At 2:23 A.M. Kennedy had been sitting in the control room at Langley when an irate Skip Mcmahon called. Mcmahon had been rousted from his cot in the Executive Office Building just minutes earlier by Rafique Aziz.
He had stumbled down the hall and into the FBI's command post in his boxers and T-shirt. Once on the phone, Mcmahon was further confused by the wild accusations Aziz had Hung at him. Everything Aziz said came up empty with Mcmahon. Mcmahon tried in vain to deny the accusations, but Aziz only grew more irritated. As Aziz began to threaten to kill hostages, Mcmahon began to link the recent events with a phone call he had received from FBI Director Roach, the previous evening.
Roach had explained to Mcmahon that the CIA would be moving some sensitive surveillance equipment into position by the east fence of the White House. In less than a minute, one of Mcmahon's agents had a set of blueprints rolled out on the table before him and was stabbing his finger at the location of a ventilation duct on the South Lawn. As things fell into place, Mcmahon assured Aziz that he would get to the bottom of the thing within five minutes. Mcmahon's next phone call was to his colleague and good friend, Irene Kennedy.
That was when the control room at Langley started to piece together what had happened. Upon receiving Mcmahon's call. General Campbell ordered Harris to send one of his men into the shaft to find out what was going on. Not long after that, the two SEALS were pulled out of the shaft by an electric winch. Nick Shultz had fulfilled the SEAL code of honor of never leaving a man behind in battle, dead or alive.
When the shooting started, Shultz was trailing just far enough behind to be safe from the shots, but within reach of the gear that Craft was pulling behind him by rope. Struggling, he pulled his swim buddy back through the narrow confines of the duct, inch by inch, praying his friend would be alive when they reached the other end. It was all for naught. Craft was dead.
Now, standing at the window of her seventh-floor office at Langley and watching the sun climb into the morning sky, Kennedy wished she could turn back the clock and do it all over again. Do it right, do it the way she had wanted to from the start. Kennedy had promised herself when she got into this business of ordering men into harm's way that she would do everything possible not to become a detached bureaucrat. Seventeen men had died under her watch at Langley, the majority of them in one seriously botched operation. Craft would bring the total up to eighteen, and as with those before him, Kennedy would visit his grave.
A knock on the door pulled Kennedy from her trance, and without turning, she said, "Come in."
The door opened and closed, but whoever had just entered had chosen to stay silent until recognized. Kennedy finally turned and saw a far from jovial Skip Mcmahon standing across from her.
"Skip, I couldn't say anything to you last night. There were far too many people around."
Mcmahon, dressed in a suit and tie, stared her down—his hands on his hips and deep dark circles under his eyes.
"I can't believe you didn't tell me."
"I'm sorry."
Mcmahon shook his head slowly from side to side.
"You and I have never played these games. We always been straight up with each other."
"I know; I apologize. It's just that things happened too fast last night. I wanted to tell you… I asked if I could bring you in on it, and I was told to wait."
"By who, Thomas?"
"It goes higher than that."
Mcmahon frowned skeptically.
"How much higher?"
Kennedy turned away, not entirely comfortable with telling Mcmahon.
Mcmahon reached out and grabbed Kennedy's chin, forcing her to look him in the eye.
"No more games. I want the truth."
Kennedy reached up and pulled his hand down.
"You have to keep it to yourself."
"The hell I do," snapped Mcmahon.
"Don't talk to me like that," chided Kennedy while taking a step back.
"We're friends."
"Well, friends don't let friends get ambushed by hanging them out to dry."
"Skip, this came down from above. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't..
. and I didn't have enough time to convince them otherwise."
"Who authorized those men to go in, and who decided to shut the FBI out of it?" Kennedy sighed and said, "Vice President Baxter."
"That motherfucker!" Mcmahon wheeled away from Kennedy, his fists balled up in anger.
"That arrogant mother fucker. Where in the hell does he get off…"
Mcmahon stopped short of finishing the sentence and strained to regain some composure. Through clenched teeth, he said, "This is an FBI operation. Not the CIA and not the Pentagon. If I am not briefed fully and truthfully by you people, I will march right over to the…"
Mcmahon was cut off by the intercom on Kennedy's desk.
"Dr. Kennedy?"
Kennedy walked over to her desk and pressed the button.
"Yes."
"They are waiting for you in the director's conference room."
Kennedy looked at her watch. It was several minutes past seven.
"We'll be right there." She looked up at Mcmahon and said, "We have to get going, but I want you to promise me you'll keep this to yourself until I have a chance to explain further." Shaking his head, Mcmahon frowned and said, "Nope… I'm gonna go in there and chew some ass."
Kennedy reached out and grabbed his wrist firmly.
"No you are not. There is a lot more, Skip. And if you want to know what is really going on, you keep quiet until the meeting is over."
THEY WERE THE last two to enter Director Stansfield's private conference room. As Kennedy and Mcmahon took their seats, an agitated Director Roach was already letting the others know how the FBI felt about the current situation.
"Horseshit" was the phrase he used to describe the mess the others had created and the lack of professional courtesy they had displayed.
Seated at the head of the table was Director Stansfield. To his left were Vice President Baxter and Dallas King. To the director's right sat General Flood and Director Roach. Mcmahon and Kennedy took seats next to each other on Director Roach's side of the table. It was a small meeting and intended to be so.
FBI Director Roach had paused for a brief moment when Kennedy and Mcmahon entered and then continued, saying, "I can see no valid reason for not informing us that you were sending those men into the building.
It absolutely mystifies me." Roach shook his head.
"Skip and I have already talked about it… we would have agreed with sending them in. I just don't get it."
Vice President Baxter leaned forward and stabbed his index finger into the tabletop. Staring at General Flood, he started angrily, "I did not authorize sending any SEALS through that air duct." Flood looked back at Baxter with barely masked contempt and then turned to Roach. "It's my fault. I was given the authority to conduct surveillance, and we were presented with a unique opportunity."
"I still don't see why you couldn't pick up the phone and call us," said Roach.
Flood sat up a little straighter. He wanted to tell the director of the FBI that he was left out of the loop because the vice president had suggested it, but that was not the way things were done in Washington.
"In the flurry of events that took place early this morning, I made a critical mistake of not informing both of you." General Flood looked to Baxter and then Roach. "I will make sure that it does not happen again."
Both Roach and Baxter grudgingly accepted the general's apology with a nod, but Skip Mcmahon was less cordial. With his gruff demeanor, which was in many ways similar to the general's, Mcmahon placed a big fist on the table and asked bluntly, "What else haven't you told us?"
Flood and Stansfield kept their poker faces fixed, while Baxter and King shared a look that caused Mcmahon to ask the question again.
"What else? You can't send me out there to get blindsided again. I need every advantage I can get over Aziz."
Director Stansfield liked Skip Mcmahon. In many ways he admired him.
This was an unusual situation, however. Mcmahon was under an immense amount of pressure, and he was the person dealing with Aziz—the only person. Aziz had been adamant about that. Stansfield, always thinking a dozen moves ahead, did not like the idea of telling Mcmahon everything.
The older spymaster saw a potential problem. He envisioned Aziz with a gun to a hostage's head making a demand that Mcmahon could not meet. He saw the dangers of telling Mcmahon too much, of putting Mcmahon in a position where he might be tempted to give Aziz some of that information in exchange for the life of a hostage. Stansfield couldn't do that. Rapp was far too valuable a card in this game to start waving around for the other players to see.
Stansfield observed Mcmahon as he stared down Baxter and King, sensing that they knew something. Knowing he had to act fast, before one of them opened his mouth, Stansfield decided to kill two birds with one stone.
"There is something I should tell you." Stansfield reached down next to his chair and grabbed the morning's copy of The Washington Post.
Standing, to further draw Mcmahon's attention away from King and Baxter, Stansfield walked around the table and set the paper in front of Mcmahon. Stansfield pointed to a front-page headline that read "CIA Saves Day by Warning Secret Service."
"How this story ever got to the Post is something that I will deal with later." Stansfield looked across the table and gave Dallas King a knowing look.
"But, in the meantime, I will bring you up to speed on a highly classified subject. We have in our possession certain intelligence that we deem to be highly accurate. That source did in fact provide us with the information that enabled us to alert the Secret Service to a potential attack just minutes before the actual attack took place. That source has also provided us with information pertaining to the demands Mr. Aziz will put forth and the men and equipment he brought with him."
Mcmahon looked up at Stansfield, who had worked his way back to his seat.
"That's how you knew about all of the plastique explosives?"
"Yes."
"What about the demands?"
"That I am willing to share with you, but"—Stansfield again glanced over at Dallas King—"it is extremely confidential information that is not to be passed on to anyone." Looking back to Mcmahon and Roach, he added, "I trust both of you, so I assume you will keep this confidential."
Both of the FBI men nodded, and Stansfield said, "Aziz's next demand will be to ask that the UN vote to lift all economic sanctions against Iraq. He is going to make a slight concession, in an effort to sound reasonable, and state that all san cons regarding weapons of mass destruction may remain in place."
"The UN," started Mcmahon, "can they move that fast?"
"If we want them to, they will," answered General Flood.
"There is one last demand." Stansfield stopped and looked around the room, wanting to hedge his bet just a touch.
"But unfortunately we are still trying to find out what it is."
Mcmahon looked at Stansfield. In all the years that he had been working for the FBI, he had never come across an individual as cool and analytical as Thomas Stansfield—on either his side of the law or the other. The man was impossible to read. Mcmahon turned away from Stansfield and looked immediately to his right to see if he could get anything from Kennedy. He studied her face for even the slightest clue to whether Stansfield was being forthright about the family jewels or if he was still holding out. She stared back at him blankly, just like her boss, giving nothing away.
After several seconds of silence, Mcmahon looked across the table at Vice President Baxter and Dallas King. Before entering this meeting, Kennedy had told him that Baxter had authorized the insertion of the SEALS, but just minutes ago, General Flood had taken the blame for the whole mess. Either Kennedy was lying or General Flood was covering for the vice president. Mcmahon decided to play along until he could get Kennedy alone, and then, he would get to the bottom of the whole thing.
Dallas King took his forefinger and as nonchalantly as possible wiped the bead of sweat that had formed on his upper lip.
He felt as if he were standing in downtown Phoenix at high noon in the middle of July. Every time someone looked at him, he wondered if they knew. Since seeing the photo of his beer-drinking buddy on CNN this morning. King had been an absolute basket case. At first he tried to convince himself that it wasn't the same man. The guy that he drank beers with was named Mike, and he was a student. Mike didn't wear his hair slicked back like the man on the news. King tried to convince himself that it wasn't the same person, but it was futile. As he recollected his relationship with the mysterious Mike, there were too many strange coincidences. For several weeks straight he had run into Mike everywhere he went. Mike had conveniently known all about the Stanford basketball team. King's alma mater.
King closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he remembered the evening they took the late-night tour of the White House. King remembered how Mike had claimed he had an uncle who used to work for the Secret Service under Kennedy. He convinced King to show him the Treasury tunnel, saying that it was originally designed as a bunker during World War II. Mike told King that during the Kennedy administration, the staffers used to sneak women down into bunk rooms off the tunnel and have sex.
And that's exactly what they had done that night. President Hayes was out of town, and King had no problem gaining access for his newfound friend and a couple of hot young ladies. King couldn't believe how unlucky he was. Of the hundreds of people who worked at the White House, this crazy terrorist had to pick him. Squeezing his nose even tighter, he said to himself. How could you have fucked up so bad? The pressure was unbelievable. He needed time to think, time to maneuver.
MITCH RAPP WOKE up to the sound of Milt Adams snoring and a brown ponytail in his face. His left arm was pinned under Rielly's neck, and his right arm was draped across her chest. Rapp lifted his head up and tried to retrieve his right arm. This only spurred Rielly to clutch his arm tighter.
How they had ended up sleeping in this embrace might have seemed a little strange, but the stash room was not particularly spacious. After the debacle earlier in the evening, Rapp had stayed on the radio with Langley until almost four A.M. At that time the FBI was screaming to find out what was going on, and the entire operation was put in a holding pattern.
Kennedy had ordered Rapp to get some sleep, and they would call him with orders in the morning.
Rapp, in turn, had let Langley know how he felt, telling them that if they had allowed him to act when he wanted to, Aziz and the other two terrorists would be dead and one Navy SEAL would still be alive. It was no surprise to Rapp that Langley signed off without responding to his statement. Rapp then forced himself to bring it back down. He had done enough clandestine insertions to know that when you are given the opportunity to grab a couple of hours of sleep, you should take it. Rapp found comfort knowing that the next time he came across Aziz, he would shoot first and ask questions later. There would be no more checking in with Langley for the green light.
Rielly had surprised Rapp by taking his arms and wrapping them around her as they lay down to go to sleep. As he drifted off, Rielly had kissed Rapp's hand and whispered something he didn't quite catch. He was more than a little surprised by the warm feeling the little kiss had given him.
Now, craning his neck away from Rielly, Rapp looked at the secure field radio that was sitting between him and Adams. The overhead light was still on, and he could see just enough of the control panel to know that the radio was still on. Rapp had absolutely no idea how long he had been sleeping. He didn't want to wake Rielly but saw no other choice. Taking his left hand he reached up from under Rielly's neck and pried her hands loose. His digital watch told him it was 7:41 a.m. He'd had at least two hours, maybe two and a half. Rapp figured that was more than enough for now. This was hardly the time or the place to be sleeping in. If Langley wasn't going to call him, he would have to call them and get things moving. RAFIQUE AZIZ WAS showered, shaved, and back in the expensive suit he had worn for his historic visit to the White House. All of his men were still at their posts except one. That man was standing behind a television camera in the White House pressroom. The morning sun spilled in from the windows running along the side of the narrow room. Aziz stood behind the familiar podium at the front of the room and checked his watch. It was nearing eight. Behind him, mounted on a blue curtain, was the White House logo.
Aziz watched his man move from the camera to a control panel at the rear of the room. The man looked up from his position and yelled, "I started the two-minute countdown. All of the networks should be receiving the feed."
Aziz grinned, taking satisfaction that he was about to put into play another part of his ingenious plan. He was going to go over the heads of the military and the FBI once again. Like everything else, this had been planned. He was about to appeal to the American people and thus the politicians only new touch was that he would be able to incorporate the repelling of the early morning raid into his speech. That had got him excited. It had been very close. The hostages and the building were wired to blow, and Aziz had no doubt that any attempt by the Americans to free the hostages would result in a blood bath.
That was a price he was willing to pay. He did not want it to come to that, in the interest of self-preservation, but if it did, he wouldn't hesitate for a second to annihilate everybody, including himself. The speech that he was about to give would serve to make sure that a raid by the FBI would never happen. Aziz had followed American polices closely and watched how the leaders handled conflicts, especially those with his new benefactor.
Aziz had admiringly watched Saddam Hussein mimic the actions and rhetoric of Adolf Hitler. Just like Hitler in the days prior to World War II, Saddam knew how to push, pound, cajole, lie, cheat, and basically do whatever he wanted, right up to the point where his adversaries were prepared to put their foot down. Saddam had turned it into an art form, playing the weak United Nations and the political left in America and Europe for everything they were worth. Continually ignoring everything he had already agreed to, Saddam would flaunt his insolence in the face of the Western powers, and then, just as they were preparing to engage in military action, he would send his envoys to the UN. As the might of American warships and allied air power massed at his borders, he would act defiant until the very end, and then, and only when real action was imminent, he would back down.
Six months later the whole process would start over again, and each time the resolve of the arrogant Western powers would be weakened. Saddam had proven that the American politicians had no stomach for war. They loved their surgical strikes and cruise missiles, but were they really that effective? In Aziz's opinion the answer was no. If one bothered to look beyond the TV clips and sound bites, the damage the surgical strikes caused was minimal.
Aziz was prepared to take a cue from Saddam. In less than a minute he would offer the American people that olive branch, and in turn the stage would be set for his last demand, and his triumphant return to his country.
Aziz looked toward the camera and straightened his tie. He had originally considered giving this speech from the Oval Office, but had decided it would only serve to undermine the entire intent of his plan.
The American people would be livid over him sitting in the president's chair. It had been hard for him to resist the temptation to give the speech from the same place that so many other presidents had addressed the nation, especially since he would have loved nothing more than to rub the faces of the arrogant American public in the fact that he was in control of the White House. But now was not the time to prod and poke.
Now was the time to pull back from the brink and get the politicians working for him.
Aziz's man at the back of the room held up his hands and started the countdown. Aziz placed both hands on the podium, and when the signal was given, he cleared his throat and began to recite his speech from memory.
"It is with a heavy heart that I come to you this morning."
Looking somber and passive, Aziz stared into the camera with his dark eyes and said in perfect English, "I wish the American people no harm and wish for this conflict to come to a speedy conclusion. I apologize to the families of the men and women who have died in this conflict. I know that this will seem empty and hollow to many of you, but you must please understand that this is a war… a war that your military and political leaders have started. I beg you, as a nation, to ask yourselves in front of your God, who has harmed whom in this conflict?"
Aziz stopped and looked into the camera, his face utterly devoid of aggression.
