moment, he said, "Something tells me you're not Secret Service, Mr. Kruse."
"Please call me Mitch, and no, I don't work for the Secret Service."
"Okay, Mitch, who do you work for?"
"I'm an analyst for the CIA."
A wry smile creased Adams's lips. In his deep voice he replied, "Analyst my ass." Rolling up his left sleeve, Adams revealed a thick wormlike scar that sliced from his elbow almost down to his wrist. Holding it up for Rapp to see, he said, "Got this on Iwojima… bayoneted by some crazy Jap."
Adams pointed to Rapp's face. "You've got a nice thin scar there. Can't even see it unless you're looking at you from the side. You've had some nice plastic surgery done on it, but my guess is it used to be a big ugly thing like this one here on my arm." Adams studied him again.
"You didn't get it from analyzing satellite imagery, did you?"
Rapp played it cool, asking, "How'd you know I had plastic surgery?"
"My oldest daughter is a doctor over at GW I can see the work of a talented surgeon, so let's cut the shit. What do you really do for Langley?"
Rapp looked at Adams deliberately. He liked his cut-to-the heart-of-the-matter style and decided the old man was a little too wily to play games with. So Rapp decided to give it to him as straight as he could.
"I can't get into the details, but I'm more than a paper pusher."
"Is Kruse your real name?"
Rapp shook his head.
Adams eyed him suspiciously and then shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, I'll have to trust Director Tracy. If he says I should give you the information, I'll give it to you." Adams turned his attention back to the blueprint and ran his finger over it, tracing a line.
"There is one way to get into the White House below ground Adams flipped up the first blueprint and revealed another one.
"It's the most well-known… the tunnel that comes over from the Treasury Building." Adams stabbed his finger on the right side of the blueprint and drew a line showing Rapp where the tunnel was.
"This is the tunnel that the terrorists used."
"That's it?" asked Rapp, surprised.
"There's only one tunnel?"
Adams nodded. "There's only one tunnel. All the BS Hollywood puts out has most people thinking there's a dozen secret tunnels heading in every different direction." Adams shook his head.
"Not true."
Disappointed, Rapp said, "So there's no other way in below ground."
"I didn't say that." Adams held up a finger and smiled. He then stepped over to the other drafting table.
"During the Reagan administration the Army Corps of Engineers installed a new heating, ventilation, and cooling system. This HVAC they installed was really impressive stuff… very high tech. Besides providing all of the basic heating and cooling requirements, the system is designed to keep the air pressure inside the White House higher than the air pressure outside."
"Why?" asked Rapp.
"Maintaining a higher internal pressure ensures that all air flow, either through open doors, windows, or cracks, will always flow out instead of in. This way if anyone tries to introduce a biological or chemical weapon into the building's environment, they couldn't do it by simply releasing the toxin upwind from the building. They would have to get inside the building and release it, and even if they did, the system is equipped with alarms and filters."
Rapp thought he saw where Adams was going and asked, "Where does the system get its air?"
"The system has two sets of intake and exhaust ducts. The first is located on the roof of the White House, and the second is located here."
Adams pointed to an area on the South Lawn.
"The duct is hidden under a clump of fake bushes not more than fifteen yards from the fence on the east side, just south of Jackie Kennedy's rose garden. The duct drops thirty feet straight down and then runs for a little over two hundred feet, where it connects with the main system in the engineering room of the third basement." Rapp looked at the drawing.
"What kind of cover is there around this duct? Could you get to it without someone from the roof seeing you?"
"There's plenty of cover. Come over here, and I'll show you on the model." Adams walked over to the middle of the room and proudly pulled two white sheets off the large table.
Lying before them on the table was a detailed model of the White House and its grounds.
"This is what retirement does to you, Mitch. I started this project almost twenty years ago with one of my nephews. It took me almost all of that time to get half of it finished, and then I retired and finished the rest of it in six months."
Rapp stared at the model and searched for the duct in question. Reading his mind, Adams reached down and moved a small bush.
"Here's your way in." Adams's skinny black hand pointed at a green metal shaft that came out of the ground and then looped back down in an inverted U with the open end pointing at the ground.
Rapp studied the trees and bushes between the vent and the White House.
"You're sure someone on the roof wouldn't see me approaching the duct?"
"I don't think so. Your problem, as. I see it, is whether or not they are in control of the Secret Service's surveillance and alarm system. This entire area"—Adams pointed at the fence-"is loaded with sensors. If they have our system, they'll know you're there the second you step over the fence."
Rapp folded his arms and grabbed his chin. Looking down at the model, he studied the large horseshoe-shaped fence that ringed the South Lawn and nodded.
"We can overcome that, though." Adams dismissed the problem with a wave of his hand.
"Through a diversion or something… Your real problem is going to be finding your way around once you get inside the building. There are secret doors, elevators, stairs, passageways—you name it… and you won't find any of them on a blueprint or a model. Hell, half the agents on the presidential detail don't know where all of the stuff is. You are going to need someone with you who knows their way around that place…"
Adams paused for a second.
"Or you're going to have to tell me what you have in mind, so I can help you plan it."
