Bengazi finished relaying to his friend the information that had been requested. Without hesitation, Aziz yelled, “Where?”
Bengazi pointed to a hostage sitting near the edge of the group, and then followed Aziz as he walked briskly toward the man. Aziz stopped five feet from a man in a white shirt and loosened tie. Pointing to the man, Aziz asked Bengazi, “Him?” Bengazi nodded.
Aziz looked down at the man and commanded, “Stand!” The man did as he was told and rose to a height several inches taller than Aziz. The man looked to be in his early to mid fifties with short brown-and-gray hair. In a voice loud enough to make sure everyone heard him, Aziz asked, “You have a request?”
“Ah,” the man started out somewhat nervously, “we have a pregnant woman in the group, and several other people who are older. I had asked . . . ah . . . your man”—the White House employee pointed to Bengazi—“if we could get some blankets and food for . . .”
Aziz cut him off with a loud, “No!”
The man took a quarter of a step back. “But”—he gestured with an open hand to a woman on the floor—“she’s pregnant.”
Aziz looked at the bulging stomach of the woman on the floor. She was lying on her back with her head resting on an older woman’s lap. Without taking his eyes of the expectant mother, Aziz slid his right hand to his thigh and found the grip of his gun. He pulled the pistol from his holster and turned to the man standing before him. Without saying a word, without the slightest expression on his face, Aziz raised the gun to the man’s forehead and, from a distance of one foot, pulled the trigger.
The loud crack of the gunshot caused everyone in the room to jerk involuntarily. Before the report of the gun had died, the man was propelled backward and into the huddled mass of hostages—his blood, brain matter, and skull fragments showering a half dozen shocked individuals.
As the room erupted, Rafique Aziz turned and marched for the exit. His cold expression masked a perverse satisfaction in completing another chapter in his plan. Aziz left the room to the noise of his men screaming at the hostages. As he walked down the hall to the Situation Room, a smile creased his lips. When the time came, the hostages would give him no trouble. From this point forward, they would be as docile as a flock of lambs.
12
AS THE CHAIRMAN of the Joint Chiefs, General Flood was the highestranking officer in the U.S. military. The size and opulence of his office, located just down the hall from the Joint Chiefs briefing room, was fitting for a man who wielded such power. The walls were covered with photos and plaques that documented his rise through the ranks of the Army. In typical military fashion the show was arranged in order—starting in one corner with a photo of a young plebe at West Point and then documenting his ascension through the ranks until he reached his current and final post.
The room was set up in thirds. At the far end was a rectangular conference table that seated twenty. In the middle of the room was the general’s substantial Thomas Aquinas—style desk. The expansive wood surface curved so the desk literally wrapped its way around the general’s healthy midsection. This allowed Flood to swivel in his chair and go from project to project without having to exert too much effort.
The last third of the office was dominated by an assortment of couches and chairs arranged around a long glass coffee table. Mitch Rapp sat in one of the chairs facing the office’s entrance. General Flood’s aide had escorted him into the room almost thirty minutes earlier. Since then, Rapp had been eyeing an expensive bottle of Booker’s small-batch bourbon that was sitting behind the general’s well-stocked wet bar on his right. Rapp was tired and edgy. He hadn’t worked out in almost a week, and since he was used to putting in at least two hours a day, six days a week, his body was rebelling. The sleep he had gotten had been minimal, the food had been awful, and now it had all come down to this. His expertise was being called into question by someone who had been teaching law students for the last decade while he had been putting his ass on the line. Rapp had never felt such frustration. Aziz was right across the river, sitting in the White House, and there was nothing he could do about it but sit and wait.
After another ten minutes or so, General Flood returned to his office. He was accompanied by Rapp’s two bosses and General Campbell, the commander of the Joint Special Operations Command. Rapp stood to meet them and tried to get a read from Director Stansfield as to whether he was going to have him taken out and shot. Rapp quickly realized it was a futile effort. Trying to gauge Thomas Stansfield was like trying to read the expression of the Sphinx. The longer you observed the more you thought you saw. But in reality you saw nothing. In the case of the Sphinx, it was because there was nothing, but in the case of Thomas Stansfield, there was a lot.
General Flood began to undo the gold buttons of his military blouse almost immediately. “Well, Mr. Kruse, you sure as hell caught a lot of people’s attention in there.” Flood pulled his jacket off and threw it over the back of one of the chairs.
“I’m sorry if I . . .”
Flood cut him off with a flip of the wrist. “No need for apologies. It was exactly what they needed.” The general continued for the bar. “Who needs a drink? I sure as hell do.” Flood turned over a glass tumbler and grabbed a bottle of twenty-five-year-old McCallan single-malt scotch. The general poured in three fingers’ worth and then added a handful of ice. After swirling the cubes around in the glass, he brought the drink to his lips and took a long pull. He closed his eyes and set the drink down, savoring the taste. After a moment of silence, he opened his eyes and exhaled, a look of satisfaction on his face. “Irene, what would you like?”
Kennedy was not a big drinker, but from past experience she knew that with the general it was not important that you drank your drink; it was just important that you had one in front of you. “Vodka, please.”
