NOT LONG AFTER they had lost contact with Rapp; Milt Adams was also lost. The only thing Kennedy and the others could do was wait. Kennedy found herself thinking that this was how the NASA mission controllers must have felt during the Apollo lunar missions. When the astronauts went around the back side of the moon, they would enter a period when communication was impossible. The roomful of scientists would sit nervously at mission control and hope the spacecraft and its men would make it back around without any problems.
That was the position they were in now. There was nothing they could do but wait.
Kennedy took off her headset, looked up at a row of clocks on the wall to her right, and remembered there was one thing she could do. Dead in the middle of the wall was the clock noting the local time in Washington, D.C. It was almost eleven in the evening. Several clocks to the right, Kennedy found the time she was looking for. Picking up the secure phone in front of her, she dialed a number by memory. It was an important phone number. It was just before seven in the morning in Tel Aviv, and if her counterpart wasn't in, he would be shortly. After several clicks and whirs someone picked up on the other end.
"Fine."
The word was not an answer to a question, but rather the last name of the man answering the phone. Colonel Ben Pine of the Israeli foreign intelligence service, Mossad. Colonel Fine was Kennedy's direct counterpart, the man in charge of Mossad's counterterrorism section.
"Ben, it's Irene Kennedy."
"Irene," said Fine excitedly.
"I'm sorry I haven't called, but I figured you'd be busy."
"Have you been following the crisis?" asked Kennedy in a tired voice.
"Very closely. Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, there is." Kennedy looked down at the sheet of paper in front of her.
"I'd like you to look at a list of names for me."
"How many?"
"Ten. We have good intel on seven of them, but the last three we've come up blank on." Kennedy again looked at the list of names that had been provided by Dr. Hornig. "You can count on me putting all of my resources into it.
Send me the list, and I will personally make sure it gets taken care of immediately."
"Thank you, Ben. I appreciate it." There was a pause, and then the colonel said, "I have a question for you, as long as I've got you on the line. There have been several reports, all unconfirmed of course, that a certain high-ranking member of Hezbollah is missing." The Israeli colonel stopped talking for a moment and then added, "You wouldn't know anything about this, would you?"
Kennedy lifted her eyes and looked up at the bank of television sets.
"I might have some insight into the subject."
Fine didn't reply right away. Instead his silence conveyed an implicit tit-for-tat request.
"I assume when the time is right, you will enlighten me."
"I had planned on it," answered Kennedy honestly.
"Good," stated a satisfied Fine.
"Do you need anything else from me?" Kennedy thought about it for a moment and said, "No, not that I can think of, but anything you can do with the names would be greatly appreciated."
"I will get started right away, and do not hesitate to call if you need anything else."
"I won't. Thank you, Ben." After setting the phone back in its cradle, Kennedy placed the list of names in a file folder and walked to the end of her row. Looking up toward the back of the room, she waved the file and caught the attention of one of her people. A man in his early thirties came down the stairs, and Kennedy handed him the file.
"Fax this to Colonel Fine immediately." The man nodded dutifully and started back up the stairs, headed for the secure fax machine.
WHITE NOISE hissed through the earpiece. / have to be near the end, Rapp thought to himself. The tunnel seemed to be getting smaller and smaller.
Rapp was sweating profusely, and his heart rate was much faster than it should have been. Irritated by the noise of his radio, he reached up and took the headset off, letting it fall around his neck. He knew Milt Adams wasn't far behind, because he had heard him sneezing. It must have been the thin layer of dust that lined the metal walls of the duct.
There wasn't a lot of it, but Rapp himself had fought back the impulse several times.
Rapp paused for a second and took in a deep breath. He lowered his sweaty head onto his arm and told himself to relax.
He was expending far more energy than necessary due to his slightly panicked state. Rapp lay still for almost a minute as he got his breathing under control. His watch told him that he had been in the shaft for almost fifteen minutes—longer than he had expected. It couldn't be that much farther. After making the left turn that would take him parallel to the southern end of the mansion's foundation, he had turned the miners light off. Rapp thought it was doubtful that anyone would be in the third basement—Aziz did not have enough men to patrol every area of the White House—but it was not worth the gamble of having the light spill through a crack or a seam in the ductwork.
After several more minutes of confined crawling, Rapp reached the end.
He was drenched in sweat, almost all of it from nervous energy. Gently, he let his head fall down on his arm, and he listened to make sure no one was in the boiler room. For the next two minutes that was all he did. Outside the shaft he could hear the heating, ventilation, and cooling system going through the labors of regulating the climate within the old house, but other than that, the only thing he heard was the approaching Milt Adams and his not-so-quiet sneezing. Rapp decided it was better to open the access panel before Adams and his involuntary reports arrived. He turned on his miner's lamp and ran his hand over the smooth surface of the duct until he felt a groove. Zeroing in with the light, he spotted what he was looking for. Just as Milt had said, there was an access panel right before the duct connected to the nitration system. A not-so-small wave of relief washed over him. The thought of it not being there, and having to crawl all the way back, had occurred to him several times. Before twisting the metal catches up, Rapp drew his silenced Beretta and turned off the miner's light. With the gun in his left hand, he felt for the catches with his right and turned the first one from its horizontal position to vertical. Adams had explained that the panel was attached with hinges on the bottom and two catches at the top.
After twisting the second catch, he slowly allowed the panel to swing downward and looked out into the dimly lit boiler room of the White House. The ventilation duct was hung from the ceiling and ran halfway across the room, where it connected to the hulking HVAC unit that occupied the majority of the room.
Poking only his head out, Rapp methodically searched the room for any signs of motion sensors or trip wires. After making sure it was safe, he pulled back into the duct and rolled over onto his back. He untied the rope around his ankle and noticed Adams crawling toward him roughly forty feet away.
Neither man spoke. Rapp had been extremely clear about that aspect of the operation. There was to be no talking unless absolutely needed.
Rapp fed the loose end of the rope out of the opening, leaving several feet dangling toward the ground and the other end tied to his gear.
Quickly, he scooted forward to the end of the duct, pushed himself out of the vent, and hung from his fingers, his feet dangling a little more than a foot from the ground. Gently, he let himself drop to the ground, immediately grabbed the rope, and pulled the rest of his gear down. With the pack on the ground, Rapp retrieved his silenced MP-10 submachine gun and turned on the small flashlight affixed to the underside of the barrel.
If aziz had planted any security devices, Rapp saw no sign of them.
Several moments later Milt Adams poked his sweaty, bald head out of the vent and stifled a sneeze with both hands.
Rapp looked up in irritation. He set his MP-10 down and held his hands out for Adams. Adams squirmed his way out of the opening. Rapp grabbed him under the armpits and helped him down with ease.
As soon as Adams's feet hit the ground, he grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his dripping nose.
