Transfer of Power

by Vince Flynn

  Rapp took several steps back and looked at the body. He checked the area in front of him and around his feet to make sure none of the blood had gotten on his boots, and then he pulled the body off the bed and onto the floor again. With the bedspread already disheveled and blood all over the sheets, it just might work.

  RAGIB BOUNDED UP the last step and looked down the long hallway. He knew the president’s bedroom was on the left. He had visited it last night. Ragib smiled to himself while he thought of the fun he’d had with the blond. She wasn’t much of a fighter, but this one would be different. She had already shown some tenacity. Ragib just hoped that she wouldn’t be beaten to a bloody pulp by the time he got there. He was a little early, and with any luck he would be able to hear Abu Hasan’s moans of ecstasy. The bearded terrorist walked down the hallway, his AK-74 at his side and a look of anticipation on his face.

  RAPP GRABBED THE pile of clothes and began to go through them again. In the combat vest he found a radio and held it up to his ear. There was no traffic at the moment. He was tempted to take it, but that would tip Aziz off. If the radio was gone, they would change frequencies and they would also begin to wonder if the woman had acted alone.

  Rapp studied the device. It was made by a French company he knew little about. He placed the radio back where he’d found it and checked his watch. Four minutes and twenty-three seconds had passed. Rapp was standing over the body when he felt an almost indiscernible tremor. Someone was coming down the hall. He drew his gun and bounded across the room to the closet. Just as he closed the closet door, he saw the main door to the bedroom begin to open. Rapp stood at the door for only a second and then cautiously retreated into the stash room, closing and bolting the door behind him.

  BACK IN THE control room at Langley, Irene Kennedy had given up trying to raise Rapp on the radio. Instead she sat with everyone else in total silence and watched the events unfold. No one spoke. They all watched, riveted by the real-life drama unfolding on the one small monitor. At first no one knew what Rapp was doing when he began to stab the man who already lay dead on the floor. Then people began to catch on.

  General Flood turned to Stansfield and said, “Damn, that kid thinks on his feet.”

  Before Stansfield could reply, Rapp had bolted across the room and into the closet. Almost simultaneously, the bedroom door was opened and a man in green combat fatigues stood silhouetted by the hallway light.

  Everyone watched as the man walked across the room and suddenly snapped up his gun from his side, spinning three hundred sixty degrees. Next, the lights came on, and then a series of excited calls over the radio.

  25

  WASHINGTON, D.C., WAS a city, a federal district, and most notably, the capital of the United States of America. The originally square geographic area was located at the confluence of the Potomac and Anacostia Rivers and was bordered by Maryland on three sides and Virginia to the southwest. Founded in 1790 and originally called the Federal City and District of Columbia, after Christopher Columbus, the city was later renamed by Congress for the nation’s first president. Because the city’s four corners pointed in the four directions of the compass, it was conveniently split up into quadrants.

  The southeast quadrant was by far the most economically deprived. The heart of the area was the neighborhood of Anacostia. This violent portion of Washington accounted for more than half of the city’s annual murders and was literally a war zone in the shadow of the nation’s Capitol.

  On the top floor of a rat-infested tenement building in the heart of Anacostia, a man with bleached white hair and a fresh set of tattoos worked diligently as the clock approached midnight. The building was largely deserted, except for some drug addicts who used the lower floors to trade sex, stolen property, and sometimes even cash for their moodaltering chemical of choice. The building had been chosen by the group because the police rarely patrolled the area, out of fear for their own safety.

  In the grungy apartment on the fifth floor the windows had been covered with three-quarter-inch plywood—the sturdy boards bolted into the window frames making them impossible to kick in. The door had also been reinforced with two-by-fours and plywood, and a series of new locks had been installed. Inside the room two motion sensors, mounted in opposite corners, had ensured the room’s integrity for almost two weeks.

