WASHINGTON, D.C. WAS a city, a federal district, and most notably, the capital of the United States of America. The originally square geographic area was located at the confluence of the Potomac and anacostia Rivers and was bordered by Maryland on three sides and Virginia to the southwest. Founded in 1790 and originally called the Federal City and District of Columbia, after Christopher Columbus, the city was later renamed by Congress for the nation's first president.
Because the city's four corners pointed in the four directions of the compass, it was conveniently split up into quadrants.
The southeast quadrant was by far the most economically deprived. The heart of the area was the neighborhood ofanacostia. This violent portion of Washington accounted for more than half of the city's annual murders and was literally a war zone in the shadow of the nation's Capitol.
On the top floor of a rat-infested tenement building in the heart ofanacostia, a man with bleached white hair and a fresh set of tattoos worked diligently as the clock approached midnight.
The building was largely deserted, except for some drug addicts who used the lower floors to trade sex, stolen property, and sometimes even cash for their mood-altering chemical of choice. The building had been chosen by the group because the police rarely patrolled the area, out of fear for their own safety.
In the grungy apartment on the fifth floor the windows had been covered with three-quarter-inch plywood—the sturdy boards bolted into the window frames making them impossible to kick in. The door had also been reinforced with two-by-fours and plywood, and a series of new locks had been installed. Inside the room two motion sensors, mounted in opposite corners, had ensured the room's integrity for almost two weeks.
Rafique Aziz had ordered the white-haired man sitting on the folding chair to find the safe house almost five months ago, but Aziz had been adamant about waiting until the last possible moment to set it up. They did not want to attract too much attention. The man sitting in the dirty apartment was Salim Rusan, the same man who, for the last six months, had been an inconspicuous bellman at the Washington Hotel, the same man who had taken aim with his SVD sniper rifle at the Secret Service just yesterday.
Rusan was no longer an inconspicuous individual. Thanks to the FBI, his employee photo from the hotel had been splashed all over television and every newspaper in the country.
That was why Rusan had not seen daylight since walking into this apartment the morning before last. It had all been predicted by Aziz.
The group's leader had been explicit about every detail before the raid on the White House, and that is why he had given Rusan only two ten-round magazines. Aziz had other plans for Rusan, and he wanted him far away from the White House when the police and the FBI showed up.
After Rusan had fired all twenty of his rounds, he had left the Soviet-made sniping rifle right there on the balcony overlooking the White House and fled the building by a staircase.
When he made it to the street, he proceeded two blocks to the Metro Center stop at Twelfth and IF Street and caught the first southbound train. Ten minutes later he was walking through the slums of Anacostia, his hotel uniform replaced with a Chicago Bulls hat and a leather jacket. Everything had been waiting for Rusan when he arrived.
The copious amount of rat droppings and cobwebs had been cleaned up, and the apartment was stocked with everything he needed. Most of the supplies had been bought at the REI store in Bailey's Crossroads, Virginia. It was paid for in cash. The recreational equipment included a cot, a sleeping bag, several folding chairs, two tables, and some cooking equipment, all of it designed for campers. A battery-powered generator purred in the corner and provided juice for a small TV, a radio, a police scanner, and several lights. Two red Coleman coolers contained enough food and water to last him at least five days, but he doubted he would use all of it. Tomorrow morning he would venture back out into public and sow the seeds for a special surprise.
Rusan looked at his watch and then the cot. He had done everything Aziz had told him to do. He had shaved off his entire beard, with the exception of his mustache and goatee.
With a pair of clippers, he had buzzed his hair to within a half inch of his scalp and then bleached it until it was white. Next came the bleaching of the facial hair and eyebrows and then the pierced right ear. That was the difficult part, working backward in the mirror and then trying to stop the blood after he had shoved the needle through the earlobe. The finishing touch was a series of fake tattoos, the most conspicuous, an upside-down pink triangle on his right biceps with the words "Queer Nation" emblazoned underneath. Rusan was not completely comfortable with the disguise. He hated homosexuals, but it had not been his idea; it was Aziz's. And when Aziz gave an order, it was best to follow it.
Rusan had one task to perform before he left the apartment in the morning. Looking at his watch, he debated whether he should take care of it now or get some sleep first.
As he fingered the blocks of explosive Semtex and the box of detonators sitting on the other side of the table, he decided to wait until morning. He would sleep better knowing the bombs were unarmed.
RAFIQUE AZIZ AND Muammar Bengazi walked up the main staircase of the mansion. Aziz was furious. They had been lucky enough to take the White House without losing a single man, and now, when he was within twenty-four hours of achieving his ultimate goal, he had lost a valuable man due to outright stupidity. Momentum was something that Aziz was acutely aware of. The battlefields of history are littered with the corpses of soldiers whose commanders failed to notice the crucial role it plays in every conflict. Bengazi walked a half a step behind, ashamed that one of his men had been foolish enough to get killed by a woman.
When they reached the second floor of the mansion, Aziz and Bengazi proceeded directly across the hall and into the president's bedroom.
Every light in the room was on. Aziz walked to the other side of the bed and looked down at the bloody naked body. Ragib, the man who had found his slain comrade, was standing on the other side of the body, his radio in one hand and his assault rifle in the other. He started to speak, but Aziz raised his hand and silenced him. The leader of the group said nothing for a long time while as his eyes took inventory of the scene.
After several minutes, Aziz looked up. The expression on his face was one of controlled anger. In a curt tone, he asked, "What in the hell happened?"
Ragib nervously began to recount the events, content that for now Aziz hadn't executed him. Ragib told him how Abu Hasan had knocked the woman out and dragged her from the room. He gave his leader the details of what he had found and what little he knew about the woman. When Ragib was done, Aziz looked at the body for a second and then at the nervous man standing before him. No bad deed was to go unpunished. Examples had to be made; fear had to be maintained. With no warning whatsoever, Aziz brought his hand up and slapped Ragib across the face.
Ragib held his ground, offering his chin for another blow.
Although he was stronger and bigger than Aziz, he feared his leader deeply. Fighting back or blocking the blow was not a consideration.
Taking the muzzle of his MP-5, Aziz shoved it under Ragib's chin and backed him up until he was pinned against the wall.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you for your stupidity."
"I have no excuse." Ragib kept his voice calm, knowing that any sign of fear or disrespect could end his life instantly. "I deserve to die. I was stupid."
MITCH HAD MADE it into the room with seconds to spare.
Milt Adams knelt in the corner next to the woman Rapp had just saved and tried to keep her calm. The battered woman had been shaking for the better part of five minutes, and Adams was beginning to worry that she might be slipping into some type of shock.
Rapp tried his best to ignore Adams and the woman and stay focused on what the people back at Langley were saying.
