Transfer of Power (15 page)

Kruse fellow."

"I'm already on it," replied King as he typed a note into his palm-top computer.

"Find out what he really does for the CIA." Baxter looked out the window again.

"If he's right, and we have to take the building back by force…"

Baxter shook his head.

King looked up from his computer and said, "We will lose hostages, and the American people will never vote for a trigger-happy presidential candidate that ordered the death of seventy-six Americans."

Baxter added an eye roll to his head shaking.

"This no longer appears to be the opportunity that you originally thought."

King closed his palm-top and placed it in the breast pocket of his suit coat.

"I never said it was going to be easy. With this much on the line, it's never easy. The trick, as always, will be to navigate our way through the minefield."

"There may not be a path through this particular one," Baxter sighed.

"I haven't come across a minefield yet that I couldn't get through."

King flashed his confident grin.

"Your job is to sit back and let everybody else look for the mines.

Tomorrow, for instance, we let Marge take the lead on this negotiation angle.

If it works, we're all one big happy family. If it doesn't, she takes the fall all on her own."

"What if we have to storm the place and we lose thirty… forty… hell, maybe all of the hostages?" Baxter pointed at himself.

"I'm the only one who can order that.

You said it yourself. The American people will never vote for a president who has the slaughter of that many hostages hanging around his neck." Baxter shook his head.

"Shit, I just thought of something else. What if I order the assault and it doesn't work? What if the nation sits down for dinner and they're treated to footage of FBI agents getting killed while trying to storm the White House? My career would be over, and yours too." Baxter's defeatist head-shaking continued, and with gritted teeth, he added,

"We're screwed almost any way you look at this thing."

"Not true," replied King.

"If we pull this off, you'll be a hero." King pointed at his boss.

"You'll be the next president of the United States of America. We just need to play our cards very carefully, and we need to start with Director Tracy.

We miscalculated how he would handle your public reprimand.

We can't have him holding a press conference tomorrow.

If he reads the comments you made when you were campaigning, it would make us look like shit. I think I should go see him. Offer him the olive branch and tell him we want him to stay in charge of the Secret Service and help the FBI.

I'll tell him it was Tutwiler's idea to can him, and you went along with it because you were so upset about the attack. I'll tell him you weren't thinking clearly, and that you're grateful for the service he has given this country… yada… yada… yada. You know the gig. I'll stroke him."

Baxter thought about it for a second and with a tired sigh said, "Go ahead. Do whatever it takes to keep him quiet."

THE WHITE HOUSE was silent as the clock approached midnight. Aziz left the Situation Room and walked down the hall to Horsepower. The door was open, and Aziz entered without knocking. Sitting in a swivel chair, Bengazi was keeping an eye on a bank of black-and-white security monitors. The monitors showed different areas of the grounds around the White House and shots of all the main entrances. Normally the system also kept an eye on areas within the White House, but Bengazi had disabled the cameras for fear that the FBI might find some way to pirate the images and spy on them.

Aziz placed his hand on the back of the chair and asked, "How does everything look?"

"Nice and quiet."

"Good. Have you been getting sleep?"

"Yes."

"How about the men?"

"They are doing fine."

"And the hostages?"

"Asleep."

As Aziz looked at the monitors, the walkie-talkie on his hip squawked and his name barked forth.

Bringing it to his mouth, he said, "Yes."

"Rafique, I have made progress. I think you should come see."

"I'll be right down." Aziz had been not-so-padendy waiting for this update. Having succeeded beyond all of his people's wildest dreams, he was still not content, and would not be until he wrestled the cowardly president from his bunker. He held the White House hostage and the entire government of the United States had come to a grinding halt, but that wasn't enough.

Aziz reached the third basement and headed for the bunker. When he rounded the corner, he found his man sitting on a toolbox, drenched in sweat, and smoking a cigarette.

The short, fat man looked up with a large grin, his nicotine stained teeth topped by a pointy nose and a graying mustache.

Goggles hung from his neck and a pair of orange ear protectors were perched atop his head, giving him the appearance of a plump rodent.

The man placed his large and thick horn-rimmed glasses back on his face and waved toward the outer door to the bunker with a smile.

"Open sesame."

Aziz stepped forward and pushed on the steel door. It swung inward, revealing a room and a shiny vaultlike door at the other end. A rush of emotion swept over him as he thought of the president and his bodyguards sitting on the other side of the door, thinking they were safe. Aziz walked slowly across the concrete floor and stopped just in front of the vault door. Extending his hand, he placed his palm flat on the smooth surface. Clenching his fist, Aziz hammered on the door twice. No sound reverberated. Spinning away from the door, Aziz looked at the last minute addition to his cause.