  Rafique Aziz had ordered the white-haired man sitting on the folding chair to find the safe house almost five months ago, but Aziz had been adamant about waiting until the last possible moment to set it up. They did not want to attract too much attention. The man sitting in the dirty apartment was Salim Rusan, the same man who, for the last six months, had been an inconspicuous bellman at the Washington Hotel, the same man who had taken aim with his SVD sniper rifle at the Secret Service just yesterday.

  Rusan was no longer an inconspicuous individual. Thanks to the FBI, his employee photo from the hotel had been splashed all over television and every newspaper in the country. That was why Rusan had not seen daylight since walking into this apartment the morning before last. It had all been predicted by Aziz. The group’s leader had been explicit about every detail before the raid on the White House, and that is why he had given Rusan only two ten-round magazines. Aziz had other plans for Rusan, and he wanted him far away from the White House when the police and the FBI showed up.

  After Rusan had fired all twenty of his rounds, he had left the Soviet-made sniping rifle right there on the balcony overlooking the White House and fled the building by a staircase. When he made it to the street, he proceeded two blocks to the Metro Center stop at Twelfth and F Street and caught the first southbound train. Ten minutes later he was walking through the slums of Anacostia, his hotel uniform replaced with a Chicago Bulls hat and a leather jacket.

  Everything had been waiting for Rusan when he arrived. The copious amount of rat droppings and cobwebs had been cleaned up, and the apartment was stocked with everything he needed. Most of the supplies had been bought at the REI store in Bailey’s Crossroads, Virginia. It was paid for in cash. The recreational equipment included a cot, a sleeping bag, several folding chairs, two tables, and some cooking equipment, all of it designed for campers. A battery-powered generator purred in the corner and provided juice for a small TV, a radio, a police scanner, and several lights. Two red Coleman coolers contained enough food and water to last him at least five days, but he doubted he would use all of it. Tomorrow morning he would venture back out into public and sow the seeds for a special surprise.

  Rusan looked at his watch and then the cot. He had done everything Aziz had told him to do. He had shaved off his entire beard, with the exception of his mustache and goatee. With a pair of clippers, he had buzzed his hair to within a half inch of his scalp and then bleached it until it was white. Next came the bleaching of the facial hair and eyebrows and then the pierced right ear. That was the difficult part, working backward in the mirror and then trying to stop the blood after he had shoved the needle through the earlobe. The finishing touch was a series of fake tattoos, the most conspicuous, an upside-down pink triangle on his right biceps with the words “Queer Nation” emblazoned underneath. Rusan was not completely comfortable with the disguise. He hated homosexuals, but it had not been his idea; it was Aziz’s. And when Aziz gave an order, it was best to follow it.

  Rusan had one task to perform before he left the apartment in the morning. Looking at his watch, he debated whether he should take care of it now or get some sleep first. As he fingered the blocks of explosive Semtex and the box of detonators sitting on the other side of the table, he decided to wait until morning. He would sleep better knowing the bombs were unarmed.

  RAFIQUE AZIZ AND Muammar Bengazi walked up the main staircase of the mansion. Aziz was furious. They had been lucky enough to take the White House without losing a single man, and now, when he was within twenty-four hours of achieving his ultimate goal, he had lost a valuable man due to outright stupidity. Momentum was something that Aziz was acutely aware of. The batt
lefields of history are littered with the corpses of soldiers whose commanders failed to notice the crucial role it plays in every conflict. Bengazi walked a half a step behind, ashamed that one of his men had been foolish enough to get killed by a woman.

  When they reached the second floor of the mansion, Aziz and Bengazi proceeded directly across the hall and into the president’s bedroom. Every light in the room was on. Aziz walked to the other side of the bed and looked down at the bloody naked body. Ragib, the man who had found his slain comrade, was standing on the other side of the body, his radio in one hand and his assault rifle in the other. He started to speak, but Aziz raised his hand and silenced him. The leader of the group said nothing for a long while as his eyes took inventory of the scene.

  After several minutes, Aziz looked up. The expression on his face was one of controlled anger. In a curt tone, he asked, “What in the hell happened?”

  Ragib nervously began to recount the events, content that for now