by Vince Flynn
Stansfield and Kennedy followed the swaggering young chief of staff down the hallway.
Without knocking, King opened the door to Baxter’s private study, and Stansfield and Kennedy followed. Vice President Baxter sat in a large leather chair in front of the fireplace reading over the speech he was to give to the nation in a little over an hour. Upon seeing his guests, he set the speech and his pen down.
Stansfield and Kennedy sat on the couch, and King stood in front of the fireplace next to his boss. Baxter leaned forward and folded his hands. “What would you like to talk to me about?”
“We think,” Stansfield started, “that we may have found a way to get someone into the White House undetected by the terrorists.”
“Really,” Baxter said, showing his interest by moving forward to the edge of the chair. “How?”
Stansfield looked to Kennedy, and she said, “There is a ventilation system-that circulates all of the air in the White House. The main intake and exhaust ducts are located on the roof, but there is a backup duct that leads from the basement of the White House to an area on the South Lawn.”
Baxter looked at Stansfield and said, “I’ve never noticed any ventilation ducts on the South Lawn.”
“Neither have I,” replied the director of the CIA. “They’re concealed with trees and bushes. We’ve done a reconnaissance of the area and feel we can get to it without the terrorists being alerted.”
“So what do you want to do?” asked King.
Kennedy remained focused on the vice president. “Before we can consider staging a rescue of the hostages, we must know what’s going on inside. Unless we get someone on the inside to coordinate an attack, our chances for success will be almost nothing.”
“So, we’re not talking about sending in a team of commandos.” Vice President Baxter squeezed his hands together. “I want to be very clear about that. Until we’re sure what he wants, I’m not going to rush into anything.”
“We only want to send in one person.” Kennedy spoke in a reassuring voice. She thought it would be best to leave Milt Adams out of the picture for now. “Once that person has given us a clear picture of what we’re up against, we will present you with a plan to retake the building by force.”
“If needed,” added King.
“If needed.” Kennedy glanced up at King and then back to the vice president.
King placed one hand on the mantel of the fireplace and the other on his hip. He had a feeling he knew whom the CIA would use to check out the building. “This person,” King started to ask, “would he by any chance be that Mr. Kruse fellow?”
Kennedy and Stansfield shared a look, and Kennedy replied, “Yes.”
“Well, that’s funny,” said King in an off voice, “because I did some checking on your Mr. Kruse, and I don’t think his dossier matches up with the man I met yesterday.”
“‘Mr. Kruse’ is an alias for the man you met,” Stansfield answered flatly.
“What’s his real name?” King asked.
“That’s classified.”
“Come now.” King smirked. “If we’re going to risk the lives of all of these hostages by sending your man in, I think at the bare minimum we should know who he is.”
Stansfield looked at King for a moment and then turned to the vice president. “There is no rational reason that I can think of for telling you his name.”
“I can,” answered King with confidence. “If we are going to stick our necks out, I want to know who this guy is and where he’s from.”
Secrecy was an issue Stansfield never budged on. Being a former field operative himself, he understood firsthand the perils of sharing information too freely. That, combined with the fact that King needed to be reminded of his station in life, caused the director to reply, “Mr. Kruse has been sent on highly delicate missions by three presidents, and not one of them ever knew his real identity. I am not about to tell the chief of staff for the vice president—who, I might remind everyone, has a penchant for talking to the press—the real identity of one of my top operatives.” Stansfield turned to Baxter and in the same even tone asked, “Mr. Vice President, maybe you and I should talk about this alone?”
Baxter looked at King sideways. The message was clear—get back in your cage and stay quiet. Turning his focus back to Stansfield, Baxter said, “I don’t need to know his real identity, Director Stansfield. I trust you. One thing, however, does concern me . . . this Mr. Kruse fellow seems to be a bit volatile. Possibly uncontrollable.”
“What are you basing that assumption on?”
“From what I saw firsthand at the Pentagon, yesterday.”