Rapp grabbed his submachine gun and whispered, "What's wrong?" Adams blew his nose as quietly as possible and said, "All that dust in there… it makes my allergies act up."
Rapp frowned.
"Are you going to be all right?"
"Yeah." Adams finished wiping his nose.
"I'll be fine."
Getting to work, Rapp opened the top of his backpack and retrieved a micro video monitor with a directional fiber-optic cable attached to the end. They would use this to see around corners and under doors. The black-and-white monitor, which was six inches across by five inches high, was zipped into a black nylon harness. Rapp helped Adams strap it firmly between his chest and stomach allowing the semirigid fiberoptic cable to hang at Adams's side.
Rapp took the barrel of his silencer and stuck it under the access panel. Standing on his toes, he closed the metal panel, and with the very tip of the silencer he pushed up one of the latches and secured it.
As Rapp looked toward the door, he whispered, "Any questions?"
"Nope."
"All right. Let's move out." Rapp walked quietly across the concrete floor to the doorway with his silenced weapon up and ready. Adams followed a step behind, and when they reached the door, he stuck the tip of the cable under the door to check to see what was on the other side.
Rapp looked over his shoulder while Adams maneuvered the tip of the cable from side to side with a small dial. The coast appeared to be clear.
VICE PRESIDENT BAXTER'S national address had lasted less than five minutes. It was delivered at eleven p.m. eastern time, an hour later than most presidential addresses, due to the deep dissension between Baxter and King over what should be said. In the end, the speech consisted mainly of the standard condemnation of terrorism, the assurance that President Hayes was safe in his bunker, two minutes of nationalistic rhetoric, and of course, a solemn plea for prayers.
The early ratings were predictably high. The networks and the all-news channels were playing the crisis for everything it was worth. The newest angle they had started to play up was the theme of a government in exile. For the first time in the history of the republic such an address had been from the vice president's official residence at the Naval Observatory.
Dallas King stood nervously in the vice presidents study, leaning against a bookcase while he listened to a Democratic pollster explain the early results from the national address. Several other staffers were ringed around their new commander in chief and offered their opinions on a variety of issues. All of the camera equipment and lights had been left in place on the assumption that they would probably be needed again before the crisis was resolved. The polling numbers were awesome, but expected. Dallas King listened with feigned interest. His mind was elsewhere.
King looked down at his chrome Tag. Heuer watch and anxiously ran his right hand through his sun-bleached hair. He was late for a meeting, a meeting he hoped would encompass both business and pleasure. The handsome chief of staff didn't like the idea of leaving Baxter alone with the other staffers, but it was unavoidable. He shifted his weight away from the book case and started for the other side of the study, his black cap toed shoes marking his steps on the spotless hardwood floor.
When King reached a well-worn Persian rug, he reached out and snatched his sport coat from the back of an old wooden chair.
Vice President Baxter folded his arms across his small belly and smoothed an errant strand of his slicked-back hair.
"Where are you headed?"
"I have some business I need to take care of." King winked at his boss as he casually draped the coat over his left shoulder.
The wink was a signal that they could discuss his activities when they were alone. Baxter nodded, and Dallas moved for the door, saying, "I'll see you in the morning. If anything comes up, you can reach me on my cell."
With that King opened the door, nodded to the two Secret Service agents posted in the hallway, and walked out across the large porch with a lively spring in his step. His metallic blue BMW convertible was parked backed into its space next to a large black Secret Service Suburban.
King threw his coat onto the passenger seat and jumped in behind the wheel. He started the car and reached for the button to lower the top, and then decided he should wait until he made it through the gauntlet of reporters at the front gate. He nosed the little sports car out of the spot and gunned it down the hill for the main gate. King flashed his brights twice to make sure the Secret Service officers knew he was coming. By the time he reached the gate, it had already begun to open.
Instead of using his brakes, King shifted the car back into first gear and deftly released the clutch. The low-slung car growled as it slowed, and then, when there was just enough room to make it through the opening, he shifted into second and hit the accelerator.
The large tract of land, almost twice the area of the White House grounds, was besieged by the media. The main gate off Massachusetts Avenue was crowded with news trucks pulled haphazardly onto the curb, and the reporters and cameramen tried frantically to get a photo of King's car as it sped past. King kept his foot on the gas as the car shot onto Massachusetts Avenue, the Secret Service stopping traffic in both directions.
He raced northward up the avenue. King checked his rearview mirror and cranked the stereo. Four blocks north of the observatory, and out of sight of the main gate, he yanked the car back into second gear and turned hard to the right, the wide tires of the BMW squealing into a one-hundred-degree turn onto Garfield. King floored it through the residential neighborhood at speeds approaching seventy miles per hour.
At Twenty-ninth Street he took a hard right turn, and one block later at Calvert, he slowed to about ten miles per hour, paid no heed to the stop sign before him, and shot out in front of an approaching cab. The wild maneuver solicited both the horn and the finger from the cabbie. King ignored both as he raced through the light at Connecticut and crossed over into the Adams-Morgan neighborhood.
He was late, and the woman he was meeting would not be happy. King took another hard turn at Eighteenth Street and slowed his speed as he entered one of the most congested areas in town. Two blocks later he pulled up in front of Stone's, a posh, hot new bar. King stopped the car and yanked up the emergency brake just as a valet appeared at his door.
Grabbing his black sport coat, he handed the man a ten-dollar bill and said, "Keep it close."
Standing just inside the door was an Asian woman in a body-hugging red dress with a slit that seemed to run from the floor to her left hip. She looked up at the dashing Dallas King and offered her cheek. When she stepped forward, the slit in her dress revealed a long, toned thigh.
The young hostess had no idea what King did for a living, nor did she care. All she knew was he was handsome, welldressed, and graced the trendy bistro with his presence at least once a week—and usually with a different woman. The stunning jewel had been asked out by approximately every other man who entered the establishment, and she was beginning to wonder when this one would get around to the task.
As King kissed her cheek, the woman slipped her hands inside his suit coat and placed them gently just above his belt line. King felt the gentle touch other hands on his waist, and a sexual jolt hit him straight in the groin. Letting his nose linger by her smooth skin for a second, he took in a deep breath of clean, fresh perfume. With a furtive grin he said, "Kim, you look gorgeous, as always."
The young Asian woman took the compliment with a smile and slowly removed her hands from King's hips.
"Thank you."
King stared at her for a moment, allowing her the chance to ask him the obvious question about what was going on at the White House. The moment came and went, and it dawned on King that the beauty before him was either severely hampered in the brain department or she honestly had no idea what he did for a living. In either case she wasn't about to run out and join the local Mensa chapter.
King winked and then made his way toward the rear of the restaurant.
The bar area was crowded. The hostage crisis had given the city something to talk about. For Washington bar owners a scandal or crisis was like a big sporting event. Several of the more astute bar patrons recognized the young Californian as Vice President Baxter's chief of staff and began to whisper as King worked his way through the crowd.