He had already received his reprimand for not seeking the approval of the high command before saving the woman. Rapp liked to use the phrase "high command" to describe anyone who sat comfortably in a dark room that was dimly lit with computer and TV screens and gave orders to operators in the field. On this particular mission, he respected the people who were giving orders. Kennedy was someone whom he trusted implicitly, and Campbell, Flood, and Stansfield had all been in the field before—something that went a long way.
Rapp, however, had a new axiom in life. The stubborn half German had just recently figured out that instead of righting the system, it was often better to say yes and then go off and do whatever you thought was best. Washington was a bureaucratic monolith that more often than not moved with the speed and agility of a five-hundred-pound man. Like most clandestine operators, Rapp saw Washington's role as a secondary one, and because of this he had developed the habit of being very cautious about what information he passed on while in the field. Rapp had discovered that the less they thought he was doing the more support they seemed to give him, while inversely the more he told them, especially bad news, the less support he seemed to get.
Kennedy almost always went to bat for him, but there were others in Washington who had built their entire careers on doing nothing.
Rapp sat on his heels, his eyes trained on the monitor, his left ear receiving the audio from the president's bedroom and his right ear receiving the audio from Langley. The only voices coming from Langley were those of Kennedy, Campbell, Stansfield, and Hood. None of them had bothered to criticize him for saving the woman. They all knew or hoped they would have done the same thing. General Flood had, however, stressed that from this point forward there was a chain of command firmly in place, and it was to be used.
Using his new axiom, Rapp replied with a simple, "Yes, sir."
For the next several, tense minutes the group discussed how to proceed, but before long, there was no need to speculate.
The entrance of two men into the bedroom silenced all radio chatter.
Rapp squinted at the small monitor and instantly recognized the body language of the smaller man. The hair on Rapp's neck stood on end, and his palms became moist When Rapp heard the voice of this man, his heart began to race almost out of control. Instinctively, Rapp found himself reaching for his MP-10. The desire to kill seemed to possess him.
Rafique Ariz was on the other side of the wall, probably no more than ten feet away, and his back was to the door.
As Rapp rose to one knee, the voice of Irene Kennedy came over the handset.
"Iron Man, I know what you're thinking, and it's not going to happen.
The odds aren't right. There are three of them and one of you."
Rapp paused, tempted not to reply. Unfortunately, he had already tried that once, and it wasn't going to work twice.
Rapp exhaled and said, "I can take them down and end this right now," his voice a little edgy.
Kennedy's even voice came right back, "Or you could get killed and ruin our only chance for finding out what's going on in there."
"I won't get killed," answered Rapp in a tense voice.
"At least not before I take all three of them down first."
Back at Langley, Kennedy spun around in her chair and looked up at Director Stansfield. She shook her head vigorously at her boss.
Stansfield, for his part, sat calmly in his chair with one arm folded across his chest and the hand of the other one under his chin. Touching the arm of his headset, he said, "Iron Man, hold for a second while we discuss our options."
Stansfield pressed a button on his console and leaned forward.
General Flood scooted his chair over several feet, and Kennedy and General Campbell placed their hands on the long table that ran in front of the elevated row.
Kennedy was the first to speak.
"I don't like the odds." Stansfield looked from Kennedy to Campbell, and the general replied, "I don't know… I'm tempted. We've had a bull's eye on this guy's head for a long time, and Mitch is awfully good."
Stansfield turned to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
Flood rubbed the knob of his chin with his hand. Frowning, he answered,
"We're not even an hour into this operation, and we have sixty-plus hostages on the line. I think we wait." With a shake of the head. Flood added, "If he doesn't get all three of them, we're in deep shit."
All of them turned and looked at the monitor showing the three terrorists. One of them turned and walked closer to the door.
Stansfield shook his head and punched the button on his console.
Adjusting the lip mike of his headset, he said, "Iron Man, you are to hold your position. I repeat, you are to hold your position."
Back in the stash room, Rapp squeezed the tough plastic handset so tightly his knuckles turned white. In his mind he was swearing the same four-letter word over and over while kicking himself for answering Kennedy's call. He should have put a bullet in the field radio and gone out and ended it.
Thinking he still had a chance, Rapp stated, "I respectfully disagree. I have three targets, all standing within fifteen feet of each other."
Rapp looked at the monitor.
"They have their backs to my position, and I have the element of surprise on my side. This is not a difficult takedown."
This time it was General Flood's voice that came back over the radio.
"Iron Man, you are not to move, and that is an order. We need your eyes and ears in there, and we have time on our side." Flood's voice boomed with authority. In a slightly softer tone he added, "You'll get your chance, son. Just be patient Reluctantly, Rapp replied, "Roger that.
"Then, taking the handset, he tapped the ear portion against his forehead repeatedly. Next time, he told himself, just do it. Don't bother asking.
RAFIQUE AZIZ STILL had the muzzle of his MP-5 stuck firmly under the chin of Ragib. If he'd had more men at his disposal, Ragib would be dead, but he needed every last body.
That was why Aziz had brought so many explosives. It was the only way he could neutralize the advantage the Americans would have in manpower.
Ragib, his head contorted in a painful, twisted position, spoke cautiously. "I will find her. I promise you, Rafique."
Slowly, Aziz backed away, letting his rifle fall to his side, considering whether it was worth looking for the woman.
He grabbed the pile of clothes on the floor. Hasan's pistol was still in its holster, and his rifle was on top of the dresser on the other side of the room. The bloody knife was on the floor near the clothes, so the woman was unarmed. Sideways, Aziz looked at Ragib and asked, "Was this the same woman Abu Hasan had me pull out of line this morning?"
Ragib nodded his head vigorously.
"Yes. It is the same woman."
Aziz scoffed and looked at Bengazi, who was standing closer to the door.
"I know this woman. I met her when I arrived for my meeting with that fat pig Russ Piper." In typical mute form, Bengazi said nothing. Aziz nodded as things started to make a little more sense. He remembered Russ Piper telling him about the woman's family.
"The woman's father is a Chicago police officer." Aziz looked down at the dead body before him.
"That helps explain this."
When Aziz was done looking at the body, he bent down and grabbed the pile of. clothes. From them, he took the pistol and the radio, then walked over to the dresser and grabbed the extra assault rifle. Aziz turned and tossed the rifle across the room at Ragib.
With his own rifle in one hand, Ragib caught the other rifle with his free hand.
"Do you want me to find the girl?"
Aziz thought about it for a second and then said, "No. She can do us no harm. All of the exits are wired. Chances are she'll set off one of the bombs and kill herself."
Bengazi cleared his throat and got Aziz's attention.
Aziz looked at his second and said, "Yes."
"I think at the very least we should do a sweep of this floor and the third." Bengazi paused.