The frumpy man before him was a gift from Aziz's newest benefactor. A man who had a very personal stake in how Aziz's mission turned out. The slovenly safecracker standing in the doorway had come complete with his own look and unique talent. As it was explained to Aziz, the door that was installed on the president's bunker was of the same type that the U.S. military used for all of their command-and-control bunkers, and was designed to withstand large blasts, not drills and acetylene blowtorches.

Aziz looked at the man and asked, "How long will this door take?"

The safecracker exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, "If I push it and risk burning out one of the drills, I could probably have it open in thirty hours."

"What happens if you lose one of the drills?"

"Then we are in trouble." The little thief shrugged.

"It could end up taking three to four days."

"And if you play it safe?"

"I can have it open in forty-eight hours."

Aziz put his hands in a prayerful grip and bounced them off his chin twice.

"Forty-eight hours will suffice." And with a wave of his finger, he cautioned, "But no longer than that."

Aziz walked past him and slapped him on the shoulder.

"Good work, Mustafa." Aziz left the room, leaving his little thief to retrieve the crown jewel. As he walked down the hallway, he thought. All I have to do is keep them at bay for two more days.

THE LIGHTS WERE off in the bunker, and everyone was trying to get some sleep. Warch was lying on the bunk closest to the door. The Secret Service agent was wide-awake. He could hear President Hayes snoring at the far end of the room, and every minute or so squeaking springs could be heard as someone turned on the narrow beds.

Warch wondered how his wife and children were doing.

His family would be afraid, but that couldn't be helped. Being married to someone who was trained to throw himself in front of an oncoming bullet was a little nerve-racking, but Sara was strong. She would have the kids to keep her busy, and her parents were in Baltimore. The Service would tell her and the kids that he was all right. Warch's thoughts turned to the other wives and husbands that weren't as fortunate. Over and over again, Wirch had replayed the frantic radio traffic that had barked out over his earpiece while they rushed the president to the bunker.

"Agents down! Agents down!

"And then there was the explosion and the machine gun fire. And now, over twelve hours later—nothing.

Everything added up to one conclusion: Aziz and his terrorists were in control of the White House. Warch ran down a list of the faces and names of his agents who were on the day shift. He couldn't help but wonder which ones had made it out alive and which ones were dead.

Still, despite what was undoubtedly the worst day in the history of the Secret Service, they had at least saved the president from the talons of Aziz. Warch savored that one accomplishment as he felt sleep coming on.

He rolled toward the wall and let out a yawn When most of the air was expelled from his lungs, he froze.

Warch had not heard the noise before; he was sure of that.

Craning his neck toward the door, he tried to listen. It was a clanging noise, metal on metal. There were several more clanging noises and then a low whine, almost like an electric razor.

Warch listened for another moment and then sprang out of bed, throwing his blankets to the side. The concrete floor felt cold to his feet. In his white T-shirt and boxers he knelt on the floor and pressed his left ear to the door, and then it hit him. It was a drill. They were drilling through the vault door, which meant they had already broken through the outer door.

Warch's palms became sweaty on the cool metallic surface, and he swore out loud. Standing, he turned on the light and said to the room at large, "Wake up, people. We have trouble."

A FAINT METHODICAL beep could be heard in the distance.

Rapp felt as if he were swimming upward for it, out of a deep black hole. The noise became more pronounced with each kick and downward stroke. It was getting lighter; he was nearing the surface.

Suddenly, Rapp sat up in bed, his thick black hair sticking out in Medusa-like fashion. It took him a second to realize he'd been dreaming.

It was the same damn dream he'd been having for as long as he could remember. Drowning, it was always drowning. He was always swimming for the surface, gasping for air.

Several shakes of the head later, Rapp realized where he was. The faint gray light of early morning was spilling through his bedroom windows. He turned to make out the red digital numerals of his alarm clock. There was a four followed by another and then a five.

God, it was nice to be home, Rapp thought. Without looking, he reached over and swatted the snooze button. Then he flopped backward onto the crisp white sheets and stretched out, kicking the blanket to the side.

Not quite ready to get out of bed, he allowed his mind to drift. Outside the bedroom window, he could hear the gentle waves of the Chesapeake lapping against the rocky shore. They were calling his name, tugging at him to get out of bed. Rapp turned diagonally across the queen-size bed and stretched his arms way above his head, letting out a drawn-out yawn.

He had forced himself to go home and sleep after a meeting at Director Tracy's house. There was nothing else to do. Dr. Hornig had promised a full report on the results of her interrogation with Fara Harut in the morning, and until then it was a waiting game—something Rapp wasn't very good at.

Now, as he rolled onto his side, he suddenly remembered the events of the day before and of the little crisis that was taking place thirty-some miles to the west. A small voice in the back of his head screamed something, and Rapp was on his feet instantly. Naked, he walked across the hardwood floor of his bedroom and stopped in front of a set of French doors.