"Since the end of World War Two, the West… mostly you… the Americans and your Israeli allies, has killed over a half million of my Arab brothers. Over five hundred thousand human beings." Aziz again stopped and stared into the camera, wanting to stress this number.
"You sit here in this great nation, with all of your wealth and comfort and technology, and you are numb to the pain and suffering that my people have gone through and continue to go through. I ask you for a moment to put yourself in my shoes, in the shoes of the Arab people.
Who is the bigger barbarian, the terrorist who kills thirty people with a car bomb, or the president who gives the order to kill thousands by sending his air force to do his dirty work?
"This is a question that we will probably never come to agreement on, but it is one that, at the very least, we should understand is a universal tragedy. I have not come to you today to try and place blame, but rather to make the first step in putting all of this behind us. I have come to you seeking peace.
"When this conflict started, I warned your FBI that any attempt to retake this building would be futile. I further warned them that such an attempt would result in the execution of hostages. Despite these warnings, your arrogant FBI tried to sneak a group of their commandos into the building last night. Their attack was repelled, just as I told them it would be, and resulted in the death of an unknown number of their people. I had intended to kill one of your fellow countrymen this morning to punish the FBI and your leaders for their reckless actions ..
. but I have decided to spare that person's life as an example of my good faith. I do not think it is right for an innocent person to pay with his life for the stupidity and arrogance of the small group of warmongers that runs your country.
"It is my sincere hope that we can resolve this conflict peacefully, and it is you, the peace-loving American people, that I am appealing to.
Enough blood has been shed. It is time for us to stop living as enemies." Pausing for a second, Aziz looked down and then back up.
"But before we can do that, America must come to the Middle East peace table as a truly independent advocate, not the big brother of Israel. I have two demands left, and if those demands are met, I will give you back this great house, and the people in it, without further harm. The first of my demands is simple. By six o'clock today, the U.S. must convince the United Nations to lift all economic sanctions against Iraq.
I fully understand the need to keep the blockade in place against materials that would enable Iraq to develop weapons of mass destruction, and I think those provisions should stay in place. My concern is that my Arab brothers and sisters are starving and dying because of a feud between the leaders of the West and the leaders of Iraq. This is wrong, and it should be ended.
"If this demand is not met by this evening"—Aziz's expression turned more stern—"I will be forced to kill one hostage every hour until it is met. Let me state again that any further attempt to free the hostages by force will be met with harsh punishment. With the push of one button, this whole building will crumble to the ground, killing everyone in it."
Aziz continued his glare. "If my demand is met by this evening, I will release half of the remaining hostages, and then I will give you my last demand. If that demand is met"—Aziz shook his finger—"we can spare the innocent people that have been caught in the middle of this conflict, and we can begin mending fences among our two peoples."
Aziz glanced down for a second as if searching for something special.
When he looked back up, he said, "I ask you, as citizens of this great nation, the greatest nation the earth has ever known, to help me make these first steps toward a lasting peace. I wish you all the best and will pray for you. Thank you, and may your God bless you."
Aziz nodded his head once, and his man at the back of the room cut the live feed. Walking quickly to his right Aziz grabbed his MP-5 and yanked at his tie. He started for the Situation Room, where he could gloat over his performance and watch the pundits dissect his every word.
VICE PRESIDENT BAXTER sat with his mouth agape, watching for the second time Aziz's nationally televised address. The heavy armor-plated presidential limousine rocked ever so slightly as it raced across the Chain Bridge on its way from Langley back to the Naval Observatory. A stream of motorcycles, police cruisers, sedans, vans. Suburbans, and two other limousines both preceded and followed the black Cadillac. Dallas King sat next to Baxter on the spacious backseat, his digital phone held firmly to the left side of his face.
King was already on his second call in as many minutes. He was in classic political-crisis mode and happy to be doing something other than obsessing over the imminent demise of his short-lived career. Before Aziz's original address had concluded, King had been punching numbers into his tiny phone and barking out orders.
With one eye on the small color TV in the back of the limo, he nodded his head and then said, "No Don't waste your time asking any of the regular questions. I couldn't care less who they voted for last time or if they plan on voting this time.
I don't want to have to say it again. This is an issue that transcends party lines. I want the nuts and bolts, and I want them within the hour.
We can go back and get specifics later." King stopped talking for a second and listened to the Democratic pollster on the other end. He started shaking his head in frustration.
"You're not listening to me. I don't want you to skew the results… at least not yet. I want to get an honest feel." King listened and nodded.
"That's right. After we take a stance, we can go back and push for the numbers that will back us up, but for now I want to know what they think of this guy." King paused again and looked at the small TV. It had not been lost on King thataziz came off very well on TV, a hell of a lot better than most of the politicians in this town. He was very well spoken, looked sincere, and was movie star handsome to boot.
"Don't forget to get me the splits on the women versus the men. The soccer moms are going to eat this guy up." King paused once again and then said, "Yep, put together a dozen questions and call me back in five minutes."
Pulling the phone away from his face. King pushed the end button and looked to see his boss's reaction to the speech. Baxter's expression had turned from one of surprise to a mysterious frown. King asked, "What do you think?"
"We're fucked," mumbled Baxter without taking his eyes off the TV. "The press is going to go berserk over this failed raid."
Looking at his boss. King thought. You think they're mad about this? just wait until they find out I gave one of them a tour of the building last month. King gathered himself.
"The press will be fine. This story is so big and it's moving so fast this little speech will be old news by tomorrow morning."
"I don't think so," said Baxter, not yet prepared to look at any upside.
"This little incident has 'congressional investigation' written all over it."
King looked at his boss, who was still staring at the TV with a look of defeat on his face.
"This whole thing, from start to finish, has 'congressional investigation' written all over it, and this one incident will be a footnote… Besides, we insulated ourselves from it. General Flood has already taken the blame, and he did it right in front of Director Roach… the man who will eventually investigate the whole thing."
"I don't know… It still stinks."
"The whole thing stinks. You just have to remember, when this is all over, it's gonna be the guy who stinks the least who comes out smelling like a rose." King pointed at his boss.
"And I'm going to make sure that guy is you."
"Dallas"—Baxter grimaced—"I don't think you're being realistic about this. All of this stuff is not just going to be swept under the rug. The press is going to want answers, and they are going to want to know if I authorized sending those men in last night."
King shifted sideways in his seat. He wanted to choke his boss and scream, "If only you had my problems!" Instead in a calming voice, he said for the last time, don't worry about the press. I can handle them.
You need to get your spirits back up and start acting like the president. We're going to have to react to this new development, and if the polls come back the way I think they will, we really might have a chance to squeeze our way out of this mess."
Baxter turned his head toward his aide and asked, "How?"
"I haven't figured it out yet, but I will."
Baxter looked away from King and checked his watch.
Then with a sigh, he said, "I suppose I'd better call a meeting with the National Security Council."
King nodded.
"That would seem to be the next logical step."
Baxter waved his right hand as if shooing away a fly.
"Take care of it."
"When and where?"
Twisting his lips, Baxter gazed out the window and said, "Ten o'clock at the Pentagon."
"YOU KNOW WHAT he's doing, don't you?" Rapp sat with the handset of the secure field radio gripped tightly in his left hand. He stared blankly at the wall in front of him while he listened to General Campbell give his take on Aziz's national address. They had played the speech for Rapp over the radio and had asked if he would like to hear it again. Rapp had declined. He knew exactly what Aziz was up to and didn't need to waste a second more analyzing it.
Rapp nodded in response to what General Campbell was saying and said,
"That's right. He's trying to play you guys for patsies."
"Excuse me," replied the stern ranger on the other end.
"Patsies," repeated Rapp, never one to choose his words too carefully.
"He wants Vice President Baxter and all of the other politicians up on the Hill to roll over and meet him at the bargaining table. Then once he gets what he wants, he'll go back to the Middle East, disappear, and a year from now he'll be building more bombs and killing more people."
"What if he seriously wants to make peace?" chimed in Irene Kennedy.
"It's out of the question," Rapp replied emphatically.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Irene, don't play this game with me. I don't have the time or the patience to sit here and listen to you play devil's advocate. You know as well as I do that Rafique Aziz could give a rat's ass about the American people, or his Arab brothers and sisters, for that matter.
Hell… the only Arabs he cares about are the ones that want to wipe Israel off the map. As far as the rest of us are concerned, he'd slit our throats in a second if we got in his way."
"Then what's he up to?" asked Kennedy.
Rapp sat back, swinging one of his legs out from underneath him as he thought about it. He looked over at Rielly, propped up in the corner with the blanket wrapped around her. She was watching him intently.
Looking away from her, Rapp said, "He's trying to find a way out of this without getting his head blown off. We know he's a meticulous planner.
He thinks everything through from start to finish and prepares multiple contingencies in case things go wrong. As I look at his plan, the one big problem I see is how he gets out of there… how he gets home. We can bank on the fact that he's thought it through every step of the way in terms of how we'd react. And from that, we can assume he knows there would be a strong contingency in the government that would push hard for an all-out raid. Now, if he had gotten his hands on the president, everything would be a little different. My guess is that he was planning to use Hayes as his bargaining chip to get home, but he blew it, and now he's been forced to fall back and use a different plan."
"And what would that be?" asked General Campbell.
Rapp looked up at Rielly while he thought about it. She was still staring at him with those emerald green eyes. He knew she was listening to everything he said, but there wasn't much he could do about it.
Rapp looked away and said, "He trying to manipulate the media and sway public opinion. He knows without the president he's not getting home.
Let's face it—" Rapp paused, feeling somewhat awkward about saying the next part in front of Rielly, but there was really no other way. After clearing his throat, he said, "If you look at the big picture, we all know every one of those hostages is expendable, and if we know it, so does Aziz. If he was to continue an aggressive, hostile position, he would eventually force us to storm the place. There is no way we could just sit by while he killed hostages on national TV So by going in front of the public this morning and putting on this bullshit peace-loving attitude, he's taken the wind out of our sails. Baxter won't let us take action until an effort is made at peace."
"I agree," said Kennedy.
"In the end, he knows every single one of those hostages is expendable.
The president was his trump card, and he didn't get it."
General Campbell added, "He's trying to give the politicians a way out of this mess without firing a shot."
"Well, that's not gonna happen as long as I have a say in the matter."
"Iron Man," stated Campbell in a firm voice. "I don't want you doing anything unless you are authorized. The last thing we need right now is you running around half-cocked. Now, Irene and I have to get over to the Pentagon for a meeting, and in the meantime, we want you to stay put.
When we get back, we'll have a better idea of how we shall proceed. Am I understood?"
Rapp looked down at the floor and held his temper in check. He'd already learned his lesson. Don't ask a question if you're not going to like the answer.
"Yes, sir," was Rapp's simple two-word reply as he placed the handset back in its cradle. Pausing for a second, he looked at the power switch and debated his next move. After about fifteen seconds of indecision he turned off the radio and looked up at Rielly.
Anna Rielly sat passively in the corner with the blanket wrapped tightly around her body. Milt Adams sat in the opposite corner, behind Rapp, and chewed on a granola bar. Rielly continued to stare at Rapp and finally asked, "What was that all about?"
Rapp glanced sideways at her as he began rifling through one of his packs.
"Nothing."
"It sure sounded like something to me," Rielly said.
Listen' Anna you're a reporter. I can't exactly let you in on what's going on."
Rielly smiled.
"Who am I going to tell? What do you think, I'm going to call the station with your radio and give them a live update?"
Rapp grabbed several more granola bars from his pack and held one up for Rielly.
"Here, chew on this." And with a grin, he added, "And stop asking questions."
Rielly took the bar and while she tore the wrapper off asked, "Who do you work for, Mitch Knise, the FBI?"
"Ah… no. Not exactly."
"What are you, then—military?"
Rapp ignored the question and continued looking for something in his pack.
Rielly smiled and said, "Hey, listen, you saved my life. I don't care who you work for." Rielly continued to watch him.
Rapp stared back for a long moment thinking about what he should say.
Finally, he replied, "Anna, if I tell you something off the record, will you promise that you'll never report it? That is, since I saved your life and all." Rapp said the last part with a smile.
Rielly took the question seriously.
"I'm a reporter. Whatever you tell me in confidence will be kept a secret."
Chuckling, he said, "My dad always said, "Don't bullshit a bullshitter."
"Rapp studied an abrasion on Rielly's cheek and a spot of dried blood on her lip. Changing the subject once again, Rapp pulled a penlight from his assault vest and said, "Now, let's see how you're doing this morning." Holding the light up in front of her face, he said, "I want to check your eyes and see how your pupils dilate." Rapp held Rielly by her chin and checked the left eye first and then the right. Both dilated properly, and then he asked her to follow the light as he moved it from one side of her face to the other. Again she checked out fine.
Turning the light off, Rapp gently touched the abrasion on her cheek and asked, "How does this feel?" Rielly frowned and said, "I don't know. How does it look?"
After studying her face for a second, Rapp nodded.
"I'd say considering what you've been through, you look pretty good.
Darn good actually." He meant it.
Rielly smiled slightly.
"Well, in that case I feel fine."
Looking back toward Adams, who was on his second breakfast bar, Rapp asked, "I'd say we have a regular tough girl on our hands."
"I'd say so," replied Adams with a nod for emphasis.
Rapp turned his attention back to Rielly's cheek, and when he got closer to inspect the mark, she said to him, "You know women have a higher tolerance for pain than men."
"So I've been told." Rapp fished a sterile alcohol pad from his first aid kit and tore the small package open. Gently, he started to wipe the dried blood from the corner of Rielly's mouth, and then the light scrape on her cheek.
When Rapp was done, he turned her head from side to side to check for any other cuts. He had not missed the obvious beauty of the reporter. He felt slightly guilty, under the current circumstances, for letting his mind wander, but it couldn't be helped. Her skin was soft and smooth with just the right touch of color. Rapp nudged her chin to the side and noticed a trail of dried blood that ran down the back of her neck. He wiped away the blood and then placed both hands on her scalp. Rielly flinched slightly and pulled away.
"Does that hurt?" asked Rapp.
Rielly nodded, and Rapp said with a smile, "What happened to that high tolerance for pain you were bragging about a moment ago?"
"I don't know, but whatever you just touched hurt like hell."
"Try to hold still for a second. I want to find out how bad the cut is."
Rapp lifted and separated her thick brown hair. The cut ran only about an inch but looked to have broken the first several layers of skin.
Holding one hand on her scalp, he reached behind him and grabbed another sterile alcohol pad.
Without looking, he said, "Milt, would you do me a favor?
Take those blueprints that you brought, and spread them out on the floor."
Rapp wiped the cut several times and then waved his hand over the area to dry the alcohol. Rielly's face twisted in pain.
After a moment, Rapp let her hair fall back down onto her shoulders and sat back on one heel.
"How's that?"
Rielly brought her hand up and gently touched her head.
"I'm fine if I don't move too much." But Rapp noticed the flicker of pain moving across her face when she raised her arm.
"What was that?" asked Rapp.
Gently, Rielly touched her side.
"Something hurts in my side."
"Can you stand up for me?"
"I think so."
Rapp helped her up.
"Does it hurt on the back, the front, or the side?"
She gestured with her hand.
"The back and the side."
"I need to take a look at it. Are you all right with that?" Rielly looked at Rapp's concerned face, and the corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly. Reaching out, she placed her hand on his cheek and said, "If I can't trust you, I don't know who I could." Rapp blushed slightly and said, "Good, then turn around so I can take a look." Rielly did as she was asked, and Rapp lifted up her sweatshirt.
Her skin was a golden olive from her narrow waist up and then the discoloration began to appear. Halfway up her back, on her left side, a red mark about four inches long and three inches wide had started to form. He checked for bright red streaks and found none. Rapp touched the area softly at first, and Rielly showed no sign of pain. Then he pressed a little harder, and she winced sharply.
"Can you take several deep breaths for me?" Rielly did so without pain, and Rapp let her shirt fall.
"It's probably just a bruise, which can still hurt like a bitch, but it's ten times better than having a broken or cracked rib." With a smile, he added, "You must be one tough chick."
Rielly smiled slightly.
"I have a lot of brothers."
Rapp nodded.
"I think you're going to be all right, but then again, I'm no doctor."
"What are you, Mr. Kruse?" asked the persistent Rielly.
Squeezing her shoulder, Rapp said, "I've got some work to do." Turning toward the seated Adams, Rapp said, "Milt I need you to show me every stairwell and elevator that leads from this floor to the third, and from this floor to the first."
DALLAS KING WAS already on his second battery. His digital phone had left his ear only momentarily over the last hour and a half. He walked at a hurried pace next to Vice President Baxter as their entourage moved down the wide hallway of the E Ring at the Pentagon. A slew of serious-looking Secret Service agents surrounded them. King thought the large contingent a bit much; they were, after all, in the Pentagon; but he had other things to worry about. As the group continued forward, the sea of people before them parted as Pentagon employees moved out of the way and clung to the walls while the current commander in chief passed by.
The buzz level was high. Everyone had either seen Aziz's national address or heard about it. Now the natural question was, what would the U.S. government do in response? The answer was actually tied to a lone individual in Omaha, Nebraska. Reginald Boulay was his name, and at this exact moment he was giving Dallas King the results of his Husker Poll.
Boulay had built up his poll over the years and made it into one of the most accurate in the political-consulting business.