"It shouldn't take more than twenty minutes."
Aziz thought about it for a moment and replied, "All right, but let's do it quickly."
As they prepared to leave, Ragib pointed to their dead comrade on the floor and asked, "What do you want me to do with Hasan?"
Without looking back, Aziz said, "Leave him there, and let the stupid fool rot." BACK AT LANGLEY a lively discussion was under way. General Campbell wanted to broaden their vague mandate by sending two more people through the ventilation shaft. His reason was sound. They knew aziz had brought a large amount of explosives into the White House, and they now had evidence that Aziz had strategically deployed the devices. Before any type of an assault could take place, those devices would have to be defeated, or, at the very least, circumvented. To do that, they needed more information, and that meant getting someone with technical expertise into the White House.
General Campbell and Irene Kennedy had again resumed their huddle with their respective bosses. Campbell stated confidently, "Six has the people and the equipment in place, and no one knows explosives better than they do. One call to Lieutenant Commander Harris and we can have them in the shaft in under five minutes."
"I'd prefer to have Iron Man look around a little more," Stansfield said.
Campbell sighed.
"I'm not so sure we shouldn't have let Iron Man take them out a couple of minutes ago."
Stansfield raised an eyebrow.
"It was a very risky play for so early in the game."
"Yeah, but one that might have been worth it… And if we get it again, I'd like to be in a position to increase the odds."
"So"—Flood leaned forward, placing an arm on the table—"you want to move these people in immediately."
"Yes." Campbell looked at his watch.
"It's almost oh-one-hundred the sun's gonna be up in five hours. The sooner we get a clearer picture of what we're up against the sooner we can end this thing. Plus, like all of our Special Forces personnel, these demo experts are cross-trained. You put two SEALS on Iron Man's flanks and"—Campbell nodded confidently—"the next time we get a chance to take out Aziz, we're not gonna miss."
Stansfield cautioned, "Right now we have three armed terrorists moving about the mansion in a very surly mood. It might be wise to let them cool down before we start."
"I agree," replied Campbell.
"We just heard them say they're gonna check the second and third floors, which should take about twenty minutes. Even if we get our people moving in under ten, it'll be close to a half hour before they make it in.
And besides, they're coming into the third basement, not the second floor."
"What about Mitch?" asked Kennedy.
"He can sit tight until Aziz is done checking the second and third floors, and then he can head back down using the elevator." Kennedy thought about it for a moment and then said, "It sounds reasonable to me."
Both Kennedy and Campbell looked up at Flood and Stansfield. General Flood looked at Stansfield first and then Campbell.
"Tell Commander Harris to get his men ready to move, but they are to wait for my order before they cross the fence line." Campbell and Kennedy went back to their spots, leaving the two older men alone. Flood moved close to Stansfield and asked, "How does this change things with the vice president?"
Stansfield pondered the question momentarily and then replied. "I'm not sure; he was awfully vague in his direction. He seemed to leave the door open for everything up to the point of an actual raid."
Hood shook his head and muttered, "Vice President Baxter is severely hampered in the leadership department… He is not the person we need for this crisis."
Stansfield slowly nodded.
"He's trying to cover all of his bets."
"So what do we do?"
The director of the CIA thought about it for a moment.
"He was vague for a reason… I almost got the feeling he wanted to be kept out of the loop."
"He wants his deniability." The general was not happy.
"Well, screw him and the horse he rode in on. We can tell him in the morning when he gets his lazy ass out of bed."
ON THE EAST side of the White House, Lt. Commander Harris and his men were busy getting ready. The air under the tarp was soupy. Condensation had formed on the sides of the three vehicles, and rivulets of water were dripping to the ground. Every man was sweating profusely, but they all ignored it. They were used to working in conditions far worse than this.
Harris had already chosen his two men. The first was Nick Shultz, a thirty-eight-year-old chief petty officer. Shultz was an EOD—explosive-ordnance disposal specialist—who had been on the teams since he was twenty. Due to his natural knack for explosives, he had spent a fair amount of time as a basic underwater demolition SEAL instructor—for the grueling twenty-six-week course that all candidates must complete before they can become a SEAL. However, what made Shultz one of the very best experts was his steady, unflappable demeanor. The second man Harris had picked was Danny Craft. The choice was actually a foregone conclusion, since Craft was Shultz's swim buddy. Craft was Shultz's junior by ten years.
Where Shultz was calm and introspective. Craft was active and outgoing.
And where Shultz was plain-looking. Craft was boyishly handsome. Looking quite a bit younger than his twenty eight years of age. Craft had used his blue-gray eyes to woo college coeds on both coasts. There was rarely a free night that the young SEAL spent alone.
The two men were polar opposites, and as the older Shultz had expected, this worked to their advantage. Craft saw things that Shultz didn't and vice versa. Over the last two years they had honed their skills and become a very effective duo.
As they prepared for their insertion, the two men stood side by side in front of a long folding table and checked their equipment one last time.
Besides their weapons and specialized tool kits, they were bringing one exceptional piece of equipment.
Laid out on the table before them was a mobile X-ray imager made by Safety and Security Instruments out of San Diego. The first two pieces of the unit were the RTR-4 X-ray Imager and the XR-200 X-ray Source. The two units worked in conjunction with a third piece of equipment, the RTR-4 control unit. This portable Pentium computer was mounted in a super sturdy gasket-sealed aluminum case with shock mounted components.
The active-matrix color flat-panel display on the control unit would provide Shultz and Craft with a real-time sneak and peek into the guts of aziz's bombs Without the RTR-4, any attempt to open the outer casing of the bombs would be a game of Russian roulette.
Standing fifteen feet away, in the open doorway of the CIA communications van, Lt. Commander Harris was busy listening to General Campbell and Irene Kennedy back at Langley. Harris was waiting for an opportunity to make his pitch, but hadn't found it. General Campbell was asking a lot of questions, as was Kennedy. When there was finally a pause, Harris made his move.
"General Campbell, I'd like to request permission to go in with my demo boys. I think—" Campbell cut him off.
"Request denied. I want you with your team."
Harris held the handset of the secure field radio to his ear.
He was not to be deterred so easily.
"I respectfully disagree, sir.
I think I would be more valuable helping conduct the recon of the building."
"You are to stay put. Commander."
The voice was not Campbell's. It was General Flood's.
Harris, slightly caught off guard, had not expected Flood to be listening in on the conversation.
The highest-ranking officer in the entire U.S. military continued by saying, "If things proceed well, there's a good chance we'll be sending you and your team in."
"Yes, sir," was the only reply Harris could muster.
"Now get your boys moving. Iron Man will be waiting for them on the other side."
