Transfer of Power

by Vince Flynn

  ACROSS THE STREET in the Executive Office Building, Vice President Baxter was holding court in a separate conference room down the hall from the FBI’s command post. As always Dallas King was sitting next to Baxter, General Flood was on the vice president’s left, and farther down the table FBI Director Roach, CIA Director Stansfield, and Secret Service Director Tracy had taken their seats. The secretaries of state and defense were also present, along with a dozen aides and several Secret Service agents from the vice president’s detail. The door was closed, and each occupant stared expectantly at the black speaker placed in the center of the table. After twenty more seconds of silence the black box announced the ringing of the phone in the Situation Room.

  AZIZ WAS STILL staring at the message when the phone started to ring. He was furious, outraged that such a thing could happen, and now of all times. His eyes burned a hole in the screen as his mind raced to calculate the potential damage this catastrophe could inflict on his mission. All the while Aziz tried to keep emotion out of it. Fara Harut was his mentor, the man who had wooed him from the classroom to the battlefield, the man who had shown him the evil of the Zionists. Harut was the reason he was where he was today, and now, he was gone.

  The phone continued its irritating noise, and Aziz had to catch himself-from answering it—not now, not until he calmed down and put himself-in the proper mind-set. There was the plan, and he had to stick with it. After he had more time to think, he could deal with this calamity. Laying his hands flat on the table, he forced all of the tension from his body and immersed himself in his role. Finally, after the phone had rung at least a dozen times, he reached out and slowly brought the receiver to his mouth.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Aziz,” stated a calm and confident female voice, “this is Attorney General Margaret Tutwiler. We are having some problems getting together all of the money.” There was a pause on the line and then, “So far we have managed to transfer—”

  “One point three billion dollars.” Aziz gave her the sum as he stood abruptly. Anger coursing through every inch of his body. This was too much. He had done his research on the Americans. He knew who all of the players would be. He knew that with Hayes out of commission the transfer of power would take place, and with Vice President Baxter came an increased role for the already important attorney general. But to insult him in such a way was inconceivable. It was such a blatant affront that there was no way it could be anything other than intentional.

  A slightly surprised Tutwiler said, “Yes, one point three billion.” She stammered for a second. “It’s going to take some time to gather all of the money. . . . It would be a big help, as far as expediting the transfer of the remainder of the money, if you could show us a sign of your good faith.”

  Aziz closed his eyelids tightly, commanding himself to continue forward with the plan. In a pained voice, he asked, “What would you propose?”

  “The release of several hostages would go a long way in showing us you are sincere.”

  This was beyond belief. In a voice that was near breaking, Aziz asked, “How many would you like me to release—ten, twenty . . . maybe thirty of them?”

  Tutwiler, unsure of how genuine the offer was, tentatively replied, “Um . . . thirty would be great . . . and after they are released, we can work on getting more of the money transferred.”

  Aziz stood looking down the length of the table, staring at everything and nothing at the same time, his instincts sharp, his anger funneling into a direct beam of energy. Plan or no plan, this had moved into the realm of the personal. They were trying to insult him by sending this woman to talk with him. They were testing him to see how far he would go. Was it a trap? He thought not. It was too early for an attack, it was broad daylight, and the media was right across the street. If they wanted to test his resolve, he would show them just how strong and determined it was.

  It was all too much. First the news that Fara Harut had been taken, and now this stupid woman insulting him. Finally, unable to hold it in anymore, he yelled, “What did I tell you yesterday? I said all of the money by nine! I didn’t say part of it; I said all of it! Don’t insult me by talking to me of the difficulty of transferring the money! Your Treasury Department could transfer ten times the money I asked for in one hour if they wanted to! I think it is time to teach you stupid Americans a lesson! Look out your windows, and I will show you what happens when you play your idiotic games with me!”