Rapp looked up from the model and studied Milt Adams.
A decision had to be made. Adams had to be either brought onboard or kept in the dark, and Rapp didn't have the patience to debate the pros and cons with Kennedy and Stansfield.
DALLAS KING WAS standing in a small office across the hall from the FBI's command post. He had been there for five frustrating minutes while a paramedic worked on Tutwiler. King looked down at the attorney general and shook his head.
The paramedic that was checking her out finished taking her blood pressure and said, "I think she's in shock."
"Shit." King paced back and forth. "So what are you telling me? Can she speak to the press or not?"
"No." The female paramedic, who was still on one knee, frowned.
"She needs to get to a hospital." Tutwiler was sitting frozen on a brown leather couch, her eyes staring blankly into space.
King placed his hands over his mouth and swore three times in rapid succession. Next, he grabbed at his hair and said, "I fucking knew it."
Turning back toward the paramedic, he said, "Take her to Bethesda, and I don't want anyone talking to her." King yanked the door open and began marching down the hallway, his arms swinging wildly. When he reached the other side of the building, he ignored the gaggle of Secret Service agents standing outside the conference room and entered without knocking.
King slammed the door behind him and screamed an expletive.
Vice President Baxter, startled by the unexpected intrusion, spun around in his chair with a look of thorough irritation on his face.
"Dallas, I said I wanted to be alone."
"The stupid bitch is in shock."
"What?" asked a confused Baxter.
"Tutwiler… the bitch is in shock… she cracked." An angry expression contorted King's face.
"She can't talk… She's on her way to the hospital."
Baxter closed his eyes and moaned, "oh great."
King began pacing up and down next to the conference table, while Baxter buried his face in his cupped hands.
"It's nothing we can't handle," insisted King, trying to find an angle, a way to spin the story. "It'sjust a temporary setback."
King walked the length of the room twice and then said, "I'll leak it through the right sources that the whole thing was Marge's idea, and when it blew up in her face, she cracked… and then we'll have Director Roach handle the press briefing.
We'll be fine."
With his face still in his hands, Baxter added, "For now."
Then lifting his head up, he said, "This thing is only going to get worse. We are going to have to storm that place eventually, and from what everyone is telling me, we are going to lose a lot of hostages.
It's just like I told you yesterday, Dallas; we are screwed." Baxter growled the last word.
"Any way you slice it, I'm going to have the blood of a lot of people on my hands, and my name will forever be associated with this damn mess."
King shook his head.
"Nothing's over. If there's a way out of this, I'll find it." Rubbing his hands together as if he were trying to warm them up, he said, "For now, we continue to walk this thin line. Marge is out of commission, so we'll move Director Roach and the FBI to the forefront. If this sick bastard releases one-third of the hostages, we should probably have a photo op with you consoling them. It won't hurt for you to take credit for that, but once it's over and he starts making his next demands, you should keep a low profile.
This isn't over yet, Sherman. Stay with me." SLEEP HAD BEEN out of the question. After Warch had discovered someone was trying to breach the bunker door, everyone was up for the night. Tensions were running high as the grinding noise grew a little louder with each passing hour.
Another foreboding sign was that the door was no longer cool to the touch. Areas of heat could be felt as one placed one's hand in different spots.
In an effort to lower the tension and keep his people focused. Jack Warch had drawn up a duty schedule with Special Agent Ellen Morton, the day shift's whip. The first order of business was to collect all of the radios and phones. With nine Secret Service agents in the bunker, that amounted to nine encrypted Motorola radios and nine digital phones. One of each would be kept on and monitored around the clock. Since the batteries on the phones were interchangeable, Warch's phone was to be used and the batteries from the other phones were to be rotated through.
While one agent monitored the communications, another agent was to stand post by the bunker door and report any strange noises or occurrences.
Two more agents were assigned to remain at all times between the president and the bunker door. While these four agents were manning their posts, the other four were to sleep or eat. The two teams, as they were now referred to, were on four-hour rotations. Warch was the only one not included in the rotation. After checking on the battery supply. Warch walked over to the thick vault door and placed his hand flat on the surface. He ran his other hand through his thinning hair and tried to remember the details that had been passed on to him about the construction of the bunker. If he remembered correctly, it could withstand any conventional bomb and most nuclear bombs as long as it wasn't a direct hit. If the White House was ground zero, they were toast like everyone else. As for how it would hold up against a bunch of bloodthirsty terrorists using drills and God only knew what else'warch had no idea.
The commanding agent turned away from the door and glanced over at the president, who was sitting on one of the couches with his chief of staff. The president looked at warch and gestured for him to join them.
President Hayes was one of those men who shaved twice a day. Having already missed two shaves, his face was covered with a solid growth of gray and brown whiskers. His tie and suit jacket were lying on the bunk he had slept in. Looking over at Special Agent Warch, the president said, "Jack, please take your tie off, and tell the men to do the same."