BACK IN THE stash room, Mitch Rapp was reorganizing his gear for his incursion back into the bowels of the two hundred-year-old mansion.
Things were happening fast, but he was more than happy to receive the professional services of a couple of SEAL demolition experts, especially since it would mean he would not have to deal with the bombs.
One thing he did want to do before he headed out, though, was talk to the woman he had grabbed from the president's bed. Rapp had been so busy talking to Kennedy and the others that he hadn't had the chance to find out who the woman was and, more important, if she had any information that might help them. Moving his gear to the side, Rapp took off his baseball cap and scratched his head. Watching Adams give the woman some water, he noticed for the first time that she was very attractive, stunning actually. Rapp scooted forward on his knees to get a little closer and asked, "How are you feeling?"
Rielly had wrapped herself tightly in the sheet and had one arm out.
Looking up at the man kneeling in front of her, she replied timidly,
"I'm fine." But, before the last syllable left her mouth, the tears started again. Rielly brushed some of them from her cheek and added, "I'm not fine… I'm a mess."
Rapp laughed at her blunt observation. Reaching out, he grabbed her shoulder and said, "You're fine. Everything's gonna be fine."
Rielly looked up again, her bottom lip quivering slightly.
"I'll never be able to thank you enough for what you did."
Grabbing his hand, she squeezed it and said, "I owe you my life."
Rapp blushed slightly.
"Now… now… there's no need to be melodramatic." He didn't know how to deal with the unusually personal gratitude of the woman, having grown used to his deeds going unnoticed by all but a select few.
"I'm serious." Rielly squeezed his hand tighter.
"I'm not being melodramatic. You saved my life."
"Well," Rapp started uncomfortably, "he might not have killed you."
"Oh," scoffed Rielly in between sniffles.
"That's a hell of a consolation." She started to cry even harder.
Milt Adams was still sitting next to Rielly. He looked at Rapp and shook his head.
"You need to learn how to accept someone's gratitude, you big oaf.
"You're welcome'—that's what you say to the pretty little woman."
With his hand still on the woman's shoulder, Rapp scowled at Adams.
Etiquette was hardly a concern of his at the moment. Rapp turned back to the woman, whose moist cheek was now resting on his hand. After squeezing her shoulder lightly, Rapp reached out with his other hand and brushed some of the tears from her cheek.
"You're welcome," he started tentatively.
"I'm glad I was there to help." Rapp held her cheek for a moment and then lifted her head, so he could look her in the eye. That was when he noticed them, the greenest eyes he had ever seen. So beautiful were they that Rapp lost his concentration for a second and forgot what he was about to ask.
He blinked several times and then remembered where he was headed. "I need to ask you some questions. Are you up to it?"
Rielly nodded and wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks. Taking part of her sheet, she blew her nose quietly and said, "God, I haven't cried this much in years."
"Well, you've been through a lot." Rapp was making a concerted effort to say the right things.
"What a shitty couple of days." Rielly shook her head and managed a laugh.
"Yeah… I'd imagine they don't get much worse." Rapp looked at his watch and said, "Listen, I have some things I have to do, but I want to ask you some questions first."
Rielly nodded.
"Good. Let's start with your name."
"Anna… Anna Rielly."
"I'm Mitch and this is Milt."
Rielly wiped her hand on the sheet and extended it.
"Nice to meet you, Mitch." Rielly gave a warm smile, showing off her dimples." Very nice to meet you." Rapp grinned and shook her hand.
Rielly then turned to Adams and shook his hand.
"What do you do here at the White House?" asked Rapp.
"I'm a reporter." From the look on Rapp's face, one would think they were on their first date and she had just told him she had a husband.
Oh, shit, Rapp thought to himself. This could be a problem.
"Who do you work for?"
"NEC. It was my first day on the job."
"Nice timing," Rapp said with a raised eyebrow.
"No shit." Rielly shook her head.
"Where have you been held for the last several days?"
"In the White House mess."
Rapp looked to Adams, who nodded and said, "That's where I thought he would hold them. No exterior windows and the room is big enough."
Rapp was worried about whether Aziz had kept all of the hostages together or split them up. As a general rule, that decision depended on assets and the layout of the building. With this in mind, Rapp was inclined to believe that with Aziz's limited manpower, he would be forced to keep all of the hostages in one place.
"Were all of the hostages kept in the mess?"
"Yes." Rielly shrugged her shoulders.
"At least I think so."
"How many of you?"
Biting her bottom Up, Rielly thought about it for a moment and said, "I don't know. Eighty… one hundred… a hundred and twenty… ? I don't know."
"I really need you to think about this one. You don't have to answer it right now, but I need you to try and remember how many people were in the mess."
Rielly nodded.
"I'll try."
"What about Secret Service agents? Were they held in the same room as you?" Rapp knew Aziz well enough to bet that he would at. the very least separate the Secret Service agents from the hostages.
"I don't know. When all this started, I'd only been on the job for about fifteen minutes. I don't know what any of the agents look like."
"You don't have to know them personally to be able to pick them out.
They all have short haircuts, athletic builds… They stand out." Rapp looked at her proddingly.
"Come on, you're a reporter." With a grin he added, "You're supposed to notice stuff like that."
Rielly thought about it.
"I don't remember seeing anyone like that."
"What about any marines or other military types?" asked Milt Adams.
Rielly shook her head immediately.
"I know for a fact I didn't see anyone in a uniform."
Rapp nodded to Adams, approving of the timely question.
That settled it for him. Aziz was either holding the Secret Service and military personnel in a different location, or he had killed all of them. Knowing Aziz, the latter was a distinct possibility.
"How many different terrorists did you see?"
Rielly closed her eyes for a second.
"I think I saw six of them, and I'm pretty sure I saw the leader. Some Prince something or other. I actually met him on the street on my way in the morning all of this started. He got out of a limo with Russ Piper, the chairman of the DNC. Russ is an old friend of my family." Rielly paused.
"I haven't seen him since this whole thing started… I hope he's all right."
"The leader is not a prince," said Rapp.
"His name is Rafique Aziz."
Rielly had a spasm of shivers and said, "Well, whoever he is, he's evil, and I don't mean just crazy or goofy, I mean evil.
He shot someone in cold blood just because they asked for blankets and food. He just lifted his gun without any warning and shot the man in the head."
"That would be Rafique Aziz," said Rapp somberly. Then looking down at his watch, he decided he had better get moving.
"Well, Ms. Rielly, we'll have to continue this later. I have to go take care of something."
"Please call me Anna." Rielly smiled.
"All right' Anna I don't know how long this will take, but I should be back in an hour or less. Milt here will take care of you, so don't worry. I know he doesn't look like much, but don't let that fool you."