As King walked past the trendy rag-rolled walls and secluded booths, he scanned the dining area for his newest infatuation. In the last booth before reaching the pay phone and the bathrooms. King saw her. Sheila Dunn had her laptop open, a cell phone in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.
Upon seeing King, she said into her cell phone, "He's here.
I'll call you back." The thirty-four-year-old reporter set the phone down but kept the glass of wine securely in her grip.
"Dallas, where in the hell have you been?"
"I'm sorry." King bent down to kiss the blond-haired woman sitting in the booth.
Dunn offered her cheek and said, "I have fifteen minutes to get my story in, and my editor is about to pull my hair out."
With an angry look, she added, "You'd better talk fast."
King sat in the booth, and as he did so, a waiter approached. Dunn held up her nearly finished glass and said, "Two more of these," without bothering to say please, then turned her glare back in the direction of King.
"You're an hour late. That's a hell of a way to try and endear yourself to me."
"Excuse me," King uttered, a touch irked by her comment.
"I don't know if you've noticed, but we have a bit of a crisis going on, and I'm just a touch busy right now."
"Don't patronize me, Dallas. I'm very aware of what's going on, and I have a deadline to meet, so when you say you're going to be here at a certain time and you show up an hour late, without calling, don't expect me to act like one of your congenial little empty-headed bimbos." Dunn took a deep breath and folded her arms across her chest. She had intentionally worked herself into this frenzy, figuring the more upset she was the more likely Dallas would be to hand over some good info.
This was the exact reason why King liked her. She was feisty. Most of the women he dated were great arm pieces, but they lacked something up top. Sheila Dunn was different. She wasn't knock-down gorgeous, as many of his women were, but her brains and drive made her every bit as attractive. Dunn was fairly plain looking. She had slender features, was not curvaceous in any sense of the word, but while many women her age had already seen their best days, Dunn was just moving into hers. She had the mature confidence of a woman who would hold her beauty for years to come. And most important, she was married, something that King had seen as an obstacle for years, but now embraced as a bonus. With the married ones it was all about sex. He didn't have to spend large amounts of money or play tiresome games.
Dunn had rebuked all of King's romantic advances, but the young Dallas could tell he was wearing her down. She was one of the Post's political correspondents, and King had gotten to know her since his recent arrival in the nation's capital. As Baxter's chief of staff, King had, as one of his first priorities, to cultivate sources in the media that could be used to leak information when needed.
He reached across the table and grabbed her hand.
"How are things with your husband?"
"Shitty," was Dunn's terse one-word reply.
Rubbing her hand, he asked, "When was the last time you two slept together?"
She pulled back quickly.
"Dallas, that's none of your business."
"Fine… you don't have to answer it, but you're far too beautiful a woman to be so lonely."
"Dallas, let's change the subject."
King had taken her down this road before, and he was gaining ground.
Dunn was having serious doubts about her marriage. She knew that King wanted her, and she thought this might be the time to give up the jewel.
This was the biggest story in three decades, and no one had any idea what was going on inside the White House or the FBI's command post.
No one was talking. The crisis had people tight-lipped. If sleeping with King meant she could get some info out of him, it might be worth it.
The drinks arrived, and King took a big sip. He let the dry merlot run down his throat and then said, "You wouldn't believe the shit that's going on down there."
Dunn leaned forward and placed her forearms on the table.
"Like what?" Rolling his eyes. King said, "Tutwiler, that stupid bitch.
She's the damn reason Schwartz and his secretary are dead. It was her stupid idea to jerk this nut-bags chain and only send him part of the money." King stopped briefly and took a sip, thinking of the warning the man from the CIA had given all of them—thataziz would react exactly the way he did.
"I tried to advise against it, but she won out. You know how she is. She took charge of the entire briefing at the Pentagon yesterday. The damn woman has the worst case of penis envy I've ever seen. She just couldn't pass up the chance to put all of those military types in their place."
King stopped and shook his head.
"And to make things worse, she's not around to take the heat. She had a fricking nervous breakdown after Schwartz got shot. They had to cart her off to Bethesda."
Dunn'sjaw hung loosely.
"You're kidding?"
"No." King shook his head for emphasis.
"I wish I was. I wish she was here to take the heat." King pointed to himself.
"Now I'm the one who's getting squeezed."
Dunn set her wine down and started tapping at the keys of her laptop.
"So Tutwiler is out… What in the hell is the FBI up to?" Dunn watched King shrug his shoulders and take another drink. She was going to have to work for this one.
"Come on, Dallas. Just give me some good background. I'm not asking you to give away any national secrets." Dunn paused to give him a second to think about it, and then in a soft voice she asked, "What's the FBI up to?"
King looked over the top of his wineglass.
"They're planning for every possible contingency. Collecting information and trying to find a way out of this. Sherman has told them that unless they can guarantee getting the rest of the hostages out safely, we sit tight."
"What about the president? Is all that crap your boss spun in his address the truth?"
"He's fine." King nodded emphatically.
"Just like Sherman said." Then waving his hand in the air as if the president was a non factor he added, "The people at the Pentagon say he can last for weeks in that bunker." King took another drink and then leaned forward. With his nose perched above the screen of Dunn's laptop.
King breathed in her perfume and said, "You smell great."
"Thank you." Dunn smiled halfheartedly and then got back to business.
"What else is going on? Do you know what their next demand is going to be?"
"Nope. We're not supposed to hear anything until the morning." Kings attention was drawn downward. Dunn's blouse was open one more button than normal, and a scintillating amount of soft skin was drawing his mind into a completely different area again. He looked down her shirt and said, "I want to get naked with you so bad."
Dunn grabbed him by the jaw and made him look her in the eye.
"This stuff you gave me about Tutwiler is good, Dallas, but there's more going on than you're telling me, and if you want to get me into bed, you're going to have to do a lot better… and fast."
King felt the blood rushing to his groin. His mind scrambled for any piece of information that might seal the deal, but he'd told her everything that was going on. The truth was, nothing was going on.
Everybody was sitting around and waiting to react… except… except one person. King pulled away and sat back. He couldn't talk about that, but there was something related that he could talk about—something that would play great in the press.
"There is one thing." Pausing, he tried to gauge how much information he could hand over.
Dunn saw his hesitancy and drew closer.
"What… what is it?"
King looked around the immediate area and then leaned forward.
"Listen, no one can find out I told you this."
Dunn feigned insult.
"Dallas, I've never revealed one of my sources."
Unimpressed, King rolled his eyes.
"All I'm saying is that this is serious shit, all right?"
Dunn nodded eagerly.
"You have my word. Your name will never be revealed."
The vice president's chief of staff looked around once again to make sure no one was eavesdropping, and then, in a whisper, he said, "The CIA knew about this attack before it happened."
Dunn's eyes almost popped out of her head.