  ANNA RIELLY SAT on the floor uncomfortably, her stomach growling. She seriously wondered if she’d be able to make it another hour without wetting her pants. Several of the other hostages had already done so, and the room was beginning to reek of urine. Rielly heard the sound of heavy boots approaching, and then the head terrorist entered the room. The entire group cowered at the sight of the obviously enraged man.

  Aziz walked right up to the edge of the hostages and pointed to a man. “You! Stand up right now!” Whoever he was yelling at didn’t respond fast enough, and Aziz yelled even louder, “Now!”

  As the hostage stood, Rielly immediately recognized him. It was Bill Schwartz, the president’s national security adviser. The terrorist screamed at the woman who was clutching Schwartz’s leg and said, “You too! Come!”

  The woman also did not move fast enough, and Aziz reached down and grabbed her by her hair, yanking her to her feet like a rag doll. With the help of another terrorist he led them out of the room.

  Aziz pushed the two hostages in front of him up the stairs to the first level of the West Wing. Then, before stepping out underneath the small portico on the north side of the building, Aziz pulled a mesh hood down over his face. He took a small remote control from his drab green combat vest and punched in a code, disarming the explosive device that was attached to the door.

  Aziz kicked open the double doors and marched outside. All alone in the morning sunlight, he crossed the narrow driveway and stepped back onto another sidewalk near the edge of the small portico. Aziz defiantly looked around at the dozens of guns that were trained on him. The long barrels of sniper rifles could be seen bristling from every rooftop in sight. He knew they wouldn’t shoot, they couldn’t shoot, not in America. That command had to come down through layers of bureaucrats, and it was far too early for that. Aziz raised his AK-74 in the air and unleashed a loud eight-round burst. Defiantly, he cradled his weapon across his chest and stood his ground, showing the Americans that he was not afraid. After he had made his presence felt, he marched back into the building and looked at his watch. He had decided he would give the media thirty seconds to get their cameras focused on the entrance.

  Aziz was following his script precisely, with one exception. The rage. It had been his plan from the start to kill the national security adviser. But now, he decided to deviate slightly from his plan and allow himself some personal satisfaction in retaliation for Harut. In an almost spastic flurry, Aziz wheeled and slapped Schwartz across the face.

  His face within inches of Schwartz’s, he yelled, “How does is feel to be terrified, you dog?”

  The national security adviser’s eyes welled up with tears, and the woman standing next to him began to sob. Schwartz wrapped his arms around his secretary. He knew what was happening, he knew it was the end, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Aziz continued to scream and taunt him with questions.

  “How many times have you ordered the death of my Arab brothers? How many times?” Aziz’s eyes were maniacal with rage. Schwartz gave no answer, and Aziz slapped him again; then, grabbing him by the collar, Aziz forced the national security adviser toward the door with his secretary’s arms still wrapped tightly around her boss’s waist. As they reached the door, Aziz placed his boot on the woman’s butt and shoved.

  Schwartz and the woman tumbled out into the light and fell to the pavement. Aziz stood in the doorway and yelled through his mesh hood for them to get up. The woman was crying harder now, and Schwartz’s tears were flowing freely down his cheeks. The presidential adviser
stood and pulled his secretary to her feet. Aziz screamed at them to start walking, and after several seconds they began to do so, though slowly.

  Standing in the doorway, Aziz watched the two hostages walk toward the north gate. When they reached the halfway point, when they were within clear view of the news cameras, Aziz raised his rifle and took aim.

  “Stop!” he yelled. When the president’s national security adviser turned to look over his shoulder, Aziz had Schwartz’s face in the center of his sights. He squeezed the trigger once, the powerful rifle bucked, and he brought it right back to level, the woman’s head now framed in the cold black sights. A quick squeeze of the trigger and the second body was tumbling to the pavement just behind the first. As the woman came to rest on top of Schwartz, Aziz zeroed in and unloaded another dozen rounds. The loud clacking of the Kalashnikov rifle reverberated across the pristine north grounds of the White House.