Adams looked at Rapp deadpan. Rapp grabbed the small fanny pack for his short excursion and strapped it around his waist. He turned his baseball cap around backward and placed his headset over the top, but after hearing only static interference, he turned off the small radio.
Rielly watched him intently as he moved about the room on his knees When he grabbed his submachine gun and stood, Rielly asked, "Who do you work for, Mitch?"
"The post office." Rapp nodded for Adams to get up and then looked back at Rielly.
"Anna, we'll have to finish this interview later." With a wink, he added reassuringly, "Keep an eye on Milt for me." THE SEARCH OF the second and third floors of the White House had taken almost twenty-five minutes.
The three men worked in unison, one always covering the other two, as they went from room to room checking the closets and under the beds. Aziz had been sure they would find her cowering in one of the closets, but they had not.
They descended from the third floor. Aziz, walking in the lead, was thinking. He was thinking about the building and how old it was, how much it bothered him that he couldn't just walk from one building to the other without going outside.
If he could just have gotten his hands around the president in his office, he would not have had to spread his people so thin. But Aziz knew if he wanted to get the Americans to meet all of his demands, he would have to extract the cowardly president from the safety of his bunker. And the only way he could do that was if his little thief, his gift from Saddam, was successful in his task.
Aziz stopped suddenly and did an about-face. Bengazi and Ragib stopped just short of running into their leader. They were dred and their reaction time dulled. Aziz pointed back down the hall and said, "Follow me. I have decided there is something else we need to check while we are here."
The two men stood aside, and Aziz marched off in the direction from which they had come. As they continued down the staircase to the first basement, Aziz opened the fire door and stepped into the hallway. He stood there for several seconds, looking in both directions, and then he walked back into the staircase and continued down to the second basement. He repeated his actions on this floor, pausing just long enough to look down the hallway.
When they reached the third basement, Aziz pointed to the stairwell door and said to Ragib, "You wait here. "Aziz then marched down the hall with Bengazi.
When the corridor ended, the two men turned to the left and continued for another thirty feet. Aziz was immediately surprised by the lack of noise when he had checked on his little thief some four hours earlier, the sound had been pronounced.
Slightly alarmed by the change, Aziz brought his assault rifle up to a leveled position. Bengazi, sensing his boss's tension, did the same. The outer door that Mustafa had broken through on the first night was only half open. As Aziz approached, he could see only a portion of the outer room to the president's bunker, and his little thief was not in sight.
Aziz walked to the left so he could see the right side of the room.
There was still nothing: no sound, no Mustafa.
Without stopping, Aziz slid through the partially opened door and snapped the muzzle of his MP-5 to the left. What he saw upset him instantly. Against the far wall, Mustafa was sitting on the floor, asleep in an upright position—his short arms wrapped around his potbelly and his mouth open with a stream of drool running down his chin. Aziz took three steps and forcefully kicked the man's feet.
Mustafa's eyes opened instantly, and Aziz shoved the muzzle of his rifle to within an inch of his face.
"What in the hell are you doing?"
Nervously, he replied, "I was taking a nap."
"I can see that. Why aren't the drills running?"
"They needed a rest."
The safecracker tried to move farther away from the weapon, but there was nowhere to go.
"If I run them nonstop, they will burn out."
Aziz moved the rifle away from the man's face. The answer had satisfied him for the moment.
"Are you still on schedule?"
"Yes." Mustafa rolled his plump body onto one knee and stood. "I am actually several hours ahead of schedule."
Aziz raised an interested eyebrow.
"Really. When do you expect to have the door opened?"
Mustafa looked at his watch. "If the drills continue to work well, I think I can have the door opened around seven this evening."
Aziz smiled.
"That would make me very happy." Slapping the shorter man on the back, Aziz said, "You have done good work, Mustafa."
"Thank you." Mustafa bowed his head slightly, accepting the rare compliment.
Aziz looked over at the shiny vault door. In less than twenty-four hours he would have his hands on the president.
Mustafa's news of being ahead of schedule helped assuage Aziz's anger over the loss of hasan. Once he had the president, he could breathe a sigh of relief.
LEAVING THE STASH room was a tense process. The only eyes Rapp had outside the room were the sole surveillance unit he had placed in the president's bedroom. This assured him that it was safe to exit the stash room, but Milt cautioned him that the large closet also had a door at the opposite end that led into the First Lady's bedroom.
"All right," Rapp whispered, and Adams opened the wall several inches.
Not moving, not breathing, Rapp peeked through the crack and listened.
Stepping into the closet, he immediately noticed that its door to the First Lady's bedroom was open. Rapp checked to his left and his right twice and then walked toward the First Lady's bedroom. He stood at the doorframe for a moment and listened. The room was empty.
Directly across the room was another door, which was closed. Rapp figured it was either a closet or a bathroom.
Whichever the case, it made no difference. The fact that the door he was standing in had been left open and the one across the room had been closed, however, was significant. It meant that Aziz and his men had done a sloppy job on the search.
Each door should have been opened, checked, and then closed.
Because of this inconsistency, Rapp felt confident enough to close the door to the closet. He quickly rummaged through the closet, grabbing a sweatshirt, a pair of sweatpants, and a pair of white sweat socks. Rapp went back to the stash room door and handed the clothes to Adams.
"Give these to Anna." Rapp looked at the shelf to his right and saw a blanket and two pillows.
"Here, take these too. Try to get her to sleep." Rapp began to close the door and said, "And make sure you don't bolt this thing. If I'm in a hurry to get back in, I don't want to have to stand out here and knock."
Adams nodded and said, "Good luck."
Rapp closed the organizer tight and silently moved across the president's bedroom. Three steps and he was across the entrance hall and into the bathroom. Reaching behind a light to the left of the medicine cabinet, he found the button and pressed it. The wall sprang open an inch, and with his gloved hand, Rapp pulled it open several more feet.
With the push of another button, the elevator's doors opened, and Rapp began his near silent descent. Seconds later the elevator stopped and the doors opened. Rapp retraced his earlier steps, down the hallway and into the stairs leading to the third basement.
When he arrived at the landing door, he reached for the handle and stopped just inches short. The stairwell was darker than the hallway on the other side, and a half inch of bright light bordered the bottom of the door. Rapp had seen something.
His eyes had caught some type of motion, a variance in light.
Cautiously, Rapp backed up, wondering if the SEALS could already have arrived.
With his gun leveled, he kept his eyes trained on the patch of light.
After only seconds he saw the shadow again. Frowning, he opened up the monitor, this time not daring to holster his weapon With the monitor opened, his gun in his left hand and the snake in his right, he moved to the far side of the door handle and slowly inched the tiny lens forward along the concrete floor. Rapp's eyes went back and forth between watching the screen and watching the progress of the snake. An inch at a time, he nudged it forward. The first thing Rapp saw on the screen was a pair of boots. As he pushed the lens forward, combat fatigues came into view and then the distinctive barrel, handgrip, and curved magazine OF AN AK-74. Rapp pulled the snake back deliberately and swore to himself.