"What? And they didn't do anything about it?"
"No." King shook his head.
"They only found out just before it happened. As soon as they found out, they alerted the Secret Service. That's why Hayes made it to his bunker."
"So the CIA saved the day."
King shrugged.
"It was hardly a banner day, but I suppose you could say that."
Dunn smiled broadly.
"This could be good." Frantically, she began typing. King watched her for about half a minute, and then Dunn closed her laptop. She packed it and her phone in her bag and said, "I've got to get this in before we go to press."
Dunn stood. She was wearing a tight blue skirt that hugged her thin frame. Leaning over the table, she grabbed King by the jaw with one hand and said, "You and I aren't done. If you keep this up, you just might wear me down." Dunn pulled King's lips to hers and gently ran the tip of her tongue along his upper lip.
She let her tongue hang there just long enough to leave him wanting more and then turned and left.
JACK WARCH STOOD by the bunker door and touched the smooth surface with the palm of his hand. It had been several hours since he had done so, and as far as he could tell the door was getting warmer. He took that as a bad sign. Warch had been beating his brains out all day over what to do if the terrorists got the door open before the Hostage Rescue Team intervened. He assumed from the explosions he had heard during the initial assaults that they had grenades. That would make it a short fight. He could put the president in the small bathroom on the other side of the bunker and buy maybe another five minutes. That would result in more dead agents and ultimately a dead or captured president.
Warch plopped down on his bunk. As he exhaled a deep sigh, he saw the president coming over. Warch straightened up a bit and started to stand.
Hayes gestured to him with a patting motion of his hand and said, "Don't get up. Do you mind if I sit?"
"Please," said Warch as he scooted over.
"You're from Wisconsin, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"I thought so. I saw your two boys running around on the South Lawn one Saturday morning in their Packer jerseys. I figured either you or your wife was from Wisconsin."
Warch half laughed.
"No. My wife's from Minnesota. She hates it when I dress them up in the Packer gear."
"She should have thought of that before she married you."
"That's what I tell her." Warch smiled.
"What part of wisconsin are you from?"
"Appleton."
"Ah, the home of Rocky Blier."
"Yep."
"I met him once," pronounced Hayes with satisfaction.
"What a great man…" With a nod of his chin he added, "What a great story."
"Yeah, he overcame a lot. The best part about him, though, is he never let any of the success go to his head. He does a ton for the local community."
"That's nice to hear."
Hayes looked down at the floor for a while. The idle conversation seemed to be over. Sitting on the edge of the bunk, he rested his elbows on his knees and continued to study the ugly brown carpeting. After a moment he leaned back and glanced over at Warch.
"Jack, I'm sorry about all of this. I appreciate everything you and your people have done for me and my family." Hayes stopped and looked away.
Warch waited and then said, "Thank you, sir."
After several awkward moments of silence Hayes looked at his watch. It was almost midnight.
"Well, another six hours, or so, and we'll know if they're coming to save us."
Warch nodded.
"So, you think they'll come tonight?"
Hayes leaned back.
"Well, if I know General Flood and Director Stansfield, they'll be pushing hard for it." Hayes's mind seemed to drift, and slowly he started to shake his head.
"What is it, sir?"
"I'm not so sure about the vice president."
"How do you mean, sir?"
The president eyeballed Warch.
"Jack, I trust that whatever I say to you will go no further."
"That goes without saying, sir."
"I thought so." Hayes looked out across the bunker. Out of the side of his mouth he said, "I don't exactly trust Baxter." Hayes continued, "He wasn't my first choice… hell, he wasn't even in my top ten. The truth is the party stuck me with him.
They said he could deliver California and the big Hollywood money. You need both to win the race, so he was the man.
Experience and character were never factored in." Frowning, Hayes said,
"I knew a week after the convention that he was the wrong man, but by then there was no turning back."
"Is that why you've isolated him?"
The comment surprised Hayes a bit.
"You've noticed?"
"This is my fourth administration, sir. We're taught to keep our mouths shut, but that doesn't mean we don't see and hear everything that goes on."
All Hayes could do was nod.
"Well, Baxters the big wild card. He and Tutwiler." Hayes shook his head again.
"I didn't want to have anything to do with her either, but it was all part of the deal."
"What about Director Roach? He's a good man."
"Yes, he is." Hayes nodded.
"He's one of the best, but unfortunately he answers to Tutwiler."
Warch looked over at the door and then back to his boss.
"Sir, if HRT doesn't get here in time, we need to take some precautions."
"Such as?"
Warch was short on details as he related what he thought would happen.
He felt there was no sense in alarming the president over something that was out of their control. Hayes listened intently as Warch laid out his limited plan.
ANNA RJELLY WAS sleeping fitfully when she was stirred by something.
Just as she opened her eyes, she felt a pair of hands grab her by the shoulders. A second later she was on her feet, face-to-face with the terrorist who had pulled her out of line. Rielly immediately began to lash out with her arms.
The terrorist grabbed her by the throat with his right hand and squeezed tightly. The young journalist continued to flail as her eyes bulged wider as the air was squeezed from her. White spots began to dot her vision, and in one last, violent attempt to break free Rielly rammed her knee up into her assailant's groin. The blow would have sent most men to their knees, but Abu Hasan was no normal man. Instead of buckling over, he grunted and took a half step back. Then his right hand shot forward and caught Rielly square on the jaw. She spun like a top and went straight to the floor.
The room was completely silent for the next five seconds.
None of the hostages made a noise, and the other terrorists looked on to see what would happen next. Finally, Hasan bent over and let out a deep groan. This elicited a chorus of laughs and chuckles from the other three Arabs standing guard. Several of the women crawled from their spots to help Rielly, but before they could reach her, the terrorist stood partially upright and shouted a warning to them.
Still smarting from the knee to his groin, Abu Hasan lumbered forward, bent at the waist like an ape. Reaching down, he grabbed the unconscious Rielly and threw her over his shoulder. As he moved toward the door, he scowled at his friends, who were still laughing at him. When he reached the exit, he paused long enough to tell one of the other men, "I'm going to take this whore upstairs. Whoever wants her next can come and get her when I'm done."
IN 1948 PRESIDENT Harry Truman had grown concerned over the structural integrity of the 148-year-old White House. Engineers were brought in to investigate, and they found that the mansion was in danger of collapsing. The less than-sound renovation of 1902 and the enlargement of the third story in 1927 had weakened the structure severely. It was recommended that the president and his wife vacate the house immediately, and they moved across the street to Blair House to allow a massive four-year renovation to ensue. The first step was the meticulous disassembly of everything within the White House. All of the furniture, artwork, and fixtures were removed, and with painstaking effort, the floors, ceilings, and walls were dismantled section by section. The mansion became an empty shell while construction crews moved in to excavate two new levels beneath the original basement.