  When Aziz was satisfied, he closed the door, the smoking muzzle of his AK-74 hanging at his side. Before starting back for the basement, he rearmed the booby-trapped doorway and then started down the hall, his eyes full of hate, his breaths deep, and his pace quick. When he reached the staircase, he ran down the steps, through the hallway, and into the empty Situation Room. Grabbing the phone, he yelled, “Are you still there?”

  * * *

  SKIP MCMAHON HELD the phone to his ear and looked down at the two bodies lying in the driveway. The man he recognized. He then turned to Marge Tutwiler, who sat motionless at the table, staring out the window. McMahon then looked at Irene Kennedy, who sadly shook her head.

  “I’m here,” answered McMahon.

  “Who is this?” shouted Aziz.

  “Special Agent Skip McMahon of the FBI.”

  “Good! Don’t ever insult me by putting that woman on the phone again. My demands are unchanged! I will kill one hostage every hour until all of the money is placed in the account I have given you! When you do that, I will release one-third of the hostages! One hostage every hour! Am I understood?”

  “I understand you very clearly, but one hour might be pushing it.”

  Now was the time to shift gear. “Listen to me, McMahon.” Aziz now spoke calmly, in an almost professional tone. “I know your rules of engagement. I just killed two hostages, so now you must send in your Hostage Rescue Team.” Aziz stopped and then added in a grave tone, “That will be a big mistake, and I will tell you why. If you attempt such a stunt, I will blow this great building of yours to kingdom come and all of the hostages with it. My men and I will gladly become martyrs for our cause, and you know it.” Aziz paused for a moment. “It does not need to come to that, however. The only reason why I killed those two hostages was because of the stupidity of your attorney general. If you and I play by the rules, no one needs to die. You hand over all of the money in one hour, and I release a third of the hostages. It is as simple as that. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. From now on, McMahon, I talk to you and only you. Now I will await the rest of the money.” Aziz calmly placed the phone back in its cradle. He knew exactly how to play them.

  16

  THE VICE PRESIDENT and the others sat in silence around the conference table. There was a knock on the door followed by a slight pause. Then the door opened cautiously and McMahon and Irene Kennedy entered. The men sitting around the table were sullen. FBI Director Roach looked up and asked, “Who did they kill?”

  Irene Kennedy answered. “We don’t know who the woman was, but the man was Bill Schwartz.”

  Every person in the room lowered his or her head. They had all worked with Schwartz at one time or another, and he was well liked. After a long period of silence, Vice President Baxter asked, “If we give him the money, will he release a third of the hostages?”

  The question was greeted with shrugs and uncertainty by all of the men sitting at the table. Eventually all eyes turned to Kennedy. She was the expert. Slowly, she nodded her head and then said, “I think he will keep his word.”

  The vice president took in the analysis with pursed lips. It was what he wanted to hear. Dallas King leaned over and cupped his hand over his boss’s ear. Whispering, he said, “If he starts killing a hostage every hour, we are in some serious trouble. I don’t care how much it costs, or what they do with the money, if we can free a third of the hostages, I say we do it.”

  Baxter nodded as King eased away and back into his seat. King was right. They were boxed in, and there were only two ways out. As far as Baxter was concerned, one of them wasn’t even an option. The vice president looked at FBI Director Roach and said, “Brian, would you start the wheels in motion for transferring the rest of the money into the account? It is my decision that we will wait until he releases one third of the hostages, and then we will proceed from there. Any questions?” Baxter looked around the room and everyone shook their heads. Baxter then looked back to the head of the FBI. “Let me know if you run into any problems, and make sure it’s done within the hour. We don’t need to see any more hostages gunned down.”

  Roach nodded, and he and McMahon left the room.

  The aged director of central intelligence sat in his chair and observed. He hadn’t had a lot of face time with the vice president prior to the crisis and was still trying to get a good read on him. Baxter seemed to despise the fact that he had been put in this situation. That worried Thomas Stansfield. Great leaders rose to the occasion. They almost thrived when confronted with a crisis. This man seemed to shrink from it.