Flood knew what Stansfield and Campbell drank and had already begun pouring their drinks. “Mr. Rapp—” Flood looked up. “I assume it’s all right that I call you by your real name.” Rapp nodded. “What’s your poison?”
“Bourbon. Booker’s, please.”
Flood glanced up from his bartending duties with a raised eyebrow. Rapp wasn’t sure if the general was impressed or thought him crazy. Flood finished with the drinks and brought them over to the group, saying, “As I was saying, Mr. Rapp, you really got their attention in there. Dallas King, Vice President Baxter’s chief of staff, came up to me after the meeting and wanted to know who in the hell you were.” Flood handed Kennedy her drink. “Here you go, Irene.”
“And . . .” asked Rapp.
“And”—Flood snorted—“I told him he needed to get a higher security-clearance if he wanted to discuss such matters. I could hardly tell him you were an analyst after your little performance.” Flood finished delivering the drinks and took the chair opposite Rapp at the long end of the coffee table. Kennedy and Stansfield were seated on one couch, and General Campbell faced them on the other.
Rapp looked to his bosses and said, “I’m sorry if I was out of line, but I’ve come too far to watch a bunch of hacks screw this up.”
The director of the CIA held his glass of scotch with both hands. after a moment, he nodded his head slowly and said, “I would have preferred you to have kept quiet, but you did say some things that needed to be said.” Stansfield took a sip and then added, “And in a way that none of us could have.”
General Flood nodded in agreement. “And more importantly, you have made it very clear what’s at stake. Right now Baxter has put all of his chips behind Marge Tutwiler, and thanks to your blunt critique of her game plan, her position is fully exposed. If her strategy backfires tomorrow, Baxter will drop her in a heartbeat, and he will have to listen to us.”
Rapp sat back. “So we sit around and wait for this to blow up in Tutwiler’s face?”
“Nope.” General Flood shook his head. “I never like to sit around and wait. There are always preparations to be made before one goes into battle.” Flood shifted his a
mple frame and placed his drink on the end table to his right. “The four of us here”—Flood motioned to Kennedy, Stansfield, Campbell, and himself—“are in agreement that in all likelihood there is only one way this crisis will be resolved. We will have to retake the building by force. Aziz will string Vice President Baxter along until we’re in an untenable situation . . . a situation where we cannot and should not meet his demands. When that time comes, we have to be in a position to move, and as I said before, I don’t like sending men into battle unless I’m prepared.”
Flood paused and took a sip of scotch. “Now, you people are in the intelligence-gathering business”—Flood gestured to Stansfield, Kennedy, and Rapp—“so I don’t have to explain to you that a battle plan without good intel is iffy at best. So the bottom line is we need real, hard intel, and we need it now.”
Leaning back, Flood crossed his legs. “Someone has to get inside.” Looking at Rapp, Flood added, “We need a volunteer. Someone who is willing to take some risks. Someone who understands Rafique Aziz. Someone with unique talents such as yours, Mr. Rapp.”
The general’s words felt like warm sunshine after a cold swim. Rapp couldn’t keep himself from grinning. With confidence, he replied, “I’m your man.”
Flood smiled. “I thought so.” Then turning to the director of the CIA, Flood asked, “Thomas?”
Stansfield thought about it for a second and nodded. “I think it’s a good idea, but it might be tough getting approval for it. The FBI won’t like it.”
“I could give a damn,” growled the general. “This is war, and in war we fight by a different set of rules. Now, I like Brian Roach,” said Flood, referring to the director of the FBI, “but he needs to understand that we cannot afford to play by one set of rules while Aziz plays by another. We need our A-Team on the front line, not the junior varsity, and”—Flood pointed to Rapp—“Mitch here is the A-Team.” Flood took a sip of his drink, and then leaning forward, he placed his big hand on Stansfield’s shoulder. “You find a way to get him in, and I’ll make sure we get approval.”
Stansfield thought a moment and then nodded his head in agreement.
General Flood withdrew his hand and sat back. Looking around the room, he asked, “Now, does anybody have any ideas on how we’re going to get him in?”
After a while Stansfield said, “No, but I have a good idea where to start.”
THE SUN WAS setting as Vice President Baxter left the Pentagon. Attorney General Tutwiler had gone back to the Hoover Building with FBI Director Roach and Special Agent McMahon. Baxter sat alone with Dallas King in the backseat of the armor-plated limousine. The vice president looked languidly out the window as Dallas King babbled on about what should be covered when Baxter addressed the nation—a move they had decided was both necessary and an opportunity that couldn’t be missed. Baxter would be guaranteed the largest audience in the history of presidential addresses. The only question for King right now was whether they should do a scripted address, with Baxter reading from a teleprompter, or hold a more natural and impromptu press conference.
Baxter was only half listening to his subordinate. King was rambling on about focus groups and polling data while the vice president’s mind kept drifting back to the dark-featured gentleman from the CIA. The terrorism specialist, Baxter reminded himself.
Baxter held his hand up and motioned for King to be silent. The vice president let his well-manicured fingers fall to his knee while he struggled to pin down what exactly it was that was bothering him. After a moment he pursed his lips and said, “Call our contacts over at the National Security Agency and see what you can find out about that Mr. 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.”
13
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-patiently 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 e
ntire 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 vault-like 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 tools 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.”