And he only supplied it to a few well-paying clients. The numbers from the Husker Poll were never found in the newspapers or on TV. Boulay wasn't in the business to skew results by push polling and a variety of other techniques; he was in it to get the most accurate results possible. And he did it by asking brutally honest questions in plain English. King had decided after talking to two of his regular pollsters, and being irritated at their inability to understand what he wanted, that if there was ever a time to spend money on Boulay and his Husker Poll, now was it.
King nodded as he listened to Boulay relay the results.
Although King had honestly expected them, he was, nonetheless, surprised. They reflected the new trend in America, almost a refusal to judge and condemn. King had sensed it while listening to Aziz's speech and wondered if he was smart enough to know what he was tapping into, or if he was just one lucky bastard.
The handsome King liked what he was hearing from Boulay. According to the Husker Poll, a little over sixty percent of those surveyed felt that Vice President Baxter should exhaust almost all options in an effort to resolve the crisis in a peaceful way. When it came to lifting economic sanctions against Iraq except those involving weapons of mass destruction, the numbers jumped to almost eighty percent. As Boulay had explained it to King, "There's about twenty percent of the population that would just as soon level the White House before giving these terrorists a thing, and nothing you do or say will change that."
King had also expected that. The zealots at either end of the spectrum would always be around. They were not the people you had to worry about.
The rest of the populace was whom he had to keep his eye on—the sixty to eighty percent of the people who were not too far from the middle on any given issue. As a political adviser. King saw it as his job to try and get those people leaning in his direction or, more precisely, to position his boss in the middle of them. That would be his next course of action. After asking Boulay to fax him the results. King ended the call and brought the vice presidential armada to a screeching halt.
Grabbing his boss by the arm, King stopped at the next door on the right and pulled Vice President Baxter over with him. The Secret Service agents were used to this type of semiprivate consultation between their charges and their aides, and without having to say a word, they turned their backs to the vice president and deployed in a protective shell.
King placed a hand on Baxter's shoulder and said in a whisper, "It's just like I thought. Over sixty percent of the people want to see a peaceful resolution to this mess, and almost eighty percent think we should lift the economic embargo against Iraq, just so long as the military embargo is kept in place." Baxter nodded and said, "So we're safe if we push for the UN to raise the sanctions?"
"I think so," said King with confidence.
"Besides, if we can get him to release another third of the hostages, we'll be in a really good position to get some mileage out of this."
Baxter pointed down the hall toward the direction of the room they'd be meeting in.
"They aren't going to like this."
King shrugged.
"They're not going to like anything short of storming the place with a battalion of commandos. Ybu have to prevent that from happening. You have to take the higher moral ground. You have to protect the lives of those innocent hostages."
"What about policy? What about precedence?" Baxter shook his head.
"We think the American people are behind it, but what about the Hill?
There're going to be some hard liners up there who are going to scream bloody murder over this. Hell, some of them are already pissed that we gave them the Iranian money."
"Fuck 'em," snarled King.
"They're gonna hate you no matter what you do, and if you do what they want and send in the troops, you're gonna have a group of hard-liners from the left trying to crucify you." King shook his head.
"You can't please both groups. You have to stay with the majority of public opinion and stick with your base. That's where your protection is."
It was Baxter's turn to shake his head.
"That's comforting.
Public opinion, which you are so infatuated with, is about as predictable as the weather." Baxter continued shaking his head.
"Public opinion is like a mob. It's fine just so long as you can predict where it's going, but the second you screw up and they turn on you… you're screwed."
King looked at his boss, his eyes sagging. He had been working nonstop for the last three days, he was tired, he was sick of hearing his boss whine, and he had bigger problems of his own. "Sherman"—King's face twisted into an expression of contempt—"maybe you should just quit. If you can't see that we have a golden opportunity here to build you up as a great statesman, as the man who saved the day, as the politician who stepped in and brokered the peace during the biggest crisis this nation has faced in possibly"—King paused while shaking his head—"its entire history? Then maybe you really should just let General Flood and Director Stansfield and the rest of the warmongers storm the place, destroy that great building, and kill all of the people in it, and then you can go down in the history books as the butcher who sent fifty Americans to their death because he was afraid to step up to the plate."
Baxter stood silently and looked at his chief of staff. He was not used to being spoken to in such a manner by anyone, not even a peer. This was probably the principal reason why King's words sank in. It was true, Baxter thought to himself. If he wanted to be president someday, which he did badly, more than anything in the world, he would have to stand up and be a leader. Slowly, he started to nod in an affirmation of King's words. GENERAL FLOOD, GENERAL Campbell, Director Stansfield, and Irene Kennedy were all sitting next to each other at one end of the long table of the Joint Chiefs briefing room.
Across from them sat the secretary of defense and the secretary of state, both with one aide. When Vice President Baxter entered, he and Dallas King sat at the head of the table with the other members to their immediate left and right, leaving over two-thirds of the massive table's seats unoccupied. The crisis was wearing on everyone. Eyes were bloodshot, and hands were a little shaky from either a lack of sleep or too much coffee or both.
Vice President Baxter folded his unsteady hands and placed them on the table. His kick in the pants from King had given him a newfound sense of focus and determination. Instead of asking for opinions, Baxter looked to the secretary of state and said, "Charles, I want you to light a fire under the UN's ass and get this vote taken care of before the end of the day."
Secretary of State Charles Midleton bowed his head and asked, "How much pressure may I use?"
"As much as you want. Threaten to veto every resolution midway into the next century, threaten to pull all funding-just do whatever it takes to get the vote passed by the end of the day. Once we get the hostages released, we can always go back later and pass a reversing resolution."
"It might not be that easy," warned Midleton as he adjusted his glasses.
"I don't care. Get it done, and we'll worry about the rest of it later."
Director Stansfield cleared his throat.
"Excuse me. Aren't we getting a bit ahead of ourselves?"
Baxter's head snapped to his left. He wasn't in the mood to debate anything. He was only in the mood to give orders and have them followed.
But now, as he looked across the table at the cool and grandfatherly Thomas Stansfield, his newfound confidence wavered just a touch.
Stansfield was quite possibly the most harmless-looking individual that Baxter had ever met, but the rumors about the old spymaster caused one to think twice before locking horns with him.
Baxter eased back several inches and asked, "How do you mean Thomas?"
"I think it would be prudent if we analyzed what was said and then decided on a course of action."
"I feel that I have all the information I need to make this decision.
Aziz is willing to deal… deal for American lives, and in return we will have to give in and do something that, as humanitarians, we should probably do anyway."
"And what would that be?" asked General Hood in an uneasy tone.
"Stop starving the Iraqi people."
"We," started an irritated General Flood, "are not starving the Iraqi people. Saddam Hussein is starving his own people by refusing to comply with the terms of surrender for a war that, I'd like to remind everybody, he started." Flood stabbed his thick forefinger at the surface of the table.
"We have confirmed intelligence reports that Saddam has funded Aziz with the express purpose of carrying out a terrorist attack on U.S. soil.
With that information how can we even consider asking the UN to lift the sanctions?"
"We don't know for sure if those reports are accurate," retorted the vice president. Thomas Stansfield looked the vice president squarely in the eye and said, "I would stake my entire career and reputation on the validity of that information."
Baxter felt himself losing ground. Leaning all the way back in his chair, he brought his hands up and said, "I'm not going to sit here and defend Saddam Hussein. I hate the man. I find him despicable, but what I want to do is free as many hostages as we can, and then we can go back later and fix things."
"Fix things."
"Flood was getting angrier.
"What if we can't go back and 'fix things'?"
"I think almost everybody will recognize that we were forced to make some decisions under duress. Hell, basically with a gun to our head."
Flood moved his glare from the vice president to the secretary of state, who was sitting directly across the table.
"Charlie, how badly do the French want to get back into Iraq?"
The secretary of state replied without enthusiasm but bluntly, "Badly."
"How about the South Africans?"
"Badly."
"How about Russia?"
"Badly."
"Do you have any reason to believe that after we've opened the gate, they would turn around a week or a month from now and pull back out?"
"I doubt it. They been itching to get the embargo lifted for years, and they're already doing a fair amount of business with them on the sly."
Flood turned back to Baxter.
"It won't be that easy to just reverse course when, and if, this whole mess is resolved."
"I know that there is nothing easy about this. General."
Baxter knew he had to reassert his authority. ""Ybu don't need to explain the obvious to me. My number one concern is the lives of the American citizens that are being held hostage. If I have to change a foreign policy, that isn't even working, to gain their freedom, I will gladly do so." Baxter tilted his head back indignantly.
"You would jeopardize the entire foreign policy and national security of this country for the lives of forty to fifty some people?"
"I think you're being a little melodramatic. General Flood."
"Melodramatic," Flood repeated the word while his face reddened.
"This is a war. Vice President Baxter, and in war there are casualties.
Saddam Hussein has attacked us. He has paid this terrorist, this mercenary"—Flood flipped his hand in disgust—"call him what you want, to come and attack us. Men like Saddam and this Aziz only understand one thing, and that is force. Overwhelming force!"
Baxter looked at the general with scorn for challenging him.
Disagreement was one thing, but this was a show of disrespect.
"General Flood, your opinion has been noted. Now, if we could move on to some other issues…"
"Sir," stated the general loudly.
"If or, more accurately, when it becomes known that Saddam had a hand in this whole mess, the American people are going to want action, and there will be some uncomfortable questions asked of those who were making the decisions."
Baxter's temper began to unravel.
"Are you threatening me. General Flood?"
"No." Flood stared him right in the eye. "I am merely, once again, stating the obvious. We are not the only country in possession of this information. Some of our most faithful allies know what is going on, and they will not sit idly by while we jeopardize their security."
"General Flood," bellowed Baxter, his temper finally getting the best of him. "Do I need to remind you how the chain of command works? I am in charge here." Baxter pointed to himself.
"And I am going to put the interests of those hostages above everyone else's, especially those of another country.
Whether they be an ally or not."
Flood did not flinch, he did not twitch, he did not move a muscle; he simply returned the vice president's stare and said, "First of all, I am very aware of the chain of command, and secondly, I would be derelict in my duty if I didn't inform you that you couldn't be more wrong in ignoring the national security of our allies. Israel has been one of our staunchest. In your effort to find a short-term solution, you are, in my opinion, moving one of our closest allies and possibly this entire nation toward war."
Before Baxter had a chance to come completely unglued and Flood had a chance to elaborate, the door opened and a female naval officer entered.
She apologized to the group and approached Irene Kennedy. The officer handed Kennedy a piece of paper and left.
Dr. Kennedy opened the paper and studied the note. It concerned a little issue completely forgotten about. Desperately wanting to find out what her counterpart had to say, she stood and said, "If you'll excuse me, I need to check on this."
Kennedy waved the note in the air and left the room.
MITCH RAPP HAD everything ready to go. Bringing Adams along had proven to be a big help. Not only because of his knowledge of the building, but also because it gave Rapp an extra set of very capable hands. Adams had just finished showing Rapp the exact spots for a third time. Rapp looked at the layout of the second floor one last time and doublechecked the number When he was done, he had come up with five different locations.
Turning to Adams, he said, "Do you think you can handle the monitor and the devices at the same time?" Adams nodded.
"Yep."
"Good. That'll free me up to keep an eye out for any surprises."
Rapp then grabbed the small fanny pack and took out all of the micro surveillance units except five. Handing the pack to Adams, he pointed at the blueprints and said, "We'll place them in the five locations you suggested. After we put each one in place, we'll check it on the monitor and make sure it's working." Rapp then grabbed the monitor and helped Adams get strapped into it When he was done helping Adams, he began checking out the rest of his gear.
As Rapp slid the bolt on his submachine gun back, Rielly asked, "Is that an MP-Five?"
Rapp looked up, frowning, more than a little surprised that she could even make a guess let alone get the manufacturer correct.
"Close. It's the new MP-Ten. How do you know what an MP-Five looks like?"
"My dad's a police officer in Chicago."
"Oh, that's right."
"What are you going to do?"
"A little reconnaissance."
"Where?"
Rapp placed the submachine gun on the ground.
"You sure do ask a lot of questions."
"I'm a reporter. It's my job."
Rapp frowned and nodded as if he had just been reminded of a particularly bad thing.
Rielly picked up on the expression and asked, "Is there something wrong with that?"
"Normally"—Rapp shrugged his shoulders—"probably not. But under the current circumstances, I can see where we might have a problem."
"And why would that be?"
"Why?" Rapp tilted his head. "Because when this whole thing is over, you will probably have one hell of a story to tell."
"I owe you a lot. I wouldn't report anything that you didn't agree to."
Rapp slid his pistol out of his thigh holster and pulled back on the slide. The cylindrical brass round was where it should have been, and Rapp let the slide go forward.
"What if I don't want you to report a single word of this mess? What if I want you to act like we never met, and none of this ever happened?"
"That's not realistic."
"Well, then we have a problem."
Looking at him, she wondered why he would have to be so secretive.
"Who do you work for?"
"I can't tell you that." Rapp shoved his pistol back in its holster.
"Seriously, I'd like to know."
"And seriously"—Rapp shook his head and opened his eyes wide—"I can't tell you."
"It must be the CIA." Rielly kept her eyes on him, trying to get the slightest hint of a reaction. She got nothing.
"It has to be the CIA, otherwise you could tell me."
"Wrong. Are you a woman of your word?"
"Yes."
Good. Then someday, if we both make it out of here alive, I'll tell you my life story." Rapp smiled, showing a set of long dimples on both cheeks.
Rielly smiled back and nodded.
"So you work for the CIA."
"I never said that," replied Rapp.
IRENE KENNEDY STOOD over the secure phone in General Flood's office and felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. On the other end was Colonel Fine of the Israeli foreign intelligence service, Mossad. Fine had just given Kennedy a brief overview on the three names she had given him the night before. There was no surprising information on the first two terrorists, but the third was an entirely different matter.
Mustafa Yassin was the man in question, and Kennedy was curious. The colonel had come up with three matches on the name Mustafa Yassin. The first was a fifty-seven-year-old officer in the Jordanian army, and the second was an eighteen year-old suspected Palestinian dissident.
When Colonel Fine finished giving the background on the individuals, Kennedy asked, "Could you repeat the info on the last Yassin, please?"
"Sure, but let me caution you, Yassin is a fairly common name over here, so this might not be the same guy. The last Mustafayassin is an Iraqi.
We don't have a lot of information on him, but what we do have all revolves around the invasion of Kuwait. Since then there has only been one update added to his file. According to our intelligence, his alias is the Thief of Baghdad When the Iraqis rolled into Kuwait and started looting, it was this Yassin fellow who they put in charge of breaking into all of the bank vaults."
"What else do you have on him?" asked Kennedy.
"Not a lot, but this isn't the guy I would worry about. My bet is Aziz recruited this eighteen-year-old fellow from Gaza as cannon fodder."
Kennedy looked down at Flood's desk and thought about the possibilities.
"Can you locate him?"
"I already have my people checking on all three. So far I've only been able to confirm the whereabouts of the Jordanian officer."
"I thought you kept close tabs on these dissidents."
"We do" started Fine, "but things are a little stressed over here right now. What is the phrase you like to use?… The natives are restless. We have another indfada on our hands. Aziz seems to have motivated every Palestinian between the age of two and seventy to pick up a rock and protest."
Kennedy had been so focused on the immediate concerns of the crisis that she hadn't thought of the repercussions it might be having abroad. What Fine said made sense, and if they didn't step in and handle things more firmly, it would only get worse.
"Ben, it would be a big help if you could track down this kid as soon as possible."
"I have my best people on it, Irene. I can assure you of that."
"Thank you, Ben. Is there anything else?"
"Well…" There was a four-second pause.
"The word on the street is that you grabbed Sheik Harut, the night before last."
"Where are you hearing that?"
"Several sources, actually. The Huns are all guessing it was either you or me, and since I know it wasn't me, then it must be you."
"I'm not in a position to discuss that matter right now, but I can assure you when I know anything about it, you will be briefed fully."
Fine didn't say anything for a long while and then said, "Irene, this is uncomfortable for me, but there are those in my government who are very unhappy with the way this crisis is being handled."
Kennedy turned around and sat on the edge of General Flood's desk. There were many that, put in her shoes, would simply have told the colonel that the U.S. was doing just fine managing the crisis, and that it would appreciate it if its allies would keep their opinions to themselves.
Fine continued.
"It is our fear that you may make a short term decision that could be catastrophic to Israel's interests." Kennedy thought about Fine's words honestly and refused to let nationalism seep into her thought process.
There was no doubt that Israel had a lot on the line, and it didn't take a Rhodes scholar to figure out how they "would like the crisis resolved.
Kennedy usually stayed out of this type of discussion, but in the current situation, and considering her own frustration with Vice President Baxter, she felt it prudent to try to assuage some of Fine's fears. She also knew that whatever she said would be relayed up to the highest levels of the Israeli government, "Ben, people like us don't make policy; we only advise.
Having said that, however, I can assure you that at every juncture of this crisis, there have been those of us who have forcefully stated our concerns over our relationship with your country—our concern that we don't lose focus on our long-term commitment to Israel's security and stability in the Middle East."