Why was a bad guy all of the sudden down here in the basement? They had come across no one on the way in. Why now? As Rapp leaned flat against the wall, he tried to make some sense of it. After a while he decided it must have been the girl. He had to make a decision, and the sooner he made it the better. Waiting in the stairwell was not an option. There was no cover, and someone could come along at any minute. It was too big a risk. Opening the door and shooting the terrorist was an option, but one that would have to be a last resort. Rapp was left with only one real course—go back and tell Kennedy and Campbell to put the SEALS in a holding pattern until he could make sure the basement was clear.
Rapp looked down at the corner where the white concrete wall met the hinges of the door. He reached inside the cargo pocket of his pants and extracted one of the micro video and audio surveillance units. Dropping to a knee, he attached a Velcro patch to the wall and then carefully positioned the unit so the tiny fiber-optic lens would have a view under the doorway.
Rapp ascended to the second floor of the mansion quickly, taking less than two minutes to cover the distance from the third basement.
"When the small elevator reached the second level, Rapp turned on his monitor and checked the view of the president's bedroom. All was clear on the video and the audio, so he closed the screen and stepped out onto the tile floor of the bathroom.
From there, it was across the way and into the large closet once again With the doors closed, he found the hidden latch for the wall organizer and opened the way to the stash room.
Adams and Rielly were sitting wide-eyed on the floor when Rapp entered and Adams said, "You're back kinda quick, aren't you?"
Rapp shook his head while he dropped to his knees in front of the secure field radio.
"Yeah, we've got a problem downstairs."
"Like what?"
"We've got a Tango running around down in the third basement."
"A what?"
Rapp pressed several buttons on the control panel of the radio.
"A Tango… a bad guy… a terrorist." Rapp brought the handset up to his ear.
With a worried expression, Adams asked, "Did he see you?"
"If he saw me. Milt, he wouldn't still be walking around." Rapp turned his focus to the radio and said, "Iron Man to control.
Over." Rapp had to repeat himself before he got a reply.
Kennedy's voice came back clearly, "Iron Man, this is control. We read you. Over."
"We have a problem. There is at least one Tango in the third basement. I repeat, one Tango in the third basement."
"Where in the third basement?" was General Campbell's question.
"Two minutes ago he was standing just outside the stairwell, by the door to the boiler room."
"Any others in sight?"
"Not that I could see, but my only shot was with the snake under the door." Rapp added earnestly, "My immediate suggestion is to put the brakes on the next two through the chute.
It's not worth the risk at this time to bring them into an unsecured area."
"Hold for a second. Iron Man," was Campbell's reply.
While Rapp waited for the brass on the other end to finish their little powwow, he opened up his monitor and attempted to get a feed from the second surveillance unit he had placed in the basement. He was still playing with the unit when Kennedy came back on the line.
"Iron Man, any thoughts on what the Tango is doing in the basement?"
"Probably looking for the girl, which means Aziz and Bengazi might also be down there."
There was another period of silence over the line while the brass conferred. Kennedy came back ten seconds later and said, "Iron Man, we concur. Stay put while we see if we can slow things down."
"Roger." Rapp pressed the speaker button and placed the handset back in its cradle. From the tiny speaker on the control panel of the radio, an electronic hum told Rapp the line was still open. Turning his attention back to the monitor strapped to his chest, he went to work trying to get something from the surveillance unit in the basement.
AZIZ'S SPIRITS HAD rebounded. The news that he would have his hands around the neck of the president by dusk today had helped temper the loss of the idiot Hasan. If he could just hold out until then, the chances for complete success would double, if not triple. The next fifteen or so hours would be the tensest of the siege. Aziz corrected himself on that point: it would be the next five hours. Once the sun was up he would be safe again. But come nightfall the chances of a strike would increase once again. Aziz had gone to great pains to study the techniques used by the world's elite counterterrorist strike teams, such as Germany's GSG-9, France's GIGN, Britain's SAS, and of course, America's three premier teams. The groups all shared information on training, strategy, intelligence, and tactics, and competed in annual competitions to help hone each other's skills.
All of the groups followed a fairly standard procedure when confronted with a hostage crisis: initial deployment of assets; intelligence collection; planning, development, and practice of the takedown; mission approval; and finally, execution of takedown. All of the groups were good, and the three U.S. teams were always ranked at or near the top in every category except one. When it came to mission approval, the U.S. teams were consistently ranked at the bottom. The common critique from the international counterterrorism community was that the U.S. had too many people in the chain of command. Too many people throwing their opinions into the arena and thus slowing down a process that depended on speed and efficiency.
This was one of the things Aziz was planning to exploit.
This, as well as the American media and ultimately public opinion. The morning would bring a new day in the media cycle, and Aziz would begin to implement another crucial part of his plan. If he succeeded, it would keep the dogs at bay for another day. The politicians were his allies, and he needed to keep them believing there was a way out of the situation. Aziz needed to keep them and their opinions directly involved in the chain of command, because as long as they stayed involved, the generals would be unable to strike.
As Aziz walked down the hall with Bengazi, he started to see one fundamental flaw in his plan. He had succeeded in negating the Americans' manpower advantage through the use of explosives and the exterior surveillance cameras he had seized from the Secret Service.
With the amount of explosives he had deployed, any attack would result in the deaths of all the rescuers and, if need be, the hostages too. The flaw, Aziz was now sure, was created once again by the separation of the West Wing and the Executive Mansion. The West Wing was one hundred percent secured, but the mansion was not. If the Americans found out that he was in the process of extracting the president from his bunker, there was no telling what they might do. It was entirely likely that they would risk everything to prevent the president from falling into his hands.
As Aziz and Bengazi neared the end of the hall, Aziz stopped and said,
"Muammar, I want you to stay here for the rest of the night. I will send you a replacement at"—Aziz looked at his watch—"seven. I want you to make sure that nothing happens to my little ferret." Aziz pointed in the direction of the bunker.
"If you fail me this time, you will be begging for a quick death." The subordinate nodded while main taming his ramrod posture.
Aziz turned to go back upstairs and was confronted by two doors, one of them he had not noticed before. Turning to Bengazi, he asked, "Where does this lead?"
"To the boiler room," the heavily bearded Bengazi answered.
"Boiler room," Aziz repeated while he mulled over the words.
"Was it secured after we took over?"
"Yes," stated Bengazi.
"I checked it personally." Aziz stood looking at the doorway, thinking for a long moment.
"Do you remember," he asked Bengazi,"the incident at the Indonesian consulate in Amsterdam… back in the seventies?"