After the third and second basements had been completed, a modern steel framework was erected to support the mansion's aging walls.
The new third basement that had been added in the renovation was designed to house the new boiler room and was only about a quarter the size of the floors above it. Over the last several decades, much of the massive boiler had been replaced by the newer, more efficient systems designed to protect the building from chemical and biological attacks.
As Rapp and Adams stood at the boiler room's door, Adams pointed out the most recent change to the White House.
"Straight down the hall and to the left is the president's bunker. As you turn the corner, you go down a hall that's about fifty feet long, and then there's a reinforced steel door. Once you're through that door, you're in the room just outside the bunker."
Rapp nodded.
"We're going up the stairs to the left… away from the bunker… correct?"
"Correct."
"All right. Let's take one last look at this thing, and then we'll move out." Adams manipulated the lens until Rapp was satisfied that the door had not been booby-trapped, and the cable was withdrawn. With his gun ready, Rapp slowly opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.
They moved to the left and into the concrete stairwell, then ascended one flight to the second basement. Adams stuck the tiny lens under the next metal door and found nothing. With Rapp and his MP-10 in the lead, they continued to the first basement landing and stopped. Adams checked under this door as well, and Rapp became increasingly suspicious that they had come this far and found nothing. He thought that Aziz would have set up some type of an early warning system.
Whispering in Rapp's ear, Adams said, "No booby traps."
Rapp looked at the screen while Adams moved the tiny lens back and forth, and asked, "What about the hallway?"
After moving the snake around a little, Adams gave Rapp a clear shot of the hall.
"Midway down, right-hand side. That's our door."
"Good," Rapp whispered back.
"Secure that thing, and when I give you the signal, open the door and follow me. Stay on my right and one step back no matter what happens."
Adams closed the screen against his chest, zipped it up, and then coiled the snake into a loose loop and strapped it to his hip. Rapp gripped his MP-10 tightly in both hands, the collapsible stock wedged between his cheek and shoulder. With the thick black silencer leveled at the closed door, Rapp nodded.
Adams jerked the door open, and Rapp took one step forward, sweeping the gun from left to right. He walked quickly forward, and Adams followed closely behind. The metal fire door closed automatically behind them.
Both men walked softly, making almost no noise. Rapp spun several times, nervously checking their six, looking for any sign of a motion sensor or trip wire. A third of the way down the hall, Adams stopped at another gray metal door, extracted his S-key, and opened the door to reveal a hidden elevator.
Rapp swore under his breath while they waited for the elevator to arrive, exposed in the middle of the hallway. When the doors finally opened, Adams silently shooed Rapp into the tiny compartment and pressed the proper button. The elevator was big enough to handle four people at the most.
As the elevator started to move, Rapp handed his gun to Adams, and with both hands, he took his headset from around his neck and secured it over his baseball cap. Static crackled loudly from his earpiece, but as they rose it lessened. The elevator ascended quickly and noiselessly. By the time they reached the second floor, the static was greatly decreased, and Rapp had his weapon back in his hands.
When the elevator stopped, Adams gave Rapp an uneasy look. Rapp nodded and said, "Don't worry." And with a grin to help ease the tension, he added, "I'll go first. "Then pulling his lip mike down, he whispered,
"Iron Man to command. Over."
Rapp waited several seconds for a reply and then repeated his words.
After the third check, he thought he heard something, but it was too broken up to discern. They would have to move to the stash room and set up a more powerful secure field radio.
Rapp looked up at the small light above his head. It would have to be extinguished before they opened the door. After popping the frosted glass cover off the fixture, he reached up and gave the hot bulb several quick turns with his bare hand.
The bulb flickered and then went dark. Rapp then pulled a circular red plastic filter from one of his pockets and attached it to the flashlight that was affixed to the barrel of his submachine gun When he turned on the flashlight, a faint red light illuminated the floor of the elevator.
Adams pressed a button, and the elevator doors opened to reveal a wall.
There was no crack to wedge the snake under, so they would have to chance it and go forward without looking.
Slowly, Adams ran his hand along the wall until he found what he was looking for. As Adams pressed the catch, the wall popped outward several inches, revealing the tile floor of the president's bathroom. The lights were off, and the room was dark, with the exception of the faint red light coming from under the barrel of Rapp's gun.
Rapp checked the way and slid through the narrow entrance, taking three cautious steps toward the bedroom. Milt followed close behind. The door was open. Rapp checked for trip wires and then looked into the actual bedroom. The door that led to the hallway was slightly open, and a sliver of light spilled into the dark room from the hallway. Before entering the bedroom, Rapp looked back over his shoulder and whispered,
"Close that."
Placing both hands on the wall, Adams pushed it back into place. The wall shut with a slight click, and all traces of the hidden elevator disappeared.
Rapp stepped cautiously into the room. He moved across the president's bedroom to the door that led to the Truman Balcony, the semicircular porch that overlooked the South Lawn When Rapp reached the door, he froze in his tracks. He had missed it on the first sweep, but caught the slightest glimpse of it on the second. A thin clear wire ran across the base of the door about twelve inches off the ground. Rapp's right hand snapped up next to his head in a tight closed fist.
Milt Adams, a combat veteran, knew the hand signal all too well and froze in his tracks.
At first, only Rapp's eyes moved, and then his head swiveled from side to side. Adams was good enough to not say anything. It was apparent from Rapp's body language that he had found something. What Rapp had found was a filament trip wire, and he knew it was attached to something that petrified him. Rapp hated bombs. One of the qualities that had made him so successful during his almost decade of service with the CIA was knowing his own limitations. He didn't have the patience or the skill to deal with explosives, so he tended to avoid them like the plague. The problem with bombs was there were a hundred different ways to set them off, and a dozen of them could happen before you ever got within a foot of the actual device. There could be a pressure pad under the carpet, a magnetic plate, infrared beams, microwave beams, motion sensors, tremble or mercury switches—the list went on and on. And with Rafique Aziz involved, Rapp had no doubt these devices would be really hairy. One thing was certain, however: the trip wire was attached to something, and Rapp had to find out exactly what it was.
The door leading to the balcony was bordered on both sides with drapes.
Rapp stepped carefully to his right and looked behind a chair situated between the door and a window to the right. Sticking the black silencer of his gun behind the curtain, he pointed it down and found nothing on this side of the door, but on the left side, he could discern the rectangular shape of a box. The trip wire was tied to a switch on the side of the bomb and a nail on the other side of the door. Rapp crossed over to the other side of the door and examined the box from a closer angle. It appeared that the trip wire was the only exterior trigger device.
Rapp wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, and then reluctantly, he drew back the curtain. The box was simple, about eight inches high and six wide. In the upper right corner was a small red digital readout and a green light that blinked every three seconds. Gingerly, he let the drape fall back into its natural hanging position and took a step back. If the box was loaded with Semtex, the Czechoslovakian version of C-4 plastique, there was probably enough to blow the entire wall halfway across the South Lawn.