Fine again digested the comments in silence and then added tensely,
"There are those in my government who are very nervous." Pausing, again Kennedy could hear the stress in his breathing.
"There are many who don't like the fact that you are dealing with Aziz… that you have done an about-face on your position of not negotiating with terrorists."
Kennedy chose her words carefully.
"There are many in my own government who do not like this change in policy, but this is an extremely difficult situation."
"Who has made these decisions to negotiate?"
"Ben, you are moving into an area that I am not comfortable discussing."
"Well, then let me say this last thing. We have a good idea where this is headed, and we will do whatever it takes to protect our own security." Fine stopped and then repeated himself.
"Whatever it takes."
"I understand," replied Kennedy. The colonel couldn't have been clearer, and Kennedy knew that he had been told what to say by someone above his pay grade. Quite possibly the prime minister himself.
"Is this something that I should pass on as an official or unofficial position of your country?"
"It has always been our position that we will do whatever it takes to protect ourselves."
"Then why the need to remind me?"
"Because," started Fine,"this is an unusual situation, and we would not want anyone to question where Israel stands on this issue."
"Fair enough, Ben. I will make sure that your position is well known."
Running a hand through her hair, she added, "I need to check on some things. Could you do me a favor and let me know just as soon as you track down your eighteen year-old dissident?"
"Of course. When can I expect to hear more about Sheik Harut?"
Kennedy knew she had to give him something or at least the promise of something.
"You can expect me to brief you fully when I have a chance to take a breath." Kennedy intentionally let loose a tired sigh.
"I understand. Please keep me informed, and I will do the same."
"Thank you, Ben." Kennedy kept the phone in her hand and disconnected the call by pressing the button in the cradle.
Quickly, she punched in seven numbers, and when the person on the other end answered, she asked to be connected to a certain location via code word. Approximately twenty seconds after that Dr. Hornig was on the phone.
"Jane," started Kennedy, "I need you to ask Harut what he knows about one of the terrorists named Mustafa Yassin.
Specifically, ask him if Yassin is a teenage Palestinian or an Iraqi."
"May I ask what this is all about?"
"I can't really get into it right now; I just need some verification."
"All right. I'll see what I can do."
The door to General Flood's office opened, and the general himself entered with General Campbell and Director Stansfield. Kennedy turned away from them and said, "I have to go. How long do you think it will take to get the info?"
"I don't know… We seem to be losing him a bit."
"How do you mean?" asked Kennedy as her face twisted into an expression of concern.
"The techniques we use are not exactly beneficial to the long-term health of the human brain."
"You mean you're losing him as in, he's turning into a vegetable?"
"Crudely put, yes… but we have extracted an extraordinary amount of information. I have found out some very interesting things that will give us terrific insight into the minds of—"
"That's fine, Jane," Kennedy cut Hornig off, "but I really need you to ask him those questions about Yassin. And the sooner I get the answers the better. I have to go now. Call me as soon as you get anything." With that Kennedy hung up the phone, just as General Flood made his way around the back side of his desk.
Flood looked at Kennedy and asked, "What's wrong now?" Kennedy exhaled and said, "We might have a problem."
"What kind of problem?" asked Flood.
Looking across the room, Kennedy placed her hands on her hips and said,
"I'm not sure, but I hope to know more within the hour. "Then looking to her boss, she said, "Colonel Fine passed on a little message for us."
Stansfield nodded knowingly and said, "I was beginning to wonder when they would weigh in."
Kennedy walked over to where Stansfield and Campbell were standing.
"He said that they will do whatever it takes to protect themselves."
Approaching the group several steps behind Kennedy, Flood pronounced,
"Good for them. At least someone is sticking by their guns in this mess."
"What happened after I left?"
The group settled into their seats, and General Flood began to recount for Kennedy the strategy laid forth by Vice President Baxter. Judging from the facial expressions around the room, even Thomas Stansfield's, it was clear what was thought of the vice president's plans. It seemed as if things were only going to get worse.
THE DOOR WAS so hot in one spot that warch could only touch it for a second or two at a time. He took this as a terrible sign. That, and the fact that nightfall had come and gone and there had been no abatement in the drilling. Things were getting bleaker by the moment, and you could see it on the faces of the tired agents.
To make matters worse for the Secret Service agents. President Hayes had done the unthinkable. He had ordered all of them to place their weapons on the small table near the kitchenette. The president made it clear that there were to be no acts of bravado. That they would surrender without a shot. In Hayes's opinion, if the terrorists got the door open, there was no sense in further bloodshed. At that point the battle would be over.
Warch had tried only once to change President Hayes's mind, but it was to no avail. Hayes was steadfast in his decision that there would be no more bloodshed. As Warch stood by the vault door, Hayes came over. The president placed his hand on the door.
"It's getting warmer."
"Yep," answered Warch.
"Any bright ideas?"
"Nope."
Hayes gestured for Warch to follow him. They walked over to the couches and sat, Warch on the love seat, and Hayes on the couch. Hayes looked at Warch and said, "Jack, stop beating yourself up. There's nothing else we can do."
"It's not in my personality to give up, sir."
"Well, that's admirable, but I just want you to know that I appreciate everything you and your men have done."
"Thank you."
A question had been burning in Warch's mind since the attack. With the president in such a complimentary mood, Warch decided to ask it.
"Sir, who was that prince, and how did he get in to see you?"
Hayes had thought long and hard about this over the last two days, and he kept going back to his meeting in the Situation Room three nights ago. The meeting where he had authorized the abduction of Fara Harut. In that meeting he had seen a black-and-white photograph of Rafique Aziz.
It was an old one, but the eyes had left an impression on him. The face was different, but there was something about the eyes that made him think it was Aziz.
"I can't be sure, but I think it might have been Rafique Aziz. Or if it wasn't, it was one of his people." Warch nodded. "I told you about the call I got from Irene Kennedy, right before the attack." Hayes nodded.
"Well, I've never seen a photo of Aziz, but whoever that man was standing in the Oval Office, I didn't like the look in his eye."
"I've seen a photo of him, but it was old."
"Sir, I'll understand if you don't want to answer this question."
Warch looked at the president to see if he was open.
Hayes nodded for Warch to go ahead.
"I have my suspicions, but I'd like to know for sure… What did these terrorists hang in front of the DNC to entice them into getting a face to-face meeting with you?"
Hayes thought for a moment. It was ingrained in his political instincts to avoid answering this question. He had worked on the Hill for twenty-plus years, and the only thing that was as certain as hot summers in Washington was congressional investigations. And when this whole thing was over, they would see an endless stream of investigations, reviews, and reports. If recent history had taught Hayes anything, it was that the cover-up usually created more problems than it solved. If national security wasn't on the line, it was best to get everything out in the open. For this mess, that would damage the party—how much was anyone's guess—but it was better than dragging the whole thing out for years.
The politics of greed had shown its ugly head in the worst of ways, and because of it they were now in this fix. Hayes knew what was the right thing to do, and it was probably better to do it now, while he felt a sense of honor, because, God only knew, if he waited until he was out of this, he'd have a room full of lawyers and consultants telling him to keep his mouth shut and say nothing. Feeling indebted and unusually forthright, Hayes began to tell warch what had happened.
AZIZ GRINNED FROM ear to ear as he watched the pundits, experts, and analysts go over every word of his speech to the American people. He had changed back into his fatigues and was sitting in the Situation Room. He now sat, remote control in hand, simultaneously watching six TVS, with his feet up on the long conference table. He was spending more and more of his time with MSNBC on the main screen, but whenever he saw someone on one of the other stations with a title such as former FBI agent, or counterterrorism expert, he couldn't resist switching to that station.
The analysis was almost exactly as he thought it would be.
For every law-enforcement type, there was a former State Department official, politician, journalist, or religious leader that would talk of a peaceful solution to a horrible situation. His favorite comment so far had come from some Baptist minister who had noted an incredible amount of religious tolerance on the part of mr. Aziz in his acknowledgment of "our Christian God."
They were literally falling all over themselves in an attempt to make it sound as if a nonviolent end to the crisis was within sight. They were saying things like, "The ball is now in Vice President Baxter's court.
If he wants to find a way out of this horrible siege, this will probably be his best chance."
Aziz loved it. The pressure was a reality. It was no longer something he hoped he could elicit. If things went as planned, he would be in a perfect position for his final demand and his triumphant return to the Middle East. The U.S. would meet his most recent demand. Most of its allies would just as soon begin trading with Iraq again. As long as military hardware and technology were off the table, the deal was palatable to all but Britain and Israel.
Aziz confidently rubbed his chin as he thought of the moment when the vault door would be opened, the moment he looked into the eyes of a defeated president of the United States—the sheer joy of being able to gloat over President Hayes, hold a gun to his head, and watch him cry.
After he had broken Hayes and made him think his life was about to end, he would show him the slightest ray of hope, and slowly, he would reveal to him how there was a peaceful way to resolve the entire crisis. Then he would change back into his suit and shock the world by going on national TV with President Hayes.
The endless parade of military personnel and Secret Service agents who had sworn on their reputations that the president was safe in his bunker would be embarrassed and shamed. They would be shunned in favor of the politicians who could broker the safe release of the president and the hostages. Aziz was relishing his exceedingly favorable luck when an image on one of the TVS caught his attention. His feet were off the table in a second, and the remote control was pointed toward the main TV like a gun. As the channel changed, the unmistakable image of Sheik Fara Harut took center stage.
Aziz's eyes widened as he listened to the anchor on NBC talk about reports out of the UN that Iran was protesting the abduction of an Islamic cleric. A moment later a woman appeared on the TV Aziz listened to the anchor say, "We're fortunate to have with us Sheila Dunn from The Washington Post. Sheila, you wrote an article that appeared on the front page of the Post this morning. Can you explain how that article might tie in with this most recent development between Iran and the UN?"
"Yes." Dunn looked seriously into the camera.
"I have it from the highest sources that the CIA alerted the Secret Service that the White House was targeted for a terrorist attack. It appears that this warning was given with just minutes to spare."
The anchor leaned forward, placing his elbow on the desk.
"How do Sheik Harut and Iran figure in this?"
"Well, Iran has filed a grievance with the UN stating that a group of commandos from a foreign country carried out a mission in the Iranian town of Bandar Abbas three nights ago that left dozens dead and Sheik Fara Harut missing. Sheik Harut is the spiritual leader of the group Hezbollah, and he and Rafique Aziz are very close. So it stands to reason that the CIA obtained the advance information of the attack from Sheik Harut."
"Do we know what role, if any, the CIA played in this raid?"
"No." Dunn shook her head, acting as if she was really disappointed.
"Both the Pentagon and Central Intelligence Agency have refused comment on the subject."
Aziz turned the television off. He would make them pay. The connection had been made, and there was no way they could lie their way out of it.
Someone would die for this.
Abruptly, Aziz turned and started for the door.
A SPECIALLY OUTFITTED U.S. Army Black Hawk helicopter ferried Kennedy, Stansfield, General Flood, and General Campbell from the Pentagon to Langley When they arrived in the control room on the seventh floor, they all stood in silence while they looked up at the wall of monitors. One of the watch officers had called Kennedy and warned her what was happening. In truth, it didn't surprise her. If she hadn't had so many other things on her mind, she probably would have predicted it.
Thomas Stansfield stood, impassive, looking at the large wall, taking in the tiny images. General Flood and General Campbell were a different matter, however. They were men who were used to giving an order and having it followed to the letter—and almost always without question. In this particular situation General Campbell couldn't have been more specific.
He had told Rapp in very clear English that he was to stay put until further notice.
In addition to the monitor that showed the inside of the president's bedroom and the one that showed It. Commander Harris's makeshift command post, four more monitors now showed images. They said it all. Those screens didn't come to life all on their own, and since Mitch Rapp was the only person capable of installing them, it was obvious that he had directly disobeyed General Campbell.
Kennedy looked at one of the watch officers sitting in the back row.
"Have you tried to raise him?"
"Repeatedly."
"Any luck?" Kennedy knew the answer before the man started to shake his head. Director Stansfield walked toward the front of the room so he could more closely examine the monitors. He tried looking at the monitors both with and without his bifocals. Two of them covered staircases. The old director knew from memory which ones they were. The other two monitors covered the wide main hallways that cut east-west across the second and third floors. As Stansfield was watching, a fifth monitor came on-line. This one showed a staircase that he was not familiar with. The row of technicians and analysts to his left began talking in earnest as several of them hurriedly flipped through books about the White House. After about twenty seconds one of them pronounced that the staircase in question was the one that led from the third floor to the roof.
Stansfield looked from the monitor back to the rear of the room to find General Flood and General Campbell engaged in a heated and animated discussion. Watching the two generals talk, Stansfield's face maintained its always neutral expression.
His discerning mind was, however, busily extrapolating the problems, complaints, and solutions that this most current bump in the road would create. In a matter of seconds Stansfield had the solutions formed, filed, and ready to be stated in his always unambiguous fashion. Slowly, he started back up the stairs.
When he reached the two generals, he placed a hand on General Flood's shoulder and said, "Let's go to my office where we can talk."
Stansfield started for the door and gave Kennedy a look that told her to join them. The group proceeded through a locked and guarded door, down a ramp, and then onward to the director's corner office. As soon as Stansfield heard his soundproof office door close, he knew what was about to happen—and it did. "This is absolutely unacceptable," stated a barely restrained General Campbell. "I gave him a direct order! I don't care how good his reasons may or may not be; this is bigger than him, and we cannot have him running around doing whatever he wants, when he wants!"
Stansfield turned around to face Campbell. Kennedy, the last one to enter the room, stopped midway between her boss and the generals.
Stansfield nodded slowly, acknowledging Campbell's complaint.
With his jaw clenched, Campbell continued, "I ordered him to stand down because I knew we would be out of the loop for at least an hour. What happens if he gets caught… if he kills one of Aziz's men? We need to be here." Campbell pointed at the ground.
"We need to be monitoring every little move, so if the shit hits the fan, we can give the order to move."
Campbell was so upset it seemed that his bristly flattop was standing even more upright than usual.
"Your boy needs to start following orders, or I swear to God—" The stocky ranger stammered for a second, his neck veins bulging. Campbell didn't finish the thought, but it was obvious to all that he was thinking of physical confrontation.
Stansfield nodded slowly in an effort to validate Campbell's anger.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered who would actually win that fight. Campbell, although twenty years Rapp's senior, was not a man to be trifled with. Shifting his gaze from Campbell to Flood, Stansfield asked, "Would you like to add anything?"
Flood shook his sizable head.
"There's nothing left to say.
It's a no-brainer. Rapp is wrong, and he needs to be reeled in."
Stansfield digested Flood's comments. They were every bit as warranted as Campbell's. The director of central intelligence walked around his desk and looked out the window for a brief moment. The day was as it had been for the last two, sunny and bright. Turning back to the generals, Stansfield said, "We have a difference of opinion, gentlemen. I'll tell you what I see. I see a man who is trained to act on his own. A man who is used to spending days if not weeks in the field without the aid or interference of his country. Mitch Rapp is not a soldier, and he most definitely is not a politician. His ability to know when to take risks, when to push ahead, when to pull back, is uncanny. Its, quite honestly, the best I've ever seen. He thrives in this environment where every decision could mean life or death."
Stansfield paused for a moment and then in an almost academic tone continued, "He has a much clearer picture of the tactical situation, not only because he is on-site, but because he is not distracted by all of the things that we are." For clarity, he added, "Most notably, he doesn't have to deal with Vice President Baxter."
Clutching his hands in front of him and then letting them fall to his side, Stansfield continued, "Now, with all due respect, gentlemen, you know I think very highly of both of you, but you must understand, Mitch is not a soldier. He has been trained from day one to think independently. If you want to get mad about this, which you have every right to, then get mad at me. He is my responsibility."
Stansfield stopped just long enough to make it seem as though he was giving them a chance to reply and then said, "We've made a mistake with you two." He pointed to Campbell and Kennedy. "I don't want you attending any more meetings.
I want you right here monitoring Rapp and his progress.
There are too many meddlesome issues that General Flood and I can handle. I want you two focused on Mitch and how best to aid him. He is our eyes." The elderly spymaster looked from Campbell to Kennedy and back.
"The way I see it… he's doing exactly what we sent him in there to do.
Now, General Campbell, if you want to go in there, and get Mitch on the radio, and read him the riot act, that's fine. That is undoubtedly your prerogative, and I'm not going to stand in your way. But, it won't do us a bit of good, because he won't listen."
Stansfield could see that his words were getting to Campbell. The ranger's demeanor had calmed ever so slightly.
"What I would propose is that I have a talk with him and explain how important it is that he communicate his every action so we can deal with something if it comes up."
Before Stansfield could start his next sentence, the large phone on his desk started to ring. Stansfield looked down to see where the call was coming from. On the small screen were a string of letters that caused his brow to knot into a frown. The light on the secure phone continued to blink and Stansfield debated whether he should answer it. After two more rings his frail hand moved slowly toward the receiver.
THE AMBULANCE FOUGHT its way through the late morning traffic. Downtown D.C. was a quagmire. The security perimeter around the White House had been expanded from two to three blocks to the north, east, and west. To the south, Constitution Avenue had been blocked off, and the section of the National Mall between Seventeenth and Fourteenth was also closed.
The normally congested downtown was unbearable.