They were open, and through the screens he could now hear bird songs filling the still morning air. Across the bay, on the tree lined horizon, the sky was brightening. The sun was coming up over the Atlantic, and a memorable day was about to begin, whether he liked it or not.

The lapping water continued to call his name, and with more enthusiasm than any sane person would have had, Rapp turned and headed across the worn and creaky wood floor of his beach house. Once he'd finished negotiating the precipitous staircase that led down to the main floor, he walked to the kitchen and then the mud room. Hanging on a brass hook by the back door was a faded, salt-stained blue swimsuit that looked as old as its owner.

Rapp put the worn trunks on, grabbed his goggles and a towel, and headed out the back door. The thermometer on the deck railing told him it was a comfortable sixty-two degrees.

Just cool enough to wake him up, but not so cold as to dash his enthusiasm. With several shakes of his arms, he continued across the brand-new deck to the stairs that led down to the water. Rapp had bought the house the previous year, and his only home improvement to date was to tear down the rotted wood deck and stairs and replace them. After a thirty-foot descent, he put on his goggles and picked up the pace. Rapp ran across the long, flat section of dock that jutted out into the water. On the right was a twenty-four-foot Boston Whaler, and at the end of the dock was a bench that sat atop an eight foot section that turned at a ninety-degree angle to the left. By the time Rapp reached the bench, he was at a full jog without breaking stride, he tossed the towel onto the bench and dove into the salty water.

He found his rhythm within six or seven strokes and settled in for the one-mile swim up the coast. Rapp no longer competed professionally, but just three years earlier he had been one of the world's top-ranked tri athletes In the Mount Everest of triathlon competitions, the Ironman in Hawaii, Rapp had posted three top-five finishes and a first place. But his work with the CIA had picked up considerably in the last five years, and the hectic and unpredictable schedule had forced him to give up competition.

Rapp returned to the dock in front of his house at twenty to six feeling fresh and loose. After toweling off, he made it back up to the house and into the shower. Fifteen minutes later he was shaved, dressed, and out the door, with a cup of piping hot coffee in his hand. Rapp slid behind the wheel of his new black Volvo sedan and eased it out of the narrow garage. He took it slow as he drove down his crumbling asphalt driveway.

That was another project he would have to tackle before winter came.

When he reached a sturdier surface, he increased speed and began to enjoy the performance of the new sedan.

It felt good to be back in civilization.

Several minutes later he was on Route 50 and on his way to a meeting at Langley. Dr. Hornig was to give a briefing at seven a.m. on everything she had learned from her session with Fara Harut. Rapp was not overly excited about sharing breakfast with Dr. Strangelove, but considering the information she would provide, he was willing to bite the bullet.

Twenty-two minutes later, Rapp caught the Beltway and took it around the northern part of D.C. Traffic was picking up, but at this early hour it still moved along at a brisk ten miles per hour over the posted speed limit. Fifteen minutes after reaching the Beltway, Rapp pulled through the first security checkpoint at Langley and parked his car. After passing through the main security checkpoint of the old building, Rapp took the elevator to Director Stansfield's office on the seventh floor.

Stansfield's administrative assistant reported his arrival over her headset, and a moment later Irene Kennedy appeared.

Kennedy escorted Rapp into the director's inner sanctum, where the man himself was seated behind his large desk, a pair of bifocals perched at the edge of his nose, his attention focused on an open file.

Stansfield took another moment to finish and then closed the file.

Before standing, he grabbed a stack of documents, opened one of the drawers behind his desk, inserted them, closed the door, and locked it with a key.

Stansfield left his suit coat hanging on the coatrack and came around the desk, pulling up his suit pants another notch.

"Good morning, Mitch. I hope you got some sleep last night."

"I did, sir. And you?"

Stansfield placed his fragile hand on Rapp's shoulder. The DCI was almost a full head shorter than Rapp.

"When you get to my age, Mitch, sleep becomes a very elusive thing."

Stansfield turned his young specialist away from his desk and started walking him across the office.

"I've set up a meeting for you this morning, but we'll talk about that later. Dr. Hornig is waiting for us, and I'd like to hear what she's found out before we get into anything else."

As Rapp followed Stansfield and Kennedy through a door and into a windowless conference room, he wondered who his mystery meeting was with. Dr. Hornig was already seated on one side of the table and was looking over her own handwritten notes. Stansfield took his seat at the head of the table, and Rapp and Kennedy sat across from Hornig. Rapp noticed she was wearing the same clothes as the day before. It appeared as though she had not slept.

Taking off her black horn-rimmed glasses, Hornig set them on top of her notes and rubbed her eyes, saying, "We have a lot of information. An incredible amount, really." She lowered her hands and shook her head.

"It's going to take months to sort through all of it. But having said that, I know you are more interested in information involving Mr. Aziz and the current White House crisis."