Milt Adams leaned over and whispered, "What did you find?"
"A bomb. "Rapp wiped some more sweat from his face.
"If we set one of these things off, they'll be picking us up with a vacuum cleaner. Milt. Let's leave this alone and get ourselves set up."
Adams led the way across the bedroom to a large walk-in closet. Rapp followed him in and left the door open, as they had found it. On the left was a substantial closet organizer. The smaller compartments near the bottom were filled with pairs of shoes, but as the organizer rose, the cubicles grew larger and were occupied by shirts and sweaters. Near the far corner Adams stopped and reached up along the edge. After feeling around for a second, he found what he was looking for and pressed the obscured button. The organizer popped outward several inches at one end, and then Adams swung it open three more feet.
They entered the hidden room and pulled the organizer shut behind them.
Adams turned on the wall light and slid a heavy steel bolt across the doorway. The small room, referred to as the "stash room" by the Secret Service, was eight feet long by six feet wide, and the ceiling was almost ten feet high. The walls were lined with bulletproof Kevlar and a fire-retardant cloth on both the exterior and interior walls. The room also contained four biohazard suits complete with oxygen tanks and gas masks.
These were packed in storage lockers that were bolted to the walls above their heads, along with some weapons and a first aid kit. The room was built in response to a small plane crashing into the South Portico in the fall of 1994. THE TECHNICIANS IN the first row of the control room at Langley had faintly heard Rapp's original signal. They had been working diligently for five minutes to clear up the link as Irene Kennedy and General Campbell watched from one row back. The two knew enough to let their people work and stay out of their way.
With the help of Marcus Dumond, who was manning the control panel of the Cia's communications van parked outside the White House fence, they were making progress. The telescoping boom on the back of the van was helping penetrate the electronic interference the terrorists were using.
When Rapp began to transmit on the powerful secure field radio, there was a collective sigh of relief in the control room as forty-plus minutes of tense radio silence came to an end. General Campbell was the first to speak.
"Give me a sit rep. Iron Man."
Rapp's reply came back slightly garbled but audible. He recounted how the insertion had progressed and the device he had discovered in the president's bedroom. After Rapp had given as much detail as possible about the explosive device, he asked Campbell and Kennedy what they wanted him to do.
Campbell thought about it for only a second and replied, "Continue your reconnaissance, and we'll figure out what to do about the bomb."
"Roger that," replied Rapp.
"I'll get to work."
Back in the control room at Langley one of the technicians in the front row raised his hand up and snapped his fingers.
Kennedy leaned forward and listened to what the technician had to say, then spoke into her headset.
"Iron Man, we need you to conduct a radio check on your portable. Over."
Rapp was holding the handset to the secure field radio to his ear and replied, "Roger." He put his headset back on and adjusted the lip mike.
"Testing, one, two, three, four. Do you read? Over."
They could hear Rapp well enough to understand what he was saying but not as clearly as when he used the field radio.
The larger problem was that Rapp was having a hard time receiving signals. After several tries Rapp lifted the lip mike of his headset and picked up the handset to the field radio.
"My radio isn't working. Over."
"We can hear you on our end, Iron Man," replied Kennedy.
"Are you saying you can't receive us?"
"That's correct."
Kennedy looked to one of the technicians to see if there were any answers. All she got was an unknowing shrug. Into her headset, she said,
"Iron Man, we'll work on that. For now, why don't you check out the rest of the second floor and then check in on the field radio in thirty minutes?"
"Roger that. I'll start to set up the surveillance cameras.
Over and out." Rapp placed the handset back in its cradle and started to organize his gear. Taking the fanny pack of miniature surveillance units, Rapp extracted five of the devices and placed them in his web vest.
"Staircases first?" asked Adams.
"Yep." Rapp grabbed his gun.
"Just like before. Milt. Keep your eyes peeled, and don't walk anywhere where I haven't walked first. All right?" Adams nodded.
"Any questions before we get going?"
"Yeah." Adams looked slightly embarrassed.
"I gotta take a piss."
Rapp grinned, appreciating the much needed levity.
"We can take care of that. In fact we'll make it our first stop. All right, let's move out."
Adams pulled the bolt back, and he and Rapp quietly walked out into the large closet. Adams pushed the bookcase like organizer back into place, and it stopped with a soft click.
With his gun at the ready Rapp stood outside the bathroom while Adams went in and took care of business. Rapp took the time to look around the room and noticed something he had missed earlier. Something odd. The president's bed was in disarray.
Rapp walked over to the bed, and on closer examination he saw something startling, something that made his blood boil. There was a substantial splotch of blood on the white sheets and dangling off the side of the bed was a woman's bra.
Rapp shook his head in disgust at the scene. When Adams came out of the bathroom a moment later, Rapp pointed at the disturbing evidence.
Neither man said a word. After a long moment Rapp walked across the room to a small end table situated near the door that led to the Truman Balcony. Taking one of the small surveillance units from his pocket, he attached one of the Velcro patches to the underside of the table and secured the tiny device.
Rapp motioned to Adams.
"Let's go." He moved for the main door and stopped when he reached it.
Adams stuck the tiny black snake under the door and checked the hallway.
The lights were on, and the picture was very clear.
The cross hall on the second floor of the family residence was wide, about fifteen feet. It was brightly lit and the walls were adorned with built-in bookcases and several oil portraits of past presidents. Various groupings of couches, chairs, tables, and lamps gave the space the dual role of informal living room and hallway.
Adams manipulated the snake back and forth and whispered, "It looks clear." Rapp nodded and said, "Let me take a look first, and then I'll wave you out." Rapp looked at the camera one more time and checked the hallway. Slowly, Rapp turned the knob and opened the door, taking the first step into the brightly lit hallway. HER EYES BLINKED several times before they could stay open. Anna Rielly let out a weak groan. It took her a second to regain her senses, and even then she had no idea where she was. All she knew was her head ached and she was having a hard time breathing. As her eyes came into focus, she saw stairs and then a pair of legs and boots. For a second she thought she was dreaming, and then everything fell into place. The terrorist was carrying her over his shoulder.
She tried to lift her head, but a searing pain shot through her neck.
She knew she had to fight no matter how much it hurt. Rielly commanded herself to ignore the pain, and with as much strength as she could muster, the young journalist bolted upright and grabbed onto the slicked-back hair of the man who was carrying her. Rielly kicked her feet violently and began to scream at the top of her lungs.
MITCH RAPP ALMOST jumped out of his skin. The female voice was so loud and so sudden that it caught him completely off guard. He was standing exposed in the middle of the hallway, bathed in light. The violent scream had shattered the stillness and sent his nerves right to the edge. Rapp paused just long enough to ascertain which direction the scream was coming from and then immediately began to move, while Milt Adams stood frozen two steps behind. Like a big cat, Rapp began a rapid retreat. Instinctively, his right hand reached back in search of Adams.