“What you’ve seen, sir,” answered Kennedy, “might lead you to believe he is uncontrollable, but in reality he is extremely reliable. He follows orders to a T, and, most important, he gets results.” Kennedy knew her words were slightly skewed, but she also knew there was no one better suited for the job than Mitch Rapp. “His only fault, which some would argue is why he is so good, is that he doesn’t tolerate mistakes or stupidity.” Kennedy stopped momentarily and then added, “In Attorney General Tutwiler’s case I think he proved to be correct.”
Vice President Baxter nodded soberly. “Yes, he did.”
“Mr. Vice President,” Stansfield interjected with finality. “Mr. Kruse is one of the best operatives I’ve ever seen . . . and you know how long I’ve been doing this.”
Baxter leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in front of his mouth. “Are there any legal issues to be concerned about?”
“Such as?”
“Using an employee of the CIA for something like this. The American people are very squeamish about your agency operating within our borders.”
“Technically, I think we’re fine, and given the circumstances, I don’t think anyone is going to make an issue out of it.”
“As long as he’s successful,” added King. “Does the FBI know anything about your plan?”
“No.”
The vice president stood and walked over to a window away from the group. Baxter thought about the potential pitfalls. If this Kruse didn’t perform as advertised, there could be some serious repercussions. Why wasn’t someone from the FBI sent in? Why didn’t they wait to see if they could get more hostages released? The questions would go on and on. Baxter saw a risk hell, the whole thing was a risk, and his political instincts told him to protect himself. After another minute of thought, Baxter decided to walk that thin line again.
The vice president came back over and sat. “Director Stansfield, I have given you . . . ” Baxter paused, searching for the most innocuous word, “permission to collect intelligence in this matter. What you choose to do specifically is up to you. I don’t need to be kept in the loop for every decision along the way.”
Stansfield, an expert at interpreting politicalspeak, understood the vice president clearly. It was another Iran-Contra. Baxter wanted Stansfield and the CIA to stick their necks out, and if things fell apart, he would have his plausible denial.
Stansfield looked at Baxter and nodded his understanding. There would be time to handle these details at a later point. For now they needed to get the ball rolling.
Baxter continued, “I’m reluctant to do anything until Aziz releases his next set of demands, which, of course, will be tomorrow morning. If we can exchange more hostages for money, I’m inclined to do it.”
“Sir,” said Kennedy, “if I may be frank, I don’t think he’s going to keep asking for money.”
“What do you think he will ask for?”
Stansfield leaned forward and fielded the question. “That is anyone’s guess.” The director of the CIA wasn’t about to divulge his ace in the hole, their custody of Fara Harut—especially to someone like Baxter. “But, I would agree with Irene.”
Baxter pondered what the next demand might be and then turned his attention back to the matter at hand. “Who knows about your plans for Mr. Kruse?”
“General Flood, a select few others at
the Pentagon, and us.”
“No one at the FBI?” Baxter repeated.
“No.”
“For now I think you should go about collecting your intelligence independent of the FBI. . . . They have enough to worry about.”
Stansfield again read between the lines and nodded. The FBI was to be kept in the dark about Rapp. More proof that the vice president wanted to insulate himself from any potential disaster.
Baxter looked at Stansfield and asked, “Is that all?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good. Thank you for keeping us informed.” Baxter motioned for the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I need to get ready to address the nation.”
Stansfield and Kennedy stood and started for the door. As they neared it, Vice President Baxter called out, “If you decide to send your man in, please keep him on a short leash.”
Stansfield gave his silent answer with a nod, then followed Kennedy into the hallway.