Bengazi's face twisted as he tried to jog his memory. After a while, he replied, "Yes, I remember what happened. The terrorists surrendered after a long standoff with the police."
"Two weeks," answered Aziz, referring to how long the siege had lasted.
"Did you know that during the standoff the CIA assisted the Dutch government by getting one of their- people into the building via the sewer pipe?"
"No."
"Neither did the terrorists. The man came in through the basement and bugged the building. Everything the terrorists said and did was heard by the Dutch authorities." Aziz looked back at the door.
"When was the last time you checked this room?"
"I checked it yesterday afternoon."
"A lot has happened since then. I think we should check it again.
"Without waiting for Bengazi's opinion, Aziz started for the door.
THE TWO SEALS trudged forward through the ventilation duct in complete darkness. Craft in the lead and Shultz close behind. This is what they had trained their whole lives to do.
There wasn't a Special Forces operator in the service worth his salt who wouldn't have given his left nut to be in their position.
All the push-ups, early morning runs, icy swims, hour upon hour of target practice, live fire drills, parachute jumps that ran into the triple digits—it all came down to this.
"Apprehension" was a word that didn't belong in their vocabulary. Maybe "caution" from time to time, but not "apprehension." These men relished the task before them and knew all too well what the stakes were. Death was a distinct possibility. They had seen team members die in both training and covert operations. That was the life they had decided to live, and there wasn't a day they regretted the decision.
The younger Craft was in the lead because he had asked to be. The two SEALS were now experiencing the same problem that Rapp and Adams had.
The closer they got to the White House the worse their radio reception became. Like the two that had gone before them, they had removed their earpieces after a while because the static became so bad.
It had not occurred to anyone, either at Langley or at SEAL Team Six's mobile command post, to have Shultz and Craft string along a phone line—a military practice that had been commonplace for almost a century, but had gone by the wayside with the recent onslaught of high-tech radios and billion-dollar satellites. Events had progressed too quickly, and a low-tech solution to a critical battlefield problem had been missed.
Craft was glad he had remembered to put on his elbow and knee pads before being lowered into the ventilation duct. He had about thirty pounds of gear on his body and was pulling another thirty behind him via a rope. Wiggling like a reptile, he could move only four to six inches at a time, and his elbows were doing most of the work.
The two men moved quietly for the most part, the only real noise coming from the equipment they dragged behind them. The noise wasn't much, no more than that of a shirt sliding down a clothes chute. It was hard to tell how far they had gone, but to Craft it seemed as if they were nearing the end. He stopped momentarily and looked behind him. All he found was more blackness and the sounds of his swim buddy squirming his way forward. Craft decided to shed some light on the situation. Turning onto one side, he extracted his pistol, a Heckler & Koch USP .45 ACP.
Attached to the pistol was both a cylindrical suppressor and a laser-aiming module. Craft turned on the laser, and the red dot bounced off the walls of the duct. Aiming the pistol straight ahead. Craft found the end of the shaft not more than thirty feet away.
AZIZ PLACED HIS hand on the doorknob and nodded to Bengazi. Bengazi took up a position opposite Aziz and signaled that he was ready. When Aziz opened the door, Bengazi swung his rifle and half of his body into the now open space. Bengazi looked down at the expansive room from a slightly elevated position. A small grated metal landing was just on the other side of the door, and three steps led from the landing down to the stark concrete floor of the boiler room. One dim light off to the left provided minimal lighting. After Bengazi looked from one side of the room to the other, he checked on both sides of the doorframe for more light switches. After coming up empty, he spotted a group of four switches at the bottom of the grated steps. Bengazi moved down the steps and slapped all four switches up with the palm of his hand. The room lit up with powerful overhead lamps.
Aziz stepped onto the landing and surveyed the room, his MP-5 gripped in both hands. He nodded for Bengazi to move out ahead while he slowly came down the steps. Neither man spoke. Bengazi had known Aziz long enough to recognize when he was spooked.
Aziz did not know exactly what he was looking for. As he peered around the room, he wondered if he wasn't being overly paranoid. There had been very little time for sleep over the last week, and his nerves were getting raw. The truth, however, was that it is impossible to be too paranoid when dealing with the CIA. He should have thought of this possibility earlier, but so much had changed from the original plan. It was a grave oversight on his part. He had been thinking of too many things and spreading himself too thin, but he was focused now.
Nothing mattered more than getting his hands on the president, and if that meant sacrificing some of his assets to secure this area of the basement, it was a gamble that was well worth it.
As Aziz moved across the room, a good ten paces behind Bengazi, his eyes searched the floor for any type of drain, grate, or pipe. While he looked, he wondered how big the sewer pipe must have been in Amsterdam.
Not any pipe would do; it would have to be big, and he doubted that anything big enough to support a human would be running into the "White House.
Aziz was looking under one of the large boilers when he heard a soft whistle from Bengazi. Standing up straight, he looked over to his man, who was standing with one finger over his lips and the barrel of his rifle pointing up.
Aziz stood with his neck craned upward, watching the metal duct that ran from the wall diagonally across the room to some large piece of equipment. Listening intently, he focused everything on the duct. After a short while he thought he saw something, a glimmer off the lights, a buckle in the metal.
Aziz's brow furrowed. Again he saw something, some type of movement.
Aziz stepped from his cover to get a closer look.
Some twenty feet away Bengazi shook his head at him and tried to wave him back. Aziz ignored him and continued to approach the duct. Finally, when he was directly under the structure, he heard the noise. It sounded like a rat moving behind the walls of an old building. Something was definitely in the duct.
Aziz looked behind him and took several steps back, putting himself in direct line with the length of the duct.
Then, raising his MP-5, he sighted in on part of the duct that protruded from the wall. With the butt of the rifle squeezed tightly between his right shoulder and cheek, he depressed the trigger and unleashed a volley of automatic fire, the heavy rounds slicing through the thin metal with ease.
Nine rounds were fired in total, the noise from the shots careening off the concrete floors and walls, leaving the ears of Aziz and Bengazi ringing. The smell of spent rounds filled the air, and a cluster of shell casings rolled aimlessly about the floor near Aziz's feet.
Aziz did not move. He stood his ground with his rifle still pointed at the duct, his eyes fixed on the straight line of bullet holes he had just laced into the thin metal. At first there was nothing, no movement and no noise other than the ringing of the shots that had been fired, and then, out of one of the holes, something dark beaded into a droplet and after an eternity it broke free. Both Aziz and Bengazi watched it fall to the ground. The drop hit the gray concrete floor and splashed into a spidered crimson pattern. Without hesitation, both Aziz and Bengazi stepped back and opened up on the duct with a relentless hail of bullets.