His left hand kept the lethal barrel of his MP-10 aimed in the direction of the scream, and he pushed Adams back into the open doorway of the president's bedroom.
With Adams now in the lead, they hurried into the closet, and Rapp closed the door behind them. Adams had the door to the stash room open and paused for a second to see what Rapp wanted to do. Rapp pushed him into the small room and pulled the organizer closed behind them.
Adams turned on the light and grabbed his heart.
"Jesus, how do you do this shit for a living?"
Rapp, his own adrenaline pumping, grabbed the monitor around Milt's neck and tuned the picture to the tiny surveillance device they had just planted less than twenty feet away.
ANNA RIELLY CLUTCHED her stomach with one hand and the wrist of the terrorist with the other. Her shoes had fallen off, and she could see them halfway down the hallway as the thug dragged her across the carpet.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and the pain from the kick to her stomach was so intense she thought she might vomit.
Abu Hasan liked the fight. He considered it part of the thrill, part of the domination. This one, the dark one, was much better than the one he had taken care of last night. The blonde had turned out to be boring.
There was no fight in her, only tears. Hasan smiled widely as he rounded the corner and saw the door to the president's bedroom. It was the perfect place to rape this American whore. Hasan thrust open the door with one hand while he held on to Riellys ponytail with the other.
After dragging her another ten feet, he violently lifted her off the ground and threw her onto the king-size bed. Drawing his knife, he yelled at her, "Take your clothes off, you bitch."
Rielly started to get back up. There was no way she was going to give in. She would rather die than be raped again. The terrorist blocked her arms and sent the butt end of the knife crashing down and into Rielly's temple. The blow knocked her unconscious, and Rielly went limp, leaving her completely motionless and vulnerable on the bed.
Abu Hasan wasted no time. Taking his knife, he began cutting off her clothes. The more skin he revealed the faster he cut. Once he had her pants off, he ripped at her blouse, and then stopped for a second.
Lustfully, he looked down at the young woman before him and admired her tanned, firm body.
Slowly, he reached down and ran his hand over her leg. He stopped at her black lace panties, and then with a violent yank, he tore them from her body.
MILT ADAMS WAS disturbed by what was happening in the other room, but it wasn't as scary as the transformation taking place right in front of him. Mitch Rapp's face had taken on a very different look. His eyes had twisted into a menacing stare, his jaw was clenched, and a sheen of sweat now coated his forehead.
Rapp shook his head several times and muttered something through his clenched teeth. Inside his mind a battle was being waged. The logical side was telling him that the mission was more important than what was going on in the other room. All of his professional training had taught him that he should stay put and continue to collect information without announcing his presence, that the lives of the other hostages were more important, that killing Rafique Aziz was more important. Despite knowing what he should do, there was another voice in his head that was saying something entirely different.
BACK IN THE control room at Langley, all eyes were on the big board. A surveillance device had been activated by Rapp, and its grainy transmission was being received on one of the monitors. The technicians at Langley worked with Marcus Dumond, who, with the aid of the communications boom on the back of the van, was homing in on the frequency and trying to filter out the disturbances. Over the course of several minutes the picture began to clear, eventually revealing a lone man in a lit doorway.
Without taking his eyes off the screen. General Campbell asked Kennedy,
"Is that the president's bedroom?"
"It must be," replied Kennedy as she squinted at the monitor.
She watched as the man in the doorway turned and walked quickly back into the room. A second man's profile appeared in the doorway, and Kennedy immediately recognized it as Rapp's.
"Why are they going back into the closet?" asked Campbell.
Kennedy frowned.
"I don't know."
One of the technicians turned around and said, "We've got audio on the unit."
"Put it on the speaker system," stated Kennedy, without taking her eyes off the monitor. A second later a scratchy audio came over the room's overhead speaker system.
There was a loud noise, and General Flood, who was sitting one row behind Kennedy and Campbell, asked, "What in the hell was that?"
Kennedy stared at the monitor showing the open doorway of the president's bedroom with the lit hallway beyond and said, "It sounded like a scream."
Just then a man appeared in the doorway dragging a woman behind him. As if on cue everyone in the control room moved closer to the screen in an attempt to discern what was happening. Within seconds it was brutally apparent what was unfolding before them. Kennedy, in an unusually tense voice, snapped, "Get me Iron Man on the radio right now!" Kennedy knew Rapp better than anyone in the room and possibly better than anyone in the world. Kennedy knew she had to assert some control over him and assert it quickly, if she had even the slightest chance of stopping him from doing what she knew he was contemplating.
THE MP-10WAS on the ground in the corner and had been replaced by the silenced 9-mm Beretta. Rapp stared at the gun.
Angry beyond comprehension, he felt like punching a hole in the wall. He told himself to bring it back a notch. Too much anger led to poor judgment. But Rapp hated thugs, people that took from others, animals that did what they wanted to do with little or no thought of what their actions did to fellow human beings.
Mentally, Rapp was gone. The decision had been made.
There was no turning back. The woman in the other room was somebody's daughter, probably somebody's wife, and maybe some poor kids mother, and there was no way he could allow himself to sit in the safety of the bulletproof room and let it happen.
The secure field radio spurted a quiet beeping noise, and a green light on the panel began to flash. Adams reached for the handset, and Rapp stopped him.
"Don't answer that."
Adams slowly withdrew his hand. He no longer recognized the man sitting next to him. Rapp reached out, turned the power switch on the radio to the off position, and pulled his headset down around his neck. Standing, he retrieved his matte-black combat knife and kept it in his left hand.
He looked at the pistol in one hand and the knife in the other and paused. Standing, Milt Adams licked his dry lips, and with a worried expression on his face, he asked, "What are you going to do?"
Rapp looked sideways at him and after a short pause said, "I'm going to go out there and kill that piece of shit. It's not what I should do, but it's what I'm gonna do." Adams swallowed hard and with a nod said, "Good Then after a second, he added, "Do you want me to help?"
Rapp shook his head and closed his eyes.
"No… Turn off the lights, and open the door. Then stay here, and be quiet." Adams did as he was told. He couldn't see Rapp, but could feel him as Rapp slid through the passageway and into the closet.
ANNA RIELLY OPENED her eyes and tried to focus. Above her was darkness, but to her right there was light. Slowly, she turned her head and saw her attacker. The man had already taken off his shirt and was working on his pants. Rielly tried to move, but her arms wouldn't respond. Looking down, she saw her bare chest through tear-filled eyes. She was living the nightmare.
MITCH RAPP STOOD at the closet doorway for several seconds and listened.