The driver of the ambulance inched forward on Pennsylvania Avenue. In his side mirror he could see the large dome of the Capitol, and in front of him, a sea of cars locked in gridlock trying to make their way into the heart of the business district and around the White House. Salim Rusan was surprisingly calm. Part of this was due to his faith in Aziz's plan, and part of it was due to the fact that he would much rather be stuck in traffic than stuck in the White House.
The ambulance was the last car to make it through the stoplight at Ninth Street. The monolithic Hoover Building appeared on his right—the famed FBI headquarters. Rusan did not smile. It was not in his personality. He was more like Bengazi than Aziz. He was a worrier, and that was why Aziz had chosen him for this crucial mission. R-usan was both the backup plan and the surprise. Depending on how things went, he was to do one of three things. The first was easy and harmless, and despite what Aziz had told the men, Rusan seriously doubted that option would ever present itself. It would be either the second or the third plan that would have to be executed, and both of those would lead to death. Rusan was sure of it. Not just the death of his comrades, but the hostages, the American FBI agents, and hopefully hundreds of others.
Rusan's only hope was that in the chaos that would erupt when the Americans tried to retake their White House, he could further add to the confusion and buy some of his friends the time to get away. Rusan thought he had a chance to survive.
The plan for his escape was good, well thought out, and just might work.
It was unnerving, nonetheless, to be heading back into the center of the crisis, to the spot where, just three days earlier, he had fired from the roof of the Washington Hotel and killed a dozen-plus Americans. The boldness of the plan was what gave success a chance. Practically every law-enforcement officer in the world was looking for him. The old him, he corrected himself. They would never make the connection between Salim Rusan, the dark-haired Islamic militant terrorist, and Steve Hernandez, the openly gay paramedic from Miami. No, he would continue to inch his way toward the White House, taking his time. When he reached the first roadblock, he would hit the lights on the roof, roll down the window, and tell the D.C. police that he had been told to come down in case they needed him. Aziz had told him it was standard procedure for this type of crisis. He would be one of dozens of ambulances waiting to rush people to the hospital if the need arose.
Rusan had time. The American assassins did not show their faces when the sun was out. They would wait until it was dark, and ifaziz's timetable was right, they would come either tonight or tomorrow. As long as he had everything in position within an hour or two after the sunset, he would be fine. DEEP IN THOUGHT, Anna Rielly sat, feet pulled close, arms wrapped around her shins, and her chin resting in the valley between her knees. Her shoulder-length brown hair was pulled back in its ponytail again. The long sleeves of President Hayes's black sweatshirt were rolled up several times. She was comfortable, warm, and had a little bit of food in her stomach along with two Tylenol 3s, which helped dull her aching jaw and ribs. All things considered, she was doing pretty darn well.
How strange life could be, she thought to herself. One week ago she was in Chicago working at the station, living in her apartment in Lincoln Park. She was ready for a change, in both her career and her personal life. Since the rape, things had been jumbled. There had been the boyfriend who couldn't handle what she had been through. He was a pharmaceutical rep, and when offered a promotion and transfer to Phoenix, he jumped at the chance and told Anna he couldn't love someone who couldn't love him back. She'd blamed herself for that one until she was healthy enough to realize that if he had really loved her, he would have given her more than seven months to recover.
It had actually turned out to be a blessing. Spending the last several years alone had allowed her to grow in strength.
Independence and self-reliance were great things. The best part about them was that the only person who could let you down was yourself. The down side, which she was now experiencing, was that you woke up one day and realized you had either pushed everybody away or not allowed anyone to get close enough. Either way, you were left with a lonely existence.
Rielly thought fate had to figure into the equation somewhere.
It always did for those large and defining moments in life. What kind of twisted fate had led her to this strange moment, this crossroad? If she hadn't gotten the job as the new White House correspondent, if she had missed her flight to D.C." if her alarm had failed to wake her up three days ago, if she had been released with that first group of hostages, if that pig hadn't dragged her up to the president's bedroom? Rielly's eyes got big. If Mitch Kruse, or whatever his real name was, hadn't stepped in when he did? Wow, Rielly thought as a shiver ran up her spine. The thought of Kruse not showing up when he did was horrifying. She owed him a lot. More than she could probably ever express.
Rielly stared blankly at the wall opposite her. Her thoughts settled in on the man named Kruse, and on the odds of him appearing exactly when he did and all of the possible outcomes in between. It was staggering. Call it fate, call it a guardian angel, call it what you like, but someone or something had stepped in and put him there at that exact moment in time.
A smile fell across Rielly's face, and she looked upward to say a little prayer of thanks.
BEFORE PICKING UP the phone, Stansfield told Kennedy to listen in on a second phone located on the other side of the room. He then asked Generals Flood and Campbell to stay silent. Stansfield's hand reached down and picked up the handset.
At the same time, he sank into his chair and brought the phone to his ear.
"This is Director Stansfield."
At first there was only breathing, heavy breathing, and then the words hissed forth. "I know all about you. Who you are, what you've done, and all of the people you've sent your minions to kill."
Stansfield looked down again at the readout on his phone.
The black letters said, "WH Sit Room." The hostile voice he recognized as that of Rafique Aziz, and it didn't even come close to riling the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Instead, Stansfield leaned back and asked, "What can I do for you, Mr.
Aziz?"
"Do for me," spat an obviously agitated Aziz.
"You can tell me what you have done with Fara Harut!"
It was a statement made with confidence; Stansfield was sure of that.
The director stayed cool and replied, "I have no idea what you are talking about."
"Don't insult me," screamed Aziz.
"I know what you have done, and I want to know where Fara Harut is immediately, or you are going to have more dead hostages on your hands!"
Aziz was screaming so loud that Flood and Campbell could hear him from where they were standing. The two men stepped forward while Stansfield replied, "It is not my intention to insult you. I sincerely have no idea what you're talking about."
"You are a snake," screamed Aziz.
"I should have known better than to have thought for a second that you would give me the truth! I swear I will make you pay for what you have done!"
Aziz was now yelling so loud Stansfield pulled the phone away from his ear and listened to Aziz ramble from a more comfortable distance of six inches.
The voice squawked from the earpiece.
"You give me the truth right now, or I will walk down the hall and put a bullet in the head of one of the hostages, and when I come back, if you do not have an answer for me, I will go back and kill another, and I will keep doing it until you tell me what you have done with Fara Harut!"
"Mr. Aziz," replied an unflinching Stansfield, "I have no idea what you are talking about. If you would tell me what has got you so angry, I will do my best to find out where Fara Harut is."
"Don't toy with me! I know who you are, and what you do! You are a liar and a murderer of innocent women and children!"
Stansfield sat calmly in the chair, the phone still held several inches away from his ear. He had to think quickly, and he had to get Aziz to back down.
"Well, Mr. Aziz, if that's the way you feel about me, we must have a lot in common. "Without giving Aziz a chance to reply to the shot, Stansfield continued, "By the way, I must commend you for your speech this morning. It really played well with the politicians. I tried to advise them that you were not serious. That you were performing. To and for what, I have not yet figured out, but I have my ideas."
"Silence!" screamed Aziz.
"I want to know where Fara Harut is immediately, or someone dies!"
"Mr. Aziz, you don't want to do that, and this is why."
Stansfield glanced up at the two generals for a second and then said,
"Right now you've done a very good job making certain people in my government think that you have turned over a new leaf and that you are a man who will actually keep his word. Myself and several others know this is all a sham. If you kill another hostage, I will take a tape of this conversation to the vice president and I will leak it to the media so everyone can hear that you are truly not the man you tried to portray yourself as this morning. And then… well… you know our rules of engagement. You were lucky we didn't storm the place after you killed National Security Adviser Schwartz and his secretary. If you start killing hostages again, we will be left no alternative other than to retake the building… and that of course means you will die."
"Your men will die!" screamed Aziz.
"You are a bigger fool than I thought. I will blow this whole building sky high and all of the hostages with it."
"And you will die also, which just happens to suit my needs perfectly.
Things will be much easier if you cease to exist." Stansfield leaned back in his chair.
"You are threatening the wrong man, Mr. Aziz, and you know? it." Now came the time to lie, to really make Aziz think that he was everything Aziz thought he was and then some.
"I could not care less what happens to the hostages. I just want to make sure that you and your wretched comrades are dead when this whole thing is over. If we have to lose forty or fifty hostages to mount your head on the wall… its a small price to pay."
"I am not afraid to die! Even if I die, I will have won!"
"I don't think so," replied Stansfield in his calm analytical voice.
"You see, after you have killed yourself, we will pluck President Hayes, and quite a few others, out of the rubble, and you will have ceased to be a problem. We will rebuild the White House in six months, and everything will return to normal."
Aziz was enraged, but he knew that Stansfield had him boxed in. For now at least, but, oh, the surprise they would be in for when their president wasn't so safe. Now was not the time to push things; no matter how much Fara Harut meant, Aziz could not do anything to precipitate an attack by the Americans until he had the president in his hands. Aziz would have to swallow his pride and make a tactical retreat. His ego, however, was far too large to do so without taking a parting shot. "You are too sure of yourself, Mr. Stansfield." Aziz spoke in a low ominous tone.
"Things are not always as they appear. We will talk again this evening, and by then you had better know where Fara Harut is."
With that the line went dead. Stansfield set the phone back in its cradle and looked up at the two generals. General Flood asked, "What in the hell was that all about?"
Stansfield glanced up at Kennedy as she walked across the large office.
"He knows Harut is gone and thinks we have him."
"I got that part of it. What was the rest of it about?"
"He said if I didn't tell him right away where Harut was, he would kill a hostage."
"And that's when you decided to play chicken with him?" asked Campbell.
Stansfield shrugged his shoulders. It was hardly the phrase he would have used to describe his method.
"I took a risk. I obviously don't want to see any of those hostages killed. All I did was give him the answer that fits his belief of who I really am." Stansfield rubbed his forefinger under his chin.
"And he blinked."
Kennedy placed both hands on her hips and frowned.
"There was more to it than that, Thomas. He didn't just blink, he rolled over and showed you his belly, and did it way too fast.
It was out of character."
"Maybe he's getting tired?"
Kennedy shook her head.
"No, there's something else going on. Something I haven't told you about yet because I wanted to check on a few things before I got everybody worried."
Kennedy moved her hands from her hips and folded them across her chest.
"I picked up something in Aziz's voice.
When you"—Kennedy pointed to Stansfield—"told him that he would be doing us a favor by killing himself, because when it was all over we would pull President Hayes from his bunker and so forth…" Kennedy made a rotating motion with her finger.
"When you were finished, the first thing he said in response was, "You are too sure of yourself, Mr. Stansfield.
Things are not always as they appear." Did you notice the tone in his voice?" Kennedy looked at her boss hard and gave him a second to recall what Azizs words had sounded like.
She continued, "He sounded like he knew something that we didn't."
Stansfield looked at her as if she was reading a little too far into things, and she responded, "Let me fill you in on some other information first, and then it might make more sense." Stepping toward her boss, Kennedy looked up at the generals and said, "That phone call I received from Colonel Fine this morning was in regard to three names he was checking for me. Three names we got from Harut. One of the names had three matches The first was an officer in the jordanian army, and he's already been ruled out. The second, and we thought the most likely, was an eighteen-year-old Palestinian kid with suspected des to Hamas. And the third was a man known as the Thief of Baghdad. It turns out the third of the three Mustafa Yassins is the Iraqi who was in charge of looting all of the banks and vaults after they invaded Kuwait."
General Flood shook his head.
"It's obviously the second one, Irene."
"It could be," conceded Kennedy with a nod, "but what if it's the third one? What if Aziz brought along this Thief of Baghdad, knowing there was a good chance the president would get to his bunker? What if, at this very moment, this man is working on getting the president out of his bunker?"
Kennedy stopped and looked each man in the eye, one at a time, while she gave them a chance to think about it.
"What if Aziz said to Thomas, "You are too sure of yourself. Things are not always as they appear," because he knows President Hayes is not as safe as we thought?" Everyone's eyes got a little bigger as Kennedy finished stating her case. General Flood looked down at Stansfield and said, "I think this is something we need to bring to the attention of the vice president."
Stansfield stared back at him blankly for a while and then said, "Not quite yet. We need a little more proof before we go to him."
"Well, how do we get that proof?"
"I have a pretty good idea," Stansfield replied with a nod.
RAPP BACKED DOWN the long cross hall of the second floor. Each step was placed carefully. Heel first and then toe.
The cross hall, which was more a long room than a hallway, was brightly bathed in the late morning sunlight. Rapp and Adams, dressed in their black Nomex jumpsuits, stood out against the light-colored walk and carpet. They felt secure, though. Having been out of the stash room for over an hour, they had placed all five of the surveillance units and checked each one to make sure it was working. At no time during their sweep did they see or hear a sign of the terrorists. Even when they checked out the back staircase that led to the rooftop guard booth, there had been nothing. With the units in place, Rapp felt infinitely more comfortable, now that he had a secure base from which to operate.
How they felt back at Langley would be a different matter, entirely.
Rapp had known this before he stepped out of the stash room with Adams some seventy minutes ago, but that was just tough shit. There were too many people sticking their fingers in the pie. This thing needed to be streamlined, and someone needed to take action. Sitting around and playing cautious was not in Rapp's nature, especially where Aziz was concerned.
Rapp knew whom he was dealing with, he knew what Aziz was up to, and if nobody else could figure it out, to hell with them. This was not one of those moments in life where disagreement was acceptable. This wasn't a policy decision where it was difficult to quantify the benefits of one course over the other. This was black and white. Rapp knew what had to be done, and everyone else could kiss his ass if they weren't on board.
As they made it back to the president's bedroom, Adams entered first and then Rapp. Rapp stood in the doorway for a moment and took one last look to his left, straight ahead, and to his right. Behind him, on the other side of the bedroom, a stench was beginning to drift from the body of the dead terrorist.
Rapp noticed it and cringed at the thought of how bad the smell would get in another day.
Adams tapped him on the shoulder and said, "I've gotta piss like a racehorse."
Rapp stepped back into the room and nodded to the bathroom.
Adams went in and closed the door behind him. A couple minutes later he reappeared, a look of relief on his face.
"You just wait." Adams looked at Rapp.
"You're too young to understand, but someday you'll know what it's like."
"Yeah, if I only live that long." Rapp took the thick barrel of his silencer and pointed to the closet.
"Let's check on Anna."
Adams went in first and pressed the hidden button. As the closet organizer swung out, Adams stepped into the stash room. Rapp poked his head in and said to Rielly, "Do you need to use the restroom?"
Rielly nodded enthusiastically.
"Follow me, and don't make any noise." Then looking to Adams, Rapp said, "Monitor the stairwells until we're back, and let me know if you have any movement."
Rielly stood and followed Rapp quietly, which was easy to do in her stocking feet. Walking into the bathroom, Rielly closed the door behind her and for the first time saw herself in the mirror. She had one hell of a shiner on her cheek, and her skin looked a little pasty. Without wasting too much time in front of the mirror, she got down to business and took care of her more immediate needs. In the middle of that task, she was struck by the bizarre thought that she was sitting on President Hayes's toilet. The same toilet that quite a few presidents had used.
When she was done, she closed the lid. Hanging on a bar next to the sink were two sets of washcloths and hand towels.
Rielly couldn't resist. She felt disgusting and dirty. Opening the faucets, she doused her face with water and began to rub a bar of soap vigorously in her hands. After cleaning and drying her face quickly, she had another idea. Rielly soaped up one of the washcloths and wetted another and one of the hand towels.
Next, she checked the medicine cabinet and grabbed the president's shaving kit. Wrapping everything up in a larger bath towel, Rielly opened the door and found Rapp waiting for her.
Rapp looked at the towels and asked, "What's that all about?"
Clutching the bundle in her arms, she looked up and said, "A little sponge bath."
Rapp pointed to himself with a big smile on his face and said, "For me."
Rielly almost laughed, but instead shook her head.
"No, for me."
Rapp kept the smile on his face as the two of them went back into the stash room. Once inside, the door was again closed and bolted. Rapp looked at the radio and knew that he had some explaining to do. Deciding it was better to get on with it, he knelt down and powered up the unit.
Milt Adams had the monitor opened on his chest and was checking the reception on each surveillance unit again.
When the unit was ready, Rapp picked up the handset and said, "Iron Man to control. Do you read? Over." It didn't surprise Rapp that a voice came back right away—he had expected that—it was the particular voice that surprised him. "Iron Man, you've been a little busy since we last spoke."
Rapp hesitated for a moment.
"Yes, sir. I thought it was the right thing to do."
"I concur," said Thomas Stansfield, "but from now on, let us know what you're up to. We are receiving clearly on both the visual and the audio.
They should be a big help. Now I've got something rather immediate that I need you to check on.
We have reason to believe that the president might not be as safe as we thought."
Rapp's eyes darted from the console of the field radio to Milt Adams.
"Please clarify."
"Aziz may have brought someone along who specializes in breaking into vaults." There was a pause. "Is that clear enough?"
"I think so. How quickly would you like me to verify this?"
"As quickly as you can without risking exposure."
Rapp sat on his heels. He thought about the location of the bunker. The third basement. The only way in or out was one staircase. The same one where an unexpected guard had been posted last night.