20
THEY HIT THE first checkpoint three blocks away from the White House. A quarter of a moon shone in the night sky, and not a cloud was in sight. Rapp was riding in the backseat of the long, black Suburban with Milt Adams. Lt. Commander Harris of SEAL Team Six was in the passenger seat, and Chief Petty Officer Mick Reavers was driving. Following the Suburban through the checkpoints were a plain blue van and a larger black box van. Lt. Commander Harris handled the D.C. Metro Police at the first two checkpoints and then the Secret Service agents at the last checkpoint. Word had been sent down from on high that the CIA was moving in some sensitive equipment to conduct surveillance.
Approaching the White House from the east, they pulled through the last checkpoint at Pennsylvania Avenue and Fifteenth Street. Reavers, the large linebacker type that had been along on the mission to grab Harut, drove the Suburban onto Hamilton Place and continued past the southern edge of the Treasury Building. The White House was now in sight, ahead and to the right, the top floor of the mansion visible above the trees. On the right was the entrance to the underground parking garage that the terrorists had used just yesterday to assault and take the White House. A white Suburban was now parked at the top of the ramp, blocking its use. Straight ahead was a closed gate the led onto the south grounds of the White House.
Reavers extinguished the headlights and turned left onto East Executive-Avenue. Continuing south for another fifty feet, Reavers took a hard right at the direction of Milt Adams and pulled up on the curb, the front grill of the truck stopping inches from the heavy black fence. As had already been decided, the blue van backed up onto the curb about twenty feet to the north of the Suburban and stopped with its rear bumper almost touching the fence. The large, black box van parked on the street, right in between the two vehicles, creating a space in the middle that would shield the men from prying eyes.
Doors began to open, and bodies piled out of all three vehicles. Everyone, even Milt Adams, was dressed in the standard black Nomex jumpsuits worn by Navy SEALs. Three of Harris’s SEALs set up a security perimeter on the outside of the vehicles, while four more unfurled a massive black tarp. In a little over a minute they had the tarp stretched over the top of all three vehicles and secured. With the tarp in place, two of the men went to work on the fence. With a small handheld hydraulic jack, they began prying apart the vertical bars so Rapp and Adams could pass through.
Harris and Rapp approached the fence and tried to spy a look at the roof of the White House. The trees and undergrowth between them and the residence were dense, hopefully dense enough to conceal their movements.
Harris raised his small secure Motorola radio to his mouth and asked, “Slick, whada’ya got for me?”
Lying on his belly less than a block away, Charlie Wicker peered through a pair of night-vision binoculars. Wicker was set up on the backside of the pitched roof of the Treasury Building. Arriving thirty minutes in advance of the others, he had been watching the terrorist sitting atop the roof of the White House, trying to discern any patterns. Wicker lowered the lip mike on his headset and said, “He has no idea you’re there. He spends most of his time looking west, over at that ugly building on the other side of the White House.”
“Good,” replied Harris. “Anything else to report?”
Wicker squinted as he looked at the hooded man no more than one hundred fifty feet away—the only thing separating them was a half inch of bulletproof Plexiglas. “Yeah . . . I think I can take this guy out with a pair of fifties.” Wicker was referring to a .50 caliber sniping rifle. The heavy-caliber weapon was used by Special Forces snipers to take out targets at distances exceeding a mile.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Let me know if he starts looking our way. Over.” Harris turned to Rapp. “So far so good.”
“Good.” Rapp led the way and he, Harris, and Adams walked over to the blue van. The side cargo doors were open, revealing an array of equipment stacked in electronic racks, or, as the man sitting behind the main console called them, “pizza racks.” Marcus Dumond was a twenty-six-year-old computer genius and almost convicted felon. Rapp had brought Dumond into the fold at Langley three years earlier. The young cyber genius had run into some trouble with the Feds while he was earning his master’s degree in computer science at MIT. He was alleged to have hacked into one of New York’s largest banks and then transferred funds into several overseas accounts. The part that interested the CIA was that Dumond wasn’t caught because he left a trail; he was caught because he got drunk one night and bragged about his financial plunders to the wrong person.