His eyes were closed. He wanted them to adjust to the darkness as much as possible. There was a noise from the bedroom. It sounded as if the woman was crying, and then he heard a male laugh. Rapp opened his eyes and looked at his two weapons. He could shoot equally well with either hand, but he was better with the knife in his left hand. Rapp decided that if he could get close enough, he would use the knife, and he had few doubts he could. Before leaving, he started the timer on his watch and then reached for the door.
Slowly, cautiously, he turned the handle and began to open it.
RIELLY SOBBED AS she looked at the man looming over her. He was laughing, his disgusting cigarette breath enveloping her face. He held his erection with one hand and reached out with his other hand, pawing at Riellys groin. The young journalist clamped down with her legs and screamed. The terrorist yanked her legs apart and slapped her across the face.
Rielly tried to fight, but her strength was gone. All she could do was cry as he lowered his body on top of her.
THE DOOR OPENED slowly. Rapp peered through the crack and saw the light from the hallway spilling into the room. From his angle he could see a man with his back to him taking off his clothes and standing at the foot of the large bed.
The man began to climb onto the bed. Now was the time to move. With his knife in his left hand and the gun in his right, Rapp proceeded slowly.
He took his first step and then quickly looked to the left and the right to make sure no one else was in the room. He stepped silently, without vibration or noise, carefully placing his heel and then the rest of his foot on the floor.
Halfway across the room, Rapp slid his gun back into his holster. The terrorist was holding the woman's hands above her head and was trying to enter her, the woman's sobs muffled by the mans body.
Rapp moved quickly to the bed, his right hand open and stretched outward, the left rightly clutching his knife. With fluid precision, he grabbed the hair of the terrorist with his right hand and yanked the man's head back. With his left hand, Rapp stuck the tip of the knife directly into the man's neck and thrust it upward. The sharp knife sliced through muscle and penetrated deep into the base of the brain With a forceful twist of the knife, Rapp shredded the fragile brain stem. Abu Hasan never knew what happened in his final second on earth.
Still holding the man's hair, Rapp pulled him off the woman and dropped his lifeless body on the floor with as little noise as possible. He placed the bloody knife back in its scabbard, and Rapp held out his hands to the naked woman on the bed.
"Don't scream. We need to move quickly." The woman looked up with shocked eyes and tried to cover her exposed breasts with her arms. Rapp reached down, untucked the sheet that she was lying on top of, and gently folded it over her body.
He knew he had to move fast. There was no telling when someone else might come along. Looking the woman in the eye, he said, "Listen, I have to move you. I'm going to pick you up and bring you someplace where you'll be safe."
Rapp placed one knee on the bed, and Rielly flinched like a scared and beaten dog. Moving slowly, he said, "More of them could come at any minute. I need to get you out of here."
After giving her several seconds to think about the alternative, Rapp placed one hand under her legs and the other under her upper back.
Cradling her to his chest he stood and whispered, "Everything's gonna be all right." Rapp walked quickly across the room and into the closet. In a voice just above a whisper he said, "Milt, turn the light on." Almost instantly the light inside the stash room came on, and the hidden door opened wider.
Rapp moved the woman inside and placed her on the floor. Then grabbing his backpack, he opened it and extracted a small kit. Handing it to Adams, he said, "Give her some water and a couple of these." Rapp pulled out a packet of Tylenol 3.
"I have to get back out there and try to figure out what to do with that body."
RAGIB QUASAR LOOKED out across the mass of huddled hostages and checked his watch. It was nearing midnight, and his turn was approaching. There were two other terrorists in the room, and Ragib looked at the one closest to him. The man nodded, signaling for Ragib to go ahead. They were all eagerly awaiting their turn, and the sooner Ragib was done with the woman the sooner the other two would have their chance.
Ragib grinned and flashed his open hand to his compatriot three times, telling him to give him fifteen minutes With excitement, he strode from the room, his pace picking up as soon as the door behind him closed.
RAPP CLOSED THE main door to the bedroom and studied the body for a second. It was no good trying to hide it. Aziz would know his man was missing and would immediately deduce that he had been killed. There had to be another way.
Rapp grew impatient as he stood over the dead terrorist, racking his brain for a way out of the mess. After searching the dead man's discarded clothes for information, it came to him. Rapp grabbed the terrorist's knife from the pile of clothes, and he hoisted the body back on to the bed, laying the dead man on his stomach.
With the terrorist's own knife, Rapp stabbed him three times in the upper back. Rapp was careful not to use all of his strength, only sending an inch or two of the knife into the flesh. After pausing for a second, Rapp flipped the dead man over and stabbed him three times in the chest and twice in the neck. Blood was beginning to flow freely over the white sheets. For the finishing touch, he sliced the man's forearms and hands to make it look as if he had tried to block the blows.
Rapp took several steps back and looked at the body. He checked the area in front of him and around his feet to make sure none of the blood had gotten on his boots, and then he pulled the body off the bed and onto the floor again With the bedspread already disheveled and blood all over the sheets, it just might work.
RAGIB BOUNDED UP the last step and looked down the long hallway. He knew the president's bedroom was on the left.
He had visited it last night. Ragib smiled to himself while he thought of the fun he'd had with the blonde. She wasn't much of a fighter, but this one would be different. She had already shown some tenacity. Ragib just hoped that she wouldn't be beaten to a bloody pulp by the time he got there. He was a little early, and with any luck he would be able to hear Abu Hasan's moans of ecstasy. The bearded terrorist walked down the hallway, his AK-74 at his side and a look of anticipation on his face.
RAPP GRABBED THE pile of clothes and began to go through them again. In the combat vest he found a radio and held it up to his ear. There was no traffic at the moment. He was tempted to take it, but that would tip Aziz off. If the radio was gone, they would change frequencies and they would also begin to wonder if the woman had acted alone.
Rapp studied the device. It was made by a French company he knew little about. He placed the radio back where he'd found it and checked his watch. Four minutes and twenty-three seconds had passed. Rapp was standing over the body when he felt an almost indiscernible tremor.
Someone was coming down the hall. He drew his gun and bounded across the room to the closet. Just as he closed the closet door, he saw the main door to the bedroom begin to open. Rapp stood at the door for only a second and then cautiously retreated into the stash room, closing and bolting the door behind him.
BACK IN THE control room at Langley, Irene Kennedy had given up trying to raise Rapp on the radio. Instead she sat with everyone else in total silence and watched the events unfold.
No one spoke. They all watched, riveted by the real-life drama unfolding on the one small monitor. At first no one knew what Rapp was doing when he began to stab the man who already lay dead on the floor. Then people began to catch on.
General Hood turned to Stansfield and said, "Damn, that kid thinks on his feet."
Before Stansfield could reply, Rapp had bolted across the room and into the closet. Almost simultaneously, the bedroom door was opened and a man in green combat fatigues stood silhouetted by the hallway light.
Everyone watched as the man walked across the room and suddenly snapped up his gun from his side, spinning three hundred sixty degrees. Next, the lights came on, and then a series of excited calls over the radio.