  Turning in his chair, Stansfield got back to the business at hand. “Mr. Vice President, we need to make some contingency plans.”

  Baxter nodded. “I know . . . I know, but let’s just take it one step at a time. Let’s get some of the hostages released, and then we’ll deal with the next demand.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have that luxury, sir.” Stansfield paused. “What if his next demand is untenable?” Stansfield had decided to wait until he had a full report from Dr. Hornig before he briefed the vice president on what they knew from Harut.

  “I really don’t want to think about that right now.”

  General Flood leaned forward, miffed at Baxter’s reply. “We have no choice but to think about it. We have to be ready to move if this thing gets out of control.”

  Baxter squirmed. All eyes in the room were on him, and he desperately wanted to avoid making a decision. Why would he have to be the butcher? Finally, reluctantly, he let out the difficult words, though they didn’t exactly ring with confidence. “Get everything in place, and if the time comes, I’ll be ready to give the order.”

  The large warrior turned to Stansfield, and the two men exchanged knowing glances. Baxter did not have what it would take. He was in over his head and would blow in the wind until the last possible second.

  The vice president placed his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes. Without looking up, he said, “Let’s take a break and meet back here in thirty minutes. I need some time alone . . . to think.”

  Everyone, with the exception of King, rose and started for the door. Baxter looked at his chief of staff and said, “You too, Dallas. Go check on Marge, and see how she’s doing.” King nodded and left with the others.

  IT HAD BEEN an absolute bear to get from Langley to Capitol Hill. Traffic was horrendous due to the street closures and the large crowds around the White House. Rapp turned his black Volvo from Second Street on to Pennsylvania Avenue and gunned it to get around a cabbie who was driving like he had his head shoved up his ass. The farther Rapp traveled away from the Capitol, the worse the neighborhood got. The mix of homes went from nicely restored to run-down and dilapidated eyesores. Several blocks later, Rapp took a left and found the home he had been looking for, an immaculate turn-of-the-century Victorian with fresh paint and ornate woodwork. The home was sandwiched in between two rotting houses of similar architecture that were in dire need of repair.

  Rapp parked his car in front of the nice Victorian and
looked at his dashboard clock: 9:16. Events at the White House would be under way. He reached for his digital phone, but decided against it. Irene would have enough going on. She didn’t need a call from him, and besides, he wasn’t in the mood for bad news. Rapp got out of the car, his holstered Beretta bulging underneath the right armpit of his suit coat. He pulled his sunglasses down a notch on his nose and started up the sidewalk.

  Standing on the porch was Milt Adams, all five feet five inches of him. His head was shaved and his dark black skin glistened in the sunlight. Despite his slight stature, he gave one the impression of a much larger individual.

  As Rapp reached the steps, a rather large German shepherd was coming-down from the porch straight for him. Rapp tensed at his natural urge to pull out his gun and shoot the dog. He hated dogs—strike that—he didn’t hate dogs per se, just the guard-dog variety. They were an occupational hazard that he was none too fond of. Knowing that to show fear was suicidal, Rapp stood as stiff as a board with his hands at his side. Sure enough, the dog came right up and stuck its snout in his crotch. Rapp’s immediate reaction was to take a step back, but it did no good, the dog simply followed, sniffing loudly.

  From the porch, Milt Adams shouted in a deep drill-instructor voice, “Rufus, heel!” The dog immediately wheeled and headed up the steps, heeding the command and taking up a post at his owner’s side. Adams reached down and scratched the dog under the neck. “Good boy, Rufus. Good boy.”

  Rapp stared up at Adams, awed that such a deep, booming voice had just come from such a little body. Adams could not have weighed more than one hundred fifty pounds, and the voice Rapp had just heard could have given James Earl Jones, Isaac Hayes, and Barry White all a run for their money.