THE APARTMENT WAS nice. It had been decorated by his mother.
She had insisted on flying to D.C. to help her son get settled in. Now that Dallas was an important figure in Washington, he'd have to entertain. Mrs. King had loaded up her son with the best that Williams-Sonoma, Pottery Barn, and Restoration Hardware could provide.
The two-bedroom apartment in Adams-Morgan cost him nineteen hundred dollars a month, but it was worth it. It was only a couple of blocks away from some of Washington's best nightspots, there were plenty of women around, and it was close to work.
Dallas King sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in one hand and the remote control to his TV in the other. He was waiting for the seven A.M. top-of-the-hour CNN news update. Dallas took a sip of coffee and looked down the hall to his bedroom. Through the cracked door he glimpsed the lean leg of his lovely little Asian hostess, Kim. She had been everything he had hoped and then some. After King finished his meeting with Sheila Dunn, he had moved to the bar for one more glass of wine. Someone must have explained to the hostess who he was because she began asking him questions about the crisis. King worked it for everything it was worth, stressing his role as Vice President Baxter's closest adviser, complaining about the pressure, and finally telling her how much he wanted to be with her. By the time one A.M. rolled around, he had her punched out and on the way to his apartment.
As he sipped his coffee, CNN came back from a commercial break. King turned up the volume and listened to the anchor start off with the lead story of the morning. Footage of a candlelight vigil that had taken place the night before flashed across the screen. The anchor announced that an estimated fifty thousand people had taken part in the silent march from the Lincoln Memorial to the Capitol. Next came more footage of massive crowds pressing against police barricades in an effort to glimpse the White House. This relatively calm footage was replaced by images of protestors burning American flags in Gaza, the West Bank, Baghdad, and Damascus.
King shook his head and muttered, "If they keep that shit up, we'll have no choice but to storm the place."
The anchor and the correspondent talked for almost a minute about the official reactions of governments around the Middle East and then broke away for a live briefing being delivered by Director Roach of the FBI.
Roach stood in front of a Justice Department podium and started out reading from prepared text. The director gestured to an easel on his left, saying, "This is the photo we released yesterday of Mohammed Battikhi—the man we believe to have fired shots from the roof of the Washington Hotel during the opening moments of the attack on the White House. We now know his real name to be Salim Rusan. He is at large and considered to be extremely dangerous. Right now we are offering a one-million-dollar reward for any information leading to the arrest of Rusan and a second individual." One of Roach's aides removed the first photo and replaced it with a second of a man wearing a green uniform.
His hair was slicked back, and he had a gold chain with a cross hanging from his open collar.
"This man worked for the White Knight Linen Service Company," Roach continued, "and went by the name of Vinneyvitelli. His real name is Abu Hasan. We are not sure if he is at large, but we are very interested in talking to anyone who has dealt with him in the last year." Roach continued to talk, giving a number to call, but King wasn't listening.
His eyes were open wide in disbelief. It couldn't be. King stood, almost dropping his coffee cup. Tugging at the collar of his white bathrobe, he raced for the TV.
"Oh, my God, it's him!"
NO ONE IN the bunker had slept for more than a half hour at a time, and some of the agents had not slept at all. The noise of steel assaulting steel grew louder as morning approached.
President Hayes remained confident that the FBI would come. He'd been through the briefings, he had listened to the experts state that the best time to attack was right before dawn. It was when people were most sluggish and hence easiest to surprise.
It started to brighten, this time of the year, around five thirty and the sun was up by a quarter past six. Each of the eleven felt a fevered anticipation as morning drew near, but as the hours passed by, there was collective letdown, followed by depression, as the nerve-racking sound of the door being breached gnawed at their ears. Each individual, including the president, asked himself or herself the same question over and over again. Can we hold out for another day?
Valerie Jones was coming back from the small bathroom, where she had finally, after two days, decided to remove the makeup from her face.
Considering the situation, she felt that any hang-ups about her wrinkles and the dark circles under her eyes were foolish.
Jones had spent all night thinking about the president's rebuke the day before. She had worked far too hard to get where she was, and she wouldn't allow anyone to pin the blame on her for admitting a terrorist into the Oval Office. In Jones's mind the truth was never that simple.
There were always eight sides to every story.
There was no way she was going to roll over now and watch her career go up in flames. Jones had been concentrating on angles all night. Who could influence Hayes to help put the story in the proper light? Whom could she use to focus Hayes's anger on? The first question was easy to answer. Jones knew enough senators and big donators. She could get them to whisper in the president's ear or, if needed, lean on him. The way she would spin it would be to hold up Russ Piper and the DNC as sacrificial lambs. All Jones did was put him and his guest down in the appointment book. That menial task was hardly worth ending someone's career over.
As far as getting her boss to focus his anger on something or someone else, Jones was working on that. She proceeded back to the couches and sat next to him. If she could get him thinking in another direction, she just might hold on to her job and her career.
President Hayes didn't bother to look up when his chief of staff sat.
Jones studied him for a second and then asked, "Why wouldn't they have come?"
Hayes shook his head.
"I don't know. They must have a good reason."
"Like what? Isn't it our policy not to negotiate with terrorists?"
Hayes glanced over at her.
"We don't always stick to policy."
"Well, who's making the decisions?"
The president looked at her with his tired eyes.
"As I told you yesterday, if they're following the Constitution, which I'm sure they are, the powers of the presidency will have been transferred to Vice President Baxter."
Jones rolled her eyes.
"That isn't good news." The president did nothing at first and then nodded slowly in agreement.
"Why wouldn't he send in the FBI?"
"I don't know. Valerie." Hayes sounded very impatient. The tension and lack of sleep were working on his nerves.
"Well, it makes no sense." Jones moved forward cautiously.
"Everything you said about the FBI striking before sunrise made sense. I don't understand why they wouldn't have come."
"There's a lot we don't know about. They could have plenty of good reasons why they're waiting to attack."
Jones was keenly aware of the problems between President Hayes and Vice President Baxter. She and the president had discussed them on many occasions. If she could get the president to focus his anger on Baxter, her minor role in this debacle would be forgotten.
In a voice just barely above a mumble, Jones planted the seed that she hoped would shift the president's righteous thoughts in a different direction.
"Or Baxter likes being president."
IRENE KENNEDY STOOD in her office and watched the sun rise over the trees of the Potomac River Valley. Any attempt to count her hours of sleep over the last week would be a wasted exercise. They were too few and too far between. She had more pressing things on her mind, and besides, thinking of sleep only caused her to worry more about Rapp.
Kennedy had been hoping to steal a couple of hours on the couch in her office after the two SEALS had made it into the White House and reported back on the bombs, but that never happened.
Things had fallen apart, and they had done so miserably.