"Sir, let me discuss this with Milt and see what type of a plan we can put together. I'll get back to you in five or less."
Rapp set the hard plastic handset down and looked to Adams.
"Zip that thing up and get your blueprints out."
Adams could tell by both Rapp's expression and tone that something serious had just been discussed. After he finished zipping the monitor up, Adams pulled out his sheaf of blueprints.
Rapp scooted forward on his knees.
"Excuse me, Anna."
Rielly was sitting in the corner with her legs stretched out in front of her. As Rapp moved around her, he looked at the blueprints and said,
"Show me the entire third level and all ways in or out" Adams reached to the bottom of the stack and pulled out the last sheet. Then grabbing it with both hands, he laid it down on top.
"This is it. There's only one stairwell in and out.
The one that we used." Looking up from the blueprint, Adams asked, "Tell me what you're looking for, and I might be able to help a little more."
Rielly appeared on her knees at Rapp's side. She looked down at the blueprint and asked, "What's that?"
Rapp felt a tinge of anxiety. Another nuisance to deal with.
Why couldn't things be simple for once? Rapp cocked his head to the side and looked at Rielly, who was studying the blueprint in earnest. It was time to take this obstacle off the table. There were going to be too many variables coming down the homestretch, and he needed to keep the process as simple as possible. The more he had to think about, the better the odds were that he'd screw up. And screwing up on this one meant that someone would die. Most probably himself. There was one thing that would free them up a bit. Rapp had thought about it earlier in the day and decided if Rielly would go along with the idea, it would make things easier from a logistical standpoint.
"Anna, we need to talk."
Rielly looked up at him from the blueprint.
"What about?"
"I need to be able to speak freely with Milt, and I can't do that with you sitting here. So you have to promise me that you will do something when we get out of here."
"Sure."
"I am going to need you to sign a national security nondisclosure agreement."
Rielly moved back a little bit. She was familiar with the document, and the thought of signing such a thing was ludicrous.
She was a reporter, for Christ's sake. She would be bound by law never to discuss the matters outlined in the document and that most probably meant never being able to tell her story. Her head slowly started to move from side to side.
"I don't think so. I don't like the idea of the government holding something like that over my head. I'm a reporter. It wouldn't be right."
Rapp got a little angry. It showed in the way his eyes squinted just a millimeter or two. At that moment he looked at Rielly, and all he saw was a beautiful, selfish, self-centered woman. He didn't have the time or patience for this.
"Fine," he pronounced in a tone that was anything but.
"I'll have to remember that our careers are our number one priority. In fact, I probably should have kept that in mind last night." Rapp turned away from Rielly and grabbed the radio handset.
"Iron Man to control. Over."
"What was that supposed to mean?" asked Rielly in a wounded voice.
Rapp put his hand up to quiet her and spoke into the handset.
"We are going to go investigate right now. This will only be a lightrecon. I repeat, a light recon. If we meet any resistance, we will abort and try to find another way to verify.
Over." Rapp nodded several times and said, "Correct."
After placing the handset back in its cradle, Rapp looked at Adams and said, "Come on. Milt. We'll finish the rest of this conversation in the elevator." Rapp grabbed his submachine gun and rose to one knee.
Rielly reached out for his arm.
"Hold on a minute. What's with the attitude all of the sudden?"
"The attitude." Rapp pulled away and stood.
"Last night when that piece of shit dragged you up here to rape you, I turned this radio off because I knew that the people running this show would have told me to stay put, that the mission was bigger than just one person." Rapp stared her straight in the eye and pointed at himself.
"What I did last night was not a real big career enhancer, but all I saw out there was a woman who needed help and some piece of shit that deserved to die. Cut and dry, plain and simple." Rapp turned to Adams.
"Let's go."
Rielly was shocked by the extreme change in his manner.
She attempted to speak, but Rapp cut her off.
"Anna, I'm done talking." With his submachine gun up and ready, he placed his free hand on the bolt and said, "If I come across any paper and pens, I'll grab them so you can start working on your tell-all story." With that parting shot, Rapp slid back the bolt and slipped into the walk-in closet. THEY STEPPED INTO the small elevator without talking.
Adams shut the door and pressed the button. Rapp stood rigidly against the wall, his head slowly thumping backward into the wood paneling. He was more pissed than he ought to be, he thought. This was a childish romantic crush, a fleeting hope for something he hadn't felt in so long.
It was stupid.
With all of the shit that was going on around him, with all of the high stakes, it was a complete waste of time and energy to allow himself to be distracted for even a second by something so utterly juvenile.
Somewhere in Rapp's brain a red stamp crashed down on Anna Rielly's file, and she was banished to a part of his memory that was rarely accessed. It was as simple as that. Compartmentalize and move on.
With her out of his mind, Rapp looked at Adams. Adams looked back with a prying expression.
"What?" asked Rapp a touch too defensively.
Adams kept his basset-hound eyes locked on Rapp until his new partner repeated his question. Then Milt licked his upper lip once and said,
"Don't you think you were a little hard on her?"
Moving away from the wall, Rapp began to fidget in frustration.
"She's a non issue Milt. We have more important things to worry about."
"Are you gonna let me in on the secret?"
"Yep, and it's a doozy." Rapp took the MP-10 and cradled it across his chest as the small elevator reached the first basement. "It appears Aziz brought along some guy who specializes in breaking into vaults." Rapp stopped, to see if Adams could connect the dots.
It didn't take long. The expression on Adams's smooth face went from an inquisitive frown to one of surprise.
"That's not good."
"Nope." Rapp shook his head.
"Our job is to find out if Hayes is as safe as we thought."
Thinking several steps ahead, Adams plucked the folded blueprints from his vest. The series of sheets were like an unruly road map. Adams opened the documents and shuffled the right one to the top. Shooing Rapp out of the way, he held it up against the wall and said, "This is where it's located."
Rapp looked at the layout of the third basement.
"Only one way in?"
"Well, not really. Hold that side for me."
Rapp grabbed one side of the blueprint while Adams held the other with his hand.
"There's another way down to the third basement." Adams touched a spot on the blueprint.
"This is the anteroom to the vault. This little rectangle area here. It doesn't make a lot of sense from a strict design and engineering standpoint, but it's one of those things you need to implement into a design when you're trying to add things to a two hundred-plus-year-old building."
Adams touched another spot on the blueprint.
"This is the boiler room, where we came in, and this is the hall that I told you led to the bunker." Adams traced his skinny black finger down the hall, took the left-hand turn, and tapped it on a door.
"This is one of two ways into the anteroom. It's a three-inch thick steel door. Over here on this wall of the anteroom is the second door.
This is probably the one the president used to enter the bunker."
"Why do you say that?" asked Rapp.
"Because this door leads up a short staircase to a tunnel that runs all the way under the West Wing to where there's a much longer set of stairs that lead all the way up to a hidden door just off of the Oval Office."
Adams pulled another sheet from the back and showed Rapp the location of the tunnel and where it went.
"This tunnel used to be the bunker until this new one was completed just this last year. As this tunnel comes over from the West Wing, it stops here. At that point you can either go down this little flight, which empties you into the anteroom, or you can go up a flight of stairs that leads to one of those doors that don't exist."
Rapp liked where this was headed.
"Where is this fictitious door located?"
Adams changed pages again and tapped a spot.
"Right here. Just down the hall from where we are right now, in the china storage room."
"That's perfect."
"Not quite." Adams shook his head.
"These doors that lead to the anteroom are hermetically sealed with rubber gaskets. If we go down through the tunnel, we wouldn't be able to hear or see anything in the anteroom unless we open the door to it, and I doubt you want to do that."
"No." Rapp thought about the options for a second.
"Yeah, you're probably right. That means they would have had to get through one of these outer doors first to get to the bunker door."
"Yep, and this is the door they would have gone through."
Adams changed back to the drawing that showed the layout of the third basement.
"This way they only go through one door.
If they tried to come in through the tunnel door, that's assuming they could find it to begin with, they would have had to go through an extra door."
"That makes sense." Rapp looked at the drawing.
"So we have to go down the stairs we used when we came in and hope that a guard isn't posted like he was last night."
"I'm afraid so."
"Okay." Rapp took his hand off the blueprints.
"Put those things away, and let's get ready to move out. You know the routine."
After he was done putting the blueprints back in order, Adams folded them up and stuffed them inside his black vest.
Then, unzipping and turning on the monitor, he pressed the button to open the elevator door. Rapp stood over his shoulder while Adams stuck the tip of the snake under the outer metal door leading to the first basement. The tiny lens gave them a slightly warped view of the hallway looking up from the stark concrete floor. Adams maneuvered the lens all the way to the right and then back to the left.
"Looks good," proclaimed Rapp as he stepped back and readied his gun.
Adams pulled the snake back with his right hand and coiled it against his hip.
Rapp took the doorknob in his right hand, pulled, and scooted quickly into the hallway. He brought his MP-10 up and swept to the right and left. Adams was just two steps behind, having had to pause for just a second to shut the outer door to the elevator. In less than three seconds Rapp was at the door that led to the two lower floors. A twist of the metal knob with his gloved right hand and he was through the door, his thick black silencer moving everywhere his eyes went.
Whether he had one hand on the weapon or two, it made no difference. At this close distances, one-handed, he could hit a head-size target with about ninety-five percent accuracy on the first shot. With both hands on the efficient and compact Heckler & Koch, it was a guaranteed one hundred percent. After checking the stairwell above, Rapp began his controlled descent, keeping his body pressed against the wall, always looking down and checking each new stair as it came into view. Adams followed quietly, several steps behind. Rapp was gaining confidence in him.
When they hit the landing in between the second and third basements, Rapp stopped. The tiny surveillance unit he had placed next to the door was barely discernible. If he hadn't known it was there, he doubted he would have seen it. Stopping for even five seconds, out in the open like this, seemed like an eternity, but Rapp was trying to get a feel as to whether someone was on the other side of the door.
He went down the last four steps and stopped, his eyes fixed on the half-inch sliver of light that framed the base of the metal fire door.
For another long five seconds, Rapp crouched and stared. Still nothing.
Rapp waved Adams down. The older man descended the last flight cautiously, holding on to the monitor as if it were the head of a baby.
Stepping back and holding his submachine gun ready, Rapp directed Adams to slide the tip of the snake under the door.
As Adams moved the device to the left, a pair of boots came into view.
They were walking toward the door. Rapp reached out and pulled Adams's hand back, keeping his gun trained on the door. After waiting several seconds for the boots to pass, Adams and Rapp retreated in silence.
"BROODING" MIGHT HAVE been the right word, at least at first. But that smug emotion was gone now, replaced by one of self-loathing and personal disgust. Disgust, she told herself.
Not disappointment or disrespect, it was disgust. Mr. Secret Agent Man's parting slam had stung, and Anna Rielly's first response had been to fold her arms tightly across her chest and ask herself just who that gun-toting ass thought he was. Where in the hell did he get off judging her so quickly? He didn't know who she was. He was just another one of those arrogant white males, like so many of her dad's cop friends, who thought they were the only ones that knew what life was all about. They had no idea how important it was to have a truly free press. Just who in the hell did he think he was? The voice in the back of her head responded. He's the man who risked his life to save yours.
At that point, Riellys mood turned from brooding to selfloathing, and now she sat feeling not so hot about herself.
THE ELEVATOR STOPPED at the second floor, and without having to be told, Adams was already working the monitor to check the different surveillance units. For his part, Rapp was trying to figure out their next step beyond calling Langley.
There had to be a way to check on the president. When they got back in the stash room, he would get Adams to spread out his blueprints and see if there were any other options. But that meant Rielly, and that wouldn't work. She already knew too much as it was, and things were only going to get worse.
Adams finished checking the surveillance units and told Rapp the coast was clear. Rapp nodded, and after a couple seconds, he said, "When we get back to the stash room, I'm going to need you to step outside with Anna for a couple of minutes while I talk to Langley."
The twisted expression on Adams's face gave Rapp the impression he wasn't too fond of the idea.
"What's wrong?"
"I don't like the idea of sitting outside of the room with her and my little six-shooter." The horizontal lines on Adams's shiny black forehead deepened.
"I think you're overreacting."
Adams saw an instantaneous change in Rapp's demeanor. The lid on the kettle started to wobble. In earnest, Adams added, "Just a bit… I mean, I understand your need for secrecy and everything, but—" Rapp cut him off.
"She's a reporter, end of discussion, let's go." Rapp jerked his thumb toward the door.
It was obvious Rapp wasn't going to budge, so Adams zipped up the monitor and opened the door. Rapp stepped onto the white tile floor first, and Adams closed the door behind them. Another quick trip across the hall and they were back in the large walk-in closet.
Rapp pointed at the ground.
"You stay here. Use the monitor to make sure no one is coming. I'll leave the door unlocked. At the first sign of trouble, come back in the room."
Rapp didn't give Adams a chance to ask any questions.
Turning immediately, he opened the organizer and stepped into the stash room. Rielly was sitting in the corner right where they had left her.
Rapp looked down at Anna Rielly and wished she weren't there. Wished he could just erase her from his mind.
"You're back awfully quick," was the only thing Rielly could think of.
Ignoring her words, he stuck his hand out. Rielly grabbed it, and Rapp pulled her to her feet. He maneuvered her toward the open door and ignored her question. Pushing her out into the closet, Rapp pulled the organizer shut with a slight click.
He dropped to one knee, grabbed the handset to the field radio, and said, "Iron Man to control. Over."
A female voice answered and told Rapp to hold. Less than ten seconds later Thomas Stansfield's smooth voice came over the thin plastic receiver.
"What did you find out?"
"I came up dry on the first run, sir. There was a Tango in the hallway.
We couldn't proceed past the stairwell."
"What level was the Tango on?"
This time it was General Campbell's voice.
"Third basement." Rapp rubbed his brow with his right hand.
"He was positioned just outside the doors for the stairwell and the boiler room." There was a pause, and Rapp imagined a gaggle of military aides shuffling blueprints around and showing the general the exact location.
"Any thoughts on why he would be there?" It was Stansfield again.
Rapp finished kneading the skin on his brow.
"Off the top of my head, I can think of two. First, the guy is down there to make sure no one comes through the shaft again, or second, he's down there to make sure no one interrupts the progress of thisyassin, or whatever his name is."
There was the exhaling sigh of thought and then the words, "I would concur. Do you or Milt have any ideas on how we might circumvent this guard?"
"Maybe." Rapp began rubbing his forehead again.
"Give me about ten minutes, and I'll call you back."
Rapp set the handset back in the cradle. Now it was time to grab Milt and figure out a way to verify whether or not the president was safe.
What to do with the reporter?
Standing, he popped open the door and pushed it outward. Adams and Rielly were standing in the dimly lit closet talking quietly . Rapp motioned for Adams to join him and then said to Rielly, "You're going to have to stay out here while we talk."
Adams stepped forward, grabbing Rielly's arm and bringing her with him.
"She's got something to say to you."
Rapp stood in the opening, reluctant to move, looking at Adams and wondering what in the hell he had said. Looking to Rielly, he saw that her feisty attitude was gone. After a long moment, Rapp retreated a step and allowed the two of them to enter the stash room.
SEALS DON'T LIKE to sit around, especially when there's action to be had, and even more so when one of their own has been killed. Lt.
Commander Harris wanted a piece of that action, and although he would never admit it to the brass, he wanted to put a bullet in the head of every terrorist in the White House. No prisoners.
Now Harris was in the process of exactly that as he strode up the steps of the Old Post Office on the corner of Twelfth and Pennsylvania. He had walked the four and a half blocks from his makeshift command post on the east fence of the White House with the bullish Mick Reavers. They were still there manning the CP, despite the debacle of last night. Rapp and Adams were, after all, still in the building, and the powers that be at the Pentagon had yet to decide on a deployment if any. Harris knew that was a distinct possibility. At any minute he could get the order to pack himself and his men up. The press was asking a lot of questions concerning Aziz's statement that he had turned away an assault. If they pushed hard enough and the politicians started chirping. Six's plug would be pulled.
JSOC didn't like operating in the light, and if the current trend continued, they would most certainly pull Harris and his men away from the White House and back under cover.
There was one other alternative, but Harris didn't want to think about it. He wanted to believe that the Navy and ultimately the Pentagon would do the right thing. But he knew from past experience that that didn't always turn out to be the case. In a crisis, SOP for the Pentagon often was to circle the wagons and offer up a sacrificial lamb. The beast served to the press was usually the unit commander, and that of course was yours truly, Lt. Commander Dan Harris.
Harris was dressed in his fire-retardant black coveralls. Surprisingly, he and Mick Reavers didn't attract too much attention.
By the third day of the crisis, the spectators had grown used to seeing heavily armed men going to and fro in black ninja jumpsuits. The two SEALS had left their submachine guns back at the command post, but both still carried their H&K USP .45 caliber handguns in their thigh holsters.
As Harris and Reavers bounded up the steps two at a time, they were met at the top by Charlie Wicker. Wicker turned and opened one of the heavy old doors. Harris and Reavers fell into step behind Wicker, all three men swiveling their heads as they walked into the large old building.
Their discerning eyes took an almost instantaneous inventory of all that was around them. Exit signs, windows, strange-looking people—you name it. They did it out of habit. Always know your surroundings.