At the time, Dumond was living with Steven Rapp, Mitch’s younger brother. When the older Rapp heard about Dumond’s problems with the FBI, he called Irene Kennedy and told her the hacker was worth a look.
Langley doesn’t like to admit that they employ some of the world’s best computer pirates, but these young cyber geeks are encouraged to hack into any and every computer system they can. Most of these hacking raids are directed at foreign companies, banks, governments, and military computer systems. But just getting into a system isn’t enough. The challenge is to hack in, get the information, and get out without leaving a trace that the system was ever compromised.
The wiry Marcus Dumond poked his head out the open door, a cigarette hanging from his mouth and a pair of thick glasses perched on his nose. “Commander Harris, can you tell your men to cut a hole in the tarp? I have to raise my communications boom.”
Harris turned to one of his nearby men and told him to cut the hole. Dumond then stepped out of the van with a large fanny pack. Over by the box van, a long folding table had been set up and a series of blueprints and schematics were being taped to the side of the van. Portable red-filter lights provided limited lighting and gave everyone’s face an eerie, sallow look. Setting the pack atop the table, Dumond opened it and extracted a small black object. Holding it in front of Rapp, Harris, and finally Adams, he said, “Micro video-and-audio surveillance unit. You guys have both used these, right?” Rapp and Harris nodded. The objects were about an inch and a half thick, about four inches long, and about three inches across. At the top of the unit was a small, thin bump about the size of a pen tip. The tiny, highly sensitive microphone was encased in black foam. Next to it was a thin three-inch fiber-optic cord, at the end of which was a tiny lens.
Dumond turned to Adams. “These little babies have two settings, regular-and pulse. The regular will last about three days, and the pulse will give you almost twelve. The pulse still supplies full audio but only gives a snapshot every five seconds.” Dumond shrugged his shoulders. “It’s up to you guys how you want to use them, but I would suggest a little of both . . . just in case.” Flipping the small unit over, Dumond said, “I’ve attached Velcro to the back of every unit. Here”—Dumond picked up a plastic bag—“are the corresponding Velcro patches. I’ve also thrown in these little alcohol wipes to clean the surface before you attach the Velcro patch, especially if you’re in a place where there’s a lot of dust, like a ventilation duct. I’
ve packed twelve black and twelve white units.” Dumond turned to Rapp. “You know the routine. Install them at choke points and areas of high traffic. I can maneuver the cameras a little bit from remote, but I advise against it. It burns a lot of juice, so try to give us a good angle when you set them up. Any questions?” Dumond paused, giving them a chance, and then said, “Good, let’s check your communications and get you on your way.”
Dumond led the three men over to the blue van and retrieved two secure radios and headsets. Dumond had already checked out the units on the way over from Langley. Turning Adams around, Dumond placed the radio in a specially designed pocket that sat just above his left shoulder blade. Dumond then placed the headset on Adams and showed him how to adjust the lip mike. In the meantime, Rapp placed his radio in his vest and turned his black baseball cap backward. Over the top of the cap he secured the headset and checked the mike with Harris.
After they were positive the units worked properly, Dumond cautioned, “I’m probably going to lose you guys as you go through the tunnel. The jammer they are using to black out the president’s bunker is creating a dead zone. All our sensors tell us that the interference dissipates as you reach the upper levels of the mansion, so I want you to come up to the second floor as quickly as you can and reestablish radio contact.” Dumond reached back into the van and grabbed another pack. “I’m also going to give you this secure field radio. It has more range and power. And I put some extra radio batteries in here just in case.” Dumond held up a small black nylon pack.
Rapp looked at the radio pack and started to wonder if he’d be able to carry all of the equipment through the shaft. Then responding to Dumond’s statement, Rapp replied, “We’ll try to get to the second floor, but I can’t promise anything until I get in there and see what they have. If everything is booby-trapped, we might not even get out of the basement.”
“I’ll get us out of the basement,” Adams said confidently.
Rapp took the second pack from Dumond and asked, “Anything else for us?”