After the raid Warch had torn his tie off in frustration. His feelings toward his president were at an all-time low. Hayes and his chief of staff had circumvented Secret Service security procedure, and people were dead because of it. Now, over twenty four hours later, he had put his personal feelings aside and put his tie back on. He had a job to do, and part of that job was to show respect to the presidency, regardless of the individual.
Warch nodded his thanks to the president and began to tug at the silk knot around his neck.
"Anything new to report?"
"I'm afraid not, sir." Warch kept his expression neutral.
"Are you sure," started Valerie Jones, "that those aren't our people trying to drill through the door?" Warch paused and checked his desire to snap at the president's chief of staff. He had already been over this with them twice.
"It's not our people."
"Are you sure?"Joness tone was more pleading than asking.
Warch exhaled a tired sigh and said, "I don't like it any more than you do, but it would make no sense for our own people to drill through the door. They have the code. All they have to do is punch it in like we did, and the door opens."
Jones moved forward on the couch, tugging the hem of her black skirt as she did so. "What if the terrorists damaged the door control?"
Warch called on his patience. They had already been down this road before. He decided he would go over it with her one last time.
"Outside this door"—Warch pointed over his shoulder—"is a second room.
That room has two reinforced steel doors. One leads into the tunnel, and the second one leads into the third basement of the White House. Again, my people have the codes to get through either of those doors. So there would be no reason for them to be drilling now."
"No." Jones shook her head.
"You're not listening. I said what if the terrorists blew apart one of the other doors and that damaged the control panel for this door?" She pointed at the door with her bright red fingernail.
"Ms. Jones, you are the one who is not listening." Warch kept his voice low but firm.
"If our people were the ones drilling out there, they would have called us and told us so."
Warch drew her attention to the nearby table filled with radios and digital phones.
"They would not be jamming our communications and drilling at the same time." Warch didn't see it as his job to like or dislike people at the White House, but this Valerie Jones was really getting on his nerves.
Jones started to speak again, but President Hayes reached out and placed his hand on her knee. "I think Jack has made his point, and I agree with him. It's the only thing that makes sense."
"Who says it has to make sense?" Hayes eyeballed her and said, "Valerie."
Jones sat back and folded her arms.
"Sorry, I'm just trying to think of a way out of this mess."
Hayes ignored her and looked to Warch.
"What do we do now?"
Warch was tempted, really tempted to let fly, to explain very forcefully to Ms. Jones that they wouldn't be in this mess if she had followed Secret Service procedure, but now was neither the time nor the place.
That would all be discussed later, if they ever got out of this mess alive.
Warch thought about the president's question for a moment. He looked over at the seemingly impervious bunker door and wondered how long it would take for the terrorists to breach it.
Looking back to the president'warch knew he had to stay positive.
"The FBI's Hostage Rescue Team is the best. I'm sure they're making plans to retake the building as we speak."
RAFIQUE AZIZ GRINNED as he watched the money flow into the Swiss bank account. His people in Iran would start transferring the money into different accounts within the hour. He was winning, but his elation was tempered by the news about his mentor Fara Harut. Aziz wondered what his captors could get out of him—if he was still alive. Harut was a tough old man, but no one was tough enough to withstand torture.
As Aziz tried to assess the potential damage, he wondered if it was wise to deviate from his plan slightly—to demand the return of Harut. As he drummed his fingers on the table, he decided no. The Americans might not have him; it could have been the Israelis or the British. If he went back on his word, it might provoke them into a premature attack, and Aziz was not ready for that. He needed his hands around the president's neck, or his chance for survival would be close to zero.
For now he would stick to his plan. It was time to talk to the FBI. Aziz had been ready to kill another hostage at ten A.M." but the money had started to flow and kept flowing. It was nearing noon and almost all of the money had been transferred.
Aziz picked up the phone and dialed the number that the FBI had given him. After two rings the now familiar deep voice of mcmahon answered.
"You have kept your word," said Aziz, "and I will keep mine. At half past noon, I will release one-third of the hostages.
Keep your people back. I don't want to see any of them on the street, or I'll open fire. Do I make myself clear?"
Yes. Which door will you bring them out of?"
"That is not your concern," snapped Aziz.
"I will release my next set of demands at seven A.M. tomorrow. Until then I do not want to hear from you." The terrorist hung up the phone and looked at his watch. It was exactly 11:53. Aziz decided he would release the hostages immediately instead of waiting until twelve-thirty.
This would keep the FBI off balance. Aziz doubted they would try anything this early, but after his execution of their national security adviser, it was best to be safe.
ANNA RIELLY FELT weak. Her captors had allowed her to go to the bathroom around eleven, and Rielly had been able to grab several handfuls of water from the sink while she was in the bathroom. The water hitting her empty stomach had made her realize just how hungry she really was. The terrorist with the slicked-back hair had again followed her into the stall and watched her. Back in the White House mess, Rielly looked up from her uncomfortable position on the floor and noticed him gloating over her still. She wondered when he would strike, and if he would do it alone or with the others. Her vision started to blur.
Lowering her head, she brought both fists up to her eyes, fighting the tears before they started flowing uncontrollably.
She could handle anything but this. Would it be better to die? she honestly asked herself.