Wicker approached a bank of elevators the one on the far left was held for them by a security guard. As they stepped into the elevator' Wicker looked at the security guard and said, "Al this is Lieutenant Commander Harris."
The balding man stuck out his hand. "A Turly, Commander.
Nice to meet you."
"Same here." Harris grabbed Turly's hand and gave him the requisite bone-crushing handshake. Then, pointing to the mound of flesh next to him, he said, "This big fella is Chief Reavers."
His hand still stinging from Harris's handshake, Turly decided to skip the nicety with the even larger Reavers. When the elevator reached the top floor, Turly led the way down the hall. At the end of the hallway they came upon a door labeled Bell Tower. Extracting a key'turly opened the door, and they stepped into a stairwell that appeared to have been built not too long after the Civil War. The narrow staircase was flush against the wall on one side and on the other was only a railing.
They were inside the dingy bell tower of the grand Old Post Office.
Turly, not wanting to slow the others down, let them take the lead. He had already taken the wiry little one up to the top once, and he thought his heart might leap from his chest. As Turly expected, the three black-clad men marched up the steps two at a time. Within seconds they were out of his sight, only the echoes of their footsteps letting him know they were above him. Turly slowed his pace. Ten months from retirement. It wasn't worth it.
The three SEALS reached the top without so much as breaking a sweat.
Wicker climbed up the ladder that was bolted to the wall, and with one hand he pushed open the hatch that led to the bell tower. Pulling himself up and through, he spun around on his butt and stood. Harris was next and then Reavers. All three men stood side by side, looking west out the large aperture. The bell tower atop the Old Post Office had the second most commanding view of all washington after the one from the Washington Monument. From this eagle's nest they looked straight down Pennsylvania Avenue past Freedom Plaza and Pershing Park, over the southwest corner of the Treasury Building, and there, perfectly bathed in the bright afternoon light, was the White House.
Wicker retrieved a pair of binoculars with a laser range finder from his vest and handed it to his CO. After turning his black baseball cap around, so the brim was out of the way, Harris held the binoculars up to his eyes. The commander of SEAL Team Six zeroed in on the roof of the White House and sought out the tiny rooftop guard booth. After a slight adjustment, the blue hue of the bulletproof Plexiglas was in the crosshairs. Harris paused for a second and watched the hooded man sitting behind the protective glass. Harris's forefinger pressed a button, and a second later three red numbers appeared. Harris handed the binoculars to Reavers and turned to Wicker.
"Eight hundred and twenty meters?"
Wicker nodded confidently.
"Yep."
"What's the forecast for tonight?"
"A lazy southeasterly breeze, between two and five knots."
Harris nodded. That was child's play for Wicker. He could hit this shot from almost double the distance at five knots.
"What about the glass?"
"It's half an inch. I've shot through it before on the range." Wicker continued his confident stare, eyeballing the White House with his naked eye.
"That's the range; this is real life. We need to know how old that glass is, the manufacturer's testing data, everything we can get our hands on."
Wicker kept his eyes on the White House, supremely confident in his skills—knowing that there were only a handful of men in the whole world that matched him in skill, and none that could exceed.
"The glass was installed in ninety-two and is due to be replaced within the next year. I studied the manufacturer's testing data two years ago and have all the info I need right up here." Wicker tapped his temple with his forefinger.
"If that glass was brand-new, I could still do it, but it's been baked by the sun now for seven years. Its strength has been reduced by at least sixty percent. With two fifties we'll be able to drill right through it." Wicker nodded confidently and added, "Hell, the first shot might even get him."
Harris was a little surprised that Wicker already had the stats.
"How did you find out about the glass?"
"I called some of my fellow snipers at the Secret Service."
"When?" asked Harris.
"Two days ago." Wicker kept his gaze on the White House.
Harris smiled. He loved it when his men were proactive.
"Vbu've been thinking about this shot for that long?"
Wicker turned, a devilish grin spreading across his lips.
"I've been thinking about this shot ever since we ran that exercise eight years ago."
Harris knew the exact exercise Wicker was referring to. It had been on his mind since the onset of this entire cluster fuck.
Slowly, Harris began to nod. And then with a smile of his own, he looked to Wicker and said, "Don't ever tell anybody that.
The boys at the Secret Service might not understand your professional curiosity."
"Oh, they understand." Wicker nodded.
"We've talked about this shot a hundred times."
The "boys at the Secret Service" that they were referring to were the men of the counter sniper unit, widely regarded as the best professional shooters, from top to bottom, in the world. There wasn't a single shot at the Secret Service that could match Wicker under combat conditions, but in a controlled urban environment, they were awesome.
Harris looked back at the White House. Snipers were a weird lot. Kind of like goaltenders in hockey or pitchers in baseball. They were loners, fiercely independent, and more than a little superstitious.
"What do you need to make it happen?"
Wicker pulled several pieces of paper from his vest.
Unfolding them, he held them up for his CO.
"First thing we have to do is build a shooting platform With the right men and equipment, I can have it ready by sundown."
Harris looked at the drawings.
"What about the noise?"
Wicker reached over and flipped to the second page.
"We place a top over the platform and line it with acoustic foam. We leave a nice narrow slit at the front, and we're set. Only about five percent of the report will make its way out of the slit, and that won't travel more than a block, tops."
Harris loved that Wicker was ahead of the game. Handing Wicker the drawing, he slapped him on the back and said, "Good job. Slick. I like it. Make it happen as fast and quiet as you can. Get out of your coveralls, and tell the rest of your boys to wear their civvies."
Looking at his watch, he added, "I want you operational by eighteen hundred."
With that Harris started down the hatch, confident that Wicker would have everything in place by the appointed hour.
Now came the hard part. He would have to convince the big boys that an exercise he had participated in eight years ago would work today. Harris already had the pitch formed. He would keep it as simple as possible and use SEAL Team Six as the tip of the spear. Delta and HRT would provide the overwhelming force when the time was right.
THE WORDS WEREN'T going to come easy At least not at first. Anna Rielly was both a proud and a stubborn person, but she was not, as Rapp thought, an ingrate. Milt Adams had closed the door to the stash room, and Rielly was left facing the man who had saved her life.
As Rielly looked at him, she decided she liked him much better when he smiled. In his current serious mood, he looked dangerous. Not just his dark clothes and the various weapons strapped to his lean body, but his chiseled jawline and those dark eyes. The man had an intensity about him that Rielly hadn't noticed before. His tanned weathered face had the strong lines acquired by a man who does not spend his days in an office.
It was the eyes, though, that both drew her in and made her want to shiver. Dark pools of brown. So dark they were almost black. Framed on top by two thick eyebrows. This was the man who was capable of killing.
The man who had plunged his knife into her assailant.
Rielly's mouth must have been slightly open because it was suddenly void of moisture. She closed it and swallowed hard; then opening it slowly, she said, "I'm sorry for the way I handled that situation earlier. I don't want to seem like I'm"—she paused, struggling to get the next word out—"ungrateful."
Rielly had to look down. It was difficult to look into those dark eyes and make the apology.
"I'm not crazy about signing anything. Especially something the government wants me to sign." Rielly looked up and made a halfhearted effort at a smile, but the dark orbs on Rapp's face turned her gaze back down.
"I realize this thing is a lot bigger than me, and if there is anything I can do to help save the rest of the hostages, I'm more than willing to do my part. As far as what happens when this is over… if you wish to remain anonymous, I will honor that. If you feel, or whoever you work for feels, that you need to edit my story before I tell it…" Rielly was forced to pause again, feeling very uncomfortable with this particular concession.
Still looking at the ground, she said, "If you really feel the need to edit out material that you are absolutely sure is too sensitive to report… I'll go along. I'll probably do it kicking and screaming, but I'll do it."
Rapp was conflicted. His opinion of the young and attractive Ms. Rielly had already been etched into his mind and filed away. Now it appeared he might have been mistaken. She had been wrong, but now she was correcting that, taking a big step to humble herself and admit it. The ball was back in Rapp's court. HER ELBOWS RESTED heavily on the table. The hum of computers, faxes, scanners, and monitors droned in the background. The control room at Langley was in the midst of a lull.
Kennedy's hands cupped her chin, and her eyes were closed.
Opening her eyes, she looked at the red digital clock on the wall. It was almost half past noon. She let out a yawn and stretched her arms above her head. Things were about to happen.
She had felt it herself and seen it in the look Thomas Stansfield had given her.
The light on her phone blinked once and then began to ring. She grabbed the handset and answered, "Dr. Kennedy."
"Irene, it's Jane. I've been busy trying to get an answer to your question, but things have proved a little more difficult than I thought."
"How so?"
"Well, the subject is not entirely with us."
Kennedy frowned.
"Will he be coming back?"
"No." There was a substantial pause and then, "At least, I don't think so." Then in a slightly defensive tone Dr. Hornig added, "You must remember, this is all new, very cutting edge stuff."
"Did you get anything out of him?"
"From what little I could gather, Harut had no idea what this Yassin fellow's talents were. But please keep in mind, he's not all there."
Irene didn't want to hear excuses; she wanted answers.
"Did you get anything out of him?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Okay. If you find anything out, please let me know."
Kennedy disconnected the call and dialed an international number. While the secure satellite technology at Langley started the process, Kennedy turned around and checked to see what her boss was doing.
Thomas Stansfield sat comfortably in his chair while Jonathan Brown, the deputy director of central intelligence, relayed a slew of congressional complaints and inquiries. From what little Kennedy heard, she gathered that the congressmen and senators on the Hill were demanding to know what in the hell happened last night.
The familiar voice of Colonel Fine answered on the other end, and Kennedy turned around.
"Ben, it's Irene. Have you found anything out onyassin?"
"Nothing firm. Some rumblings and rumors here and there, but we haven't been able to nail him down."
"Which one are we talking about? The Iraqi or the Palestinian?"
"I have heard nothing back about the Iraqi, but I have several sources who are claiming they have seen the eighteen year-old Palestinian within the last four days."
"Hnun," pondered Kennedy.
"Let me caution you, though. We have not been able to track him down."
"I know, but we are definitely leaning closer to one than the other."
"My contacts in Iraq are not as deep, Irene. The man could be there, but I need more time to track him down."
Kennedy looked back at Stansfield and let him know that she needed to talk to him. Into the phone, she said, "Ben, I have to run. Thank you for the info, and please let me know the second you find out anything else."
"Before you go," said Fine loudly, "I have something I wish to discuss."
Fine paused and then continued.
"There are people in my government who are threatening to tear apart the entire peace accord if your country persists with this position of negotiation. We have a very good idea what aziz's last demand will be, and we are prepared to occupy the territories with troops if it comes to that."
Kennedy stopped everything she was doing. She dissected the colonel's words carefully. Israel was prepared to go to war.
"Has your ambassador been informed of this?"
"I do not know."
"Has your prime minister informed our vice president?"
"I do not know."
Kennedy paused momentarily.
"Ben, Director Stansfield has the interests of Israel very high on his list, but he is only one man. Now is not a time to play games through back channels.
I would suggest that certain people in your government start banging the drum and bang it loudly. They know who to talk to." Kennedy stopped for a moment and added, "Don't worry about your support from Langley. We have never wavered on this issue, and are not about to."
There was a moment of silence and then "Good, I will pass that along."
"And I appreciate the information, Ben. Please let me know the second you find anything more."
Kennedy hung up the phone and swiveled her chair around. Brown was still talking to Stansfield. Kennedy was not sure about the new deputy director. It wasn't due to a lack of confidence in his skills. He was intelligent and professional.
Her issue with Brown lay more in where his bread was buttered.
Brown was not an insider at Langley. He had been with the Agency for less than a year. In his early fifties, he was a former federal prosecutor and judge who, after leaving the bench, went to work for one of Washington's poshest law firms, making close to a million dollars a year. After pressing the flesh with all of the bigwigs in Congress for a half dozen years, he had obtained a nomination for the deputy director slot and was confirmed.
It was a safe bet that his allegiance was more with the senators who had confirmed him than with the man he was now talking to. It was that simple fact that kept Kennedy from speaking in front of the man. She waited for several minutes until Brown left, then rose and approached the elevated desk behind her.
Stansfield leaned forward and asked, "What is it?"
General Flood also leaned forward, sensing that Kennedy might have obtained a valuable piece of information.
"I just spoke to Colonel Fine. He's gotten nowhere in terms of the yassin from Iraq, and with the young Palestinian, they have several contacts who have claimed to have seen him in the last four days." Flood shook his head and said, "That's it Thomas. We have to tell him."
Stansfield's face remained passive, and Flood persisted.
"It's our duty. Iron Man hasn't come up with anything definitive, but it sure does look like something is going on down in that basement, he. doesn't have enough men to tie up one of them down there."
"What about the ventilation duct?" asked Kennedy.
"Maybe he's afraid we'll try and use it again."
"Bullshit," grumbled Hood.
"All he has to do is booby-trap the only stairwell that leads up from the basement, and he has us boxed in."
Kennedy agreed.
Flood leaned toward Stansfield and said, "We have to tell him Thomas. We should have told him this morning." Stansfield looked at the large general. He knew Flood was right but also knew how Vice President Baxter would react. He would wiggle. He would question the validity of their conclusion.
He would put off making any decision until he absolutely had to. Despite all of that. Flood was right. They had to tell him.
DALLAS KING sat across from his boss and watched him talk on the phone.
The afternoon sun spilled through the windows of the vice president's study at the Naval Observatory.
King was still obsessing over his role in aiding the terrorists. He had decided only one thing thus far, that he would keep his mouth shut.
There wasn't a snowballs chance in hell that he would volunteer what he had done to the FBI. It would do no good. They couldn't turn back the clocks. What he had to do right now was damage control. Who else knew about the late night excursion? There were the two women of course, but they were bombed. There was Joe, the Secret Service officer who had let them in. King thought about checking up on Joe, but that might make things look worse if the story came out.
No. For now, he would sit and do nothing and hope that no one would ever link him to the terrorist.
Aides shuffled in and out of the room on an almost continuous basis. The large dining room and living room of the mansion had been converted into offices for Baxter's support staff and the dozen or so essential personnel who had been displaced when the Old Executive Office Building had been shut down by the Secret Service.
It was one of those essential aides who quietly entered the room and approached King. In a voice low enough to not distract the vice president, she said, "Director Stansfield and General Flood are on the line, and they wish to speak to the vice president immediately."
King stood.
"Which line?" The young woman held up two fingers and began her retreat.
King watched her leave. Out of habit he checked out her backside as she sauntered for the door. It was nice. He'd been eyeballing her for the better part of the new year, but knew it would be trouble. Office romances were a big no-no.
Stick with the married women, King told himself.
King made his way over to a credenza on the other side of the large study. After running a hand through his hair and checking himself out in an ornate gilt-framed mirror. King grabbed the receiver from the phone and stabbed the blinking red button.
"Director Stansfield, General Flood, Dallas King here."
It was General Flood who spoke first.
"Dallas, where is the vice president?"
"He's right here, but he's on the line with the secretary general of the UN."
"Well, tell him we need to speak with him." Flood's voice was even gruffer than normal.
King held the receiver to his left ear and with his right forefinger he smoothed out his eyebrows. Looking into the mirror to check on his grooming, he replied, "As I said, he's on the line with the secretary general, and it's rather important. Is the're something I can help you with?"
Flood, the highest-ranking officer in the entire United States military, was used to people jumping to his requests. Add to this the tense situation and a lack of sleep, and the result was predictable.
"Goddamnit," bellowed Flood.
"You've got some things to learn about the chain of command, son When the chairman of the Joint Chiefs calls and says he wants to talk to the vice president, you put him on the phone!"
King pulled the receiver away from his face and looked at it with a frown. Under his breath, he said, "Give me a break." Then into the phone, he replied, "Let me see if he can take your call." Without waiting to see if that was okay. King pressed the hold button and set the phone down. Looking into the mirror one more time, he straightened his tie and checked his perfect white teeth.
Walking across the spacious study, he approached the vice president's desk and gave his boss the proper signal. Baxter looked up and when the moment was right, he said, "Excuse me, Mr. Secretary. Would you hold one moment please?" Baxter covered the phone.
"What now?"
"General Flood and Director Stansfield are on line two and they want to talk to you immediately."
"Immediately." Baxter repeated the word in the same tone as King.
"Yep, General Flood has got his undies in a bind about something. He snapped at me when I told him you were busy."
Baxter took his hand off the receiver and said, "Mr. Secretary, I want to continue this conversation, but I must take an urgent call. May I call you back in a few minutes?" Baxter nodded several times while he listened to the secretary general of the UN and then said, "Thank you."
King looked down at his boss and said, "I think I'd better listen in on this." Baxter nodded his consent, and King quickly crossed the room and stood poised above the phone on the credenza. When his boss reached down to punch the proper line. King did the same.
Baxter said, "Hello, General Flood."
"Mr. Vice President, I'm on the line with Director Stansfield.
We've come across some troubling information that we must bring to your attention." In less than a minute Flood brought Baxter up to speed on what was going on in regard to Mustafayassin and the information provided by the Israelis and CIA. Dallas King watched his boss silently from across the room.
He listened to Flood, and in some twisted way the news excited him. King knew it shouldn't, but this was real high drama, and he was one of just a few who were privy to this jarring information. The president was not as safe as they had thought.
General Flood moved from stating the facts into stating his case, and he did so with two sentences.
"Mr. Vice President, under no circumstances can we allow the president to fall into the hands of these terrorists. Delta Force and HRT are ready to retake the White House on your order."
Vice President Baxter let out the moan of a man who could take no more bad news. And then after a moment or so of fidgeting, he asked, "How can we be sure? Aziz has said nothing about the president in any of his demands."
"We can't be sure," answered Flood.
"But we sure as hell can't take the risk of letting the president become a hostage."
"What if this information is wrong?" Baxter looked up at King.
"We still have quite a few hostages in there, and from what you've told me, the odds of them surviving a takedown are not good."
"Sir, at this point I see no other alternative. We cannot, under any circumstance, allow Rafique Aziz to get his hands on President Hayes."
There was a long pause while Baxter looked up at King.
Finally he sighed into the phone and asked, "What is it that you want from me. General Flood?"
"I want you to do what's right. I want you to give me the green light to retake the White House."
King was shaking his head vigorously at his boss. No one was going to commit to anything until he and the vice president had a chance to discuss it. Vice President Baxter looked up at King and nodded. Then into the phone, he said, "General, this information seems a little thin to me. As I've already said, you have full authority to move your people into position, and to collect intelligence, just so long as you don't endanger the lives of the hostages. But I want to make myself clear on this once again. I am the only person who will authorize the takedown of the White House." Baxter straightened up in his chair.
"Am I clear on this?"
"Yes, you are, sir," answered a frustrated Flood.
"That has never been in doubt… That's not what's at issue here.
What is at issue is the safety of the president of the United States."
In a firm voice Flood added, "I am asking you for the authorization to take back the White House. I am asking you to prevent President Hayes from falling into the hands of Rafique Aziz."
In a soft voice, Baxter answered, "General, this is not an easy decision. I need some time to think about it."
"But, sir," snapped Flood.
"We might not have the time."
Baxter shot back, "I am running the show here. General Flood, and I will decide how much time we may or may not have. Now, I would suggest that while I'm consulting with my aides, you try and find out if this threat to President Hayes is real or imagined. I mean, for Christ's sake, two days ago your own people stood up and told me he could last a month in that bunker." Baxter shook his head.
Barely able to restrain himself. Flood looked to Stansfield for some support. The director of the CIA simply shook his head. Into the phone the general asked, "What do you want me to do, sir?"
"I want you to keep me informed, and make sure you do nothing to precipitate any more violence from Aziz."
"Yes, sir."
With that, the conversation was over. General Flood had hung up without waiting to see if Baxter had anything to add.
Dallas King put the handset back in its cradle and walked toward his sullen-faced boss.
"You handled that perfectly." When King reached the desk, he added, "off the top of my head, we have several things working in our favor. First, this information they have sounds a little thin to me. I mean we can't trust the Israelis for shit right now. They'd just as soon see us nuke the place. And secondly"—King tapped his chin with his finger—"there's an angle here. Is the president's life more valuable than fifty of his fellow countrymen? There's an awfully strong argument to be made against the imperial presidency. No one American life is greater than any other single American life." Baxter frowned and said, "Come on, Dallas. Who's going to buy that load of crap?"
"Our average Joe, that's who." King pointed his finger at his boss.
"Even if what Hood says is true, which I doubt, since those guys can't seem to find their ass with both hands, that doesn't mean we need to storm the place With the exception of Marge's big fuck-up, this Aziz guy has been pretty reasonable.
So far he hasn't asked for anything that we can't go back and fix later, and the polls tell us that, with the exception of a bunch of right-wing extremists, the American people want to see this thing resolved peacefully. Our job here is to continue to walk this fine line, Sherman.
If they can't give you solid proof that the president is in imminent danger, I wouldn't budge an inch. We'll get these UN resolutions passed by the end of the day, and in the morning Aziz will release the next group of hostages. That's two-thirds you will have saved."
King stopped and looked out the window. A thought had just occurred to him. Maybe he was cheering for the wrong results. If the terrorists were killed, most of his problem would be solved.
"Dallas, what are you thinking?" Baxter asked. King shook his head and turned his attention back to his boss.
"Nothing. I was just trying to figure something out."
JACK WARCH WAS on his fourth set of crunches, the modern-day version of the much-hated sit-up. He had considered skipping his daily regimen, but decided he had nothing better to do. Warch did four hundred crunches every day of the week except Sunday, and on alternate days he threw in two hundred push-ups, a three-to-five-mile jog, and some stretching. He had it down to a science, which allowed him to stay in shape without spending hours at the gym.
As Warch finished his crunches, he eyed the pile of weapons sitting on the table across the room. The sight was irritating. All of that hardware and a room full of the best trained bodyguards in the world and the president wanted them to surrender. It was ingrained in Warch's psyche to win, not to lose. Coming from the old vince Lombardi school of "Show me a good loser, and I'll show you a loser," Warch couldn't stand the thought of them raising their hands in surrender.
He had risen to the most coveted post in the Secret Service by sheer dogged determination, and he was sure now there had to be a better alternative than surrendering.
That's when it hit him, with three more crunches to go.
Warch stopped, hands firmly clasped behind his neck, staring at the mound of black steel on the table. Some of the most accurate and lethal firepower made and nine highly trained individuals.
Warch's mind started to scramble. He saw a crack, a slight opening, a way to pull off a Hail Mary. Jumping to his feet, he almost blurted out his idea, but forced himself to sit down on his bunk and think things through thoroughly. He had to have this planned. He had to be able to head off all objections and sell it to the president.
STANSFIELD ALLOWED GENERAL Flood to blow off some steam. As Flood paced back and forth in front of his desk, Stansfield nodded from time to time in an effort to let Flood know he agreed with him. The elderly director of central intelligence had expected Baxter's unwillingness to give them the green light, and in his usual analytical way, Stansfield was already looking three moves ahead. He could have forewarned the general how Baxter would respond but felt an angry General Flood would be better than a calm one.
Things were coming to a head, and some decisions needed to be made.
Now would come the hard part. Stansfield knew Vice President Baxter would never pull the trigger. In his opinion, they should never have started down this road to begin with, but now they had to do something before it got worse. Baxter was maneuvering, trying to buy as much time as possible. The fact that he was doing it during a crisis with such far-reaching implications was almost unimaginable to Stansfield, and that was making his difficult decision much easier.
Thomas Stansfield was contemplating doing something that he had done only one other time in the fifty-plus years he had served his country.
It was something that could end his career in public disgrace, but he was willing to take that chance. He still had his ace in the hole, and now was the time to use it.
General Flood looked like a football coach chewing out his team at halftime. Stansfield watched him walk back and forth, shaking his fist and letting a stream of expletives flow from his mouth. Stansfield stayed quiet, letting him take as much time as needed. Gradually the expletives became fewer and the pacing slowed.
The general approached, looking miffed.
"You sure as hell are taking this well. It's not as if things weren't bad enough, and now we find out the president isn't safe. I mean, for Christ's sake, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that Aziz brought along this guy for this exact purpose. Now we know why he spaced the demands out the way he did. He needed time."
Stansfield nodded and moved in to test the water.
"Yes, but what can we do about it? If Baxter doesn't give us the approval, we are left without recourse."
"There's nothing we can do about it. That idiot's calling the shots, and unless we can find a way to convince him to attack, this will only get worse."
Stansfield thought Flood to be a good soldier. The thought of ordering an attack without the approval of Baxter would not even enter his mind With Stansfield, it was different. Spies were used to operating under a different set of rules; they were used to looking for creative ways to solve problems. Stansfield was not entirely free to do as he wished, but he had significantly more latitude than the general did. Although Stansfield's idea was clearly in violation of the orders Baxter had given him, he had already made up his mind, and he would go it alone.
The others had too much to lose. Nearing eighty, Stansfield knew the end was not far off. If ever there was a time to stick his neck out, this was it.
Looking up at the general with an almost mystical expression, Stansfield said, "There is one other option."
Flood eyed him with skepticism. He had looked feverishly for a way out and had found none.
"I don't see any way out of this other than hoping Baxter comes to his senses."
"There is one way, and it's right in front of us."
Flood was intrigued.
"Enlighten me."
Stansfield shook his head ever so slightly and said, "I think it best if you remain in the dark on this one."
Flood's hands moved to his hips, and a strange look washed over his face. He paused, wondering for a moment if he was reading Stansfield correctly.
"What do you have up your sleeve, Thomas?"
Stansfield looked out the large window behind his desk.
Without turning back to Hood, the director of the CIA said, "We both know what needs to be done. General, and there's no sense in risking two when one will suffice." Slowly looking back over his shoulder, he said,
"I think now would be a good time for you and General Campbell to go visit the front lines.
Maybe have a talk with HRT and Delta. See how they're doing. Make sure they're ready to move when the authority is given."
Flood squinted, part of him wanting to know what Thomas Stansfield was up to, but another part of him wanting nothing to do with whatever the director was planning.
"Thomas, what are you up to?"
Stansfield gingerly walked around the desk and placed his thin hand on Hoods substantial biceps. Turning him toward the door, Stansfield started to walk with him.
"I have the best of intentions. Do not worry." Several steps closer to the door and he added, "Just make sure the boys are ready to go when the time comes."
LESS THAN a minute later they were standing in the control room. Flood had informed Campbell that they were going to visit the troops. HRT would be first and then Delta. The ranger assumed it had something to do with the call to Vice President Baxter and hoped they were about to get the green light. He quickly gathered his things and on the way out the door held his encrypted cell phone up to Kennedy and reminded her to keep him informed of any changes.
After the two generals and several of their aides were gone, Kennedy looked at her boss, who was standing one step above her. Stansfield looked back at her with his tired old eyes.
"Did Baxter give you the assault authority?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
Kennedy's lips pursed.
"Why was General Flood in such a hurry to get out of here?"
"He had some things to take care of." Stansfield looked at his watch and then asked, "Is Mitch on the line?"
"Yes."
Stansfield thought it through one last time, making sure he had all of his bases covered. Then looking around the dark room, he said, "Irene, tell everyone to take a fifteen-minute break."
"Everyone?" questioned Kennedy. He surely didn't mean everyone.
"Everyone," stated Stansfield calmly and coolly. "I want the room cleared."
Kennedy, cut from the same cloth as her boss, knew the man did not mince or waste his words. She could only assume he had a very good reason for his rather unusual request and immediately went about the task of clearing the room. Rather than making a boisterous announcement to the entire group, she started with the front row and worked her way to the rear, telling everyone to finish up what they were working on and then head out. No one questioned her.
It took just under two minutes, and when everyone was gone, Kennedy and Stansfield were left standing alone in the dimly lit room. The wall of monitors at the front of the room cast a blue hue across everything.
Stansfield looked down at his protegee and said simply, "You too, Irene."
Kennedy was surprised. Her security clearance couldn't get any higher.
There was nothing she couldn't hear or view unless it was compartmentalized. She studied her boss intently and wondered what could possibly be going on. Why would he need to be alone in this room?
Stansfield stood in front of her like a statue, giving nothing away.
Kennedy finally stepped for the door, her mind trying to retrace the steps that led up to this unusual situation.
RAPP HAD AWKWARDLY accepted Anna Rieuy's apology.
Somewhere in the back of his mind it registered that asking her to not tell this story was impossible. She would have to tell it to one degree or another—as long as she now accepted the conditions. From the corner the secure field radio beeped several times, announcing that an encrypted communication was received. Rapp reached over and snatched the handset.
"Yep."
"Mitchell, it's Thomas. Have you found a way to verify our most recent problem?"
Rapp was a little surprised that Stansfield had used his first name.
"Maybe. Milt seems to think he might have a way, but it might be hard to pull it off from a logistical standpoint."
There was no immediate reply. After a moment Stansfield began to speak in a very slow and deliberate voice.
"Mitchell, you've sacrificed a lot over the last ten or so years, and I'm very grateful for that." There was another pause.
"I'm going to ask you to do something, and I don't want you to discuss it with anyone else." Stansfield stopped again, letting the gravity of his request sink in.
"Am I understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"First, we must verify if President Hayes is safe in his bunker. Second, we need to reestablish radio contact with him.
All radio and phone traffic from the bunker has been jammed, as you know. Find and disable that unit so I can speak directly to the president."
Rapp clutched the phone.
"What are my rules of engagement?"
"I would prefer it if you did it as quietly as possible, but use whatever force you see fit. Just make sure you get the president back on line."
The magic words reverberated through Rapp's mind. He was free to do as he saw fit. Now he could really get things done. Almost as quickly as he had begun to celebrate, he saw that something didn't fit.
"Does anyone else know about this?"
"Just you and me."
Rapp closed his eyes. This was unusual.
"What about Irene?"
"No. Just the two of us."
"So I'll be operating without a net for a while."
"I'm afraid so." Stansfield wasn't pleased with this, but there was no other way.
Rapp nodded while he thought about his lack of backup. Fuck it, he said to himself. You're used to working alone.
Into the thin receiver Rapp said, "I'll take care of it, sir, but make sure the cavalry is ready. Things could get real ugly in here."
"I will, Mitchell, and please be careful."
"Always." Rapp replaced the receiver and looked up at Adams.
Some weird shit must be happening on the other side, he thought. Ticking through the possibilities of what might have precipitated Stansfield's unusual call, Rapp stopped a short while down the list. No sense in clouding the mind. He had enough to worry about right here.
Pointing at the blueprints, Rapp said, "We have to find a way to check this out." BARELY A HALF hour had passed since Stansfield's edict.
Rapp had to remind himself continually to be more cautious as he and Adams searched the blueprints for a way to accomplish the task. Rielly had edged her way over from her nest in the corner and now lay on her stomach, her hands under her chin. Every once in a while her white stockinged feet would kick up in the air behind her like a little teenager's. She was playing it smart for the moment, saying nothing and listening to everything. She had worked her way back into the group.
On at least three occasions Rapp had run through the different options, none of them all that appealing, and now resigned himself to take the direct route—the route that would most quickly accomplish his task but also endanger the lives of the remaining hostages. Feeling as if he'd been pent up in a cage since he'd landed at Andrews two days ago, it was difficult for him to resist the desire simply to go down to the basement, shoot the guard, shoot thisyassin fellow, and disable the scrambler.
If he couldn't find another way, it might be the only solution, but there had to be another way, or the whole thing would end in a blood bath.
Rapp was beginning to resign himself to what he had known when the whole mess had started. Take Aziz, enough Semtex to blow up the whole building twice, and you end up with a bunch of dead hostages. Why even risk the assault team?
Just let the idiot blow himself up and end the thing.
Milt Adams flipped several sheets over and studied something.
Rapp watched him, then asked, "What?" Adams looked at the drawing and then up at the blank wall. He was trying to visualize something. Looking back down, he said, "This is the hallway on the third level. It runs down like this and takes a ninety-degree turn to the left."
Adams tapped the spot with his thin finger.
"There is a recessed vent here… at least, I think there is."
"What do you mean you 'think." Isn't it marked?"
Adams shook his head. "No. That's why I'm saying I 'think' there is."
Adams closed his eyes again, forcing himself to try to remember what the hallway looked like.
"I really think there's a vent there." Adams tapped the spot again.
"Why isn't it marked?"
"These aren't the final blueprints. If I remember right, they were worried that there would be too much moisture in the hallway if they didn't have some ventilation. You see, this entire hall was added when they put the bunker in, and the bunker's environmental systems are buried underneath it so they can't be compromised. "Adams brought his finger up and ran it along his bottom lip.
"I'm pretty sure they spliced into the house's regular system through the floor right above." Adams pulled one of the sheets back over. It was the layout of the second basement.
He searched for the right spot and said, "This is where they would have done it. They would have just cut in a down chute and brought it in from the second basement." Adams grabbed the next sheet, showing the first basement, and pulled it over.
His eyes darted excitedly back and forth over the drawing.
"This could be perfect."
"What?" asked an impatient Rapp, wishing Adams would explain what good a little vent could do.
Adams brought his hands up as if he were a quarterback signaling how far to go for a first down. He slid the two hands forward and placed them on the outside of Rapp's shoulders.
Then with a frown he said, "You're too damn big." Frustrated, Rapp asked, "Milt, what in the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm almost sure this vent is there, but it's only eighteen inches wide.
Your shoulders are all that plus a couple."
"Back up." With a confused look, Rapp asked, "Where will this vent get us?"
Adams flipped back to the drawings of the third basement.
"This vent drops right down at the corner. If you could get to it, you would have a clear shot into the anteroom of the bunker… that's assuming the first door is open."
"But you're saying I won't fit."
"No. You could lower me down, but—"Adams stopped and rolled his eyes.
"You'd sneeze, and they'd hear it."
"Afraid so." Adams nodded.
Rapp swore under his breath. He would have done almost anything to get a look at what was going on in that anteroom.
Rapp glanced up from the blueprint and looked at Rielly. She looked like a teenybopper at a slumber party with her ponytail and sweats. He looked at the rest other body and was willing to bet that Rielly weighed a buck five tops. It took Rapp only a second to decide it was worth it. If she was going to write a story, she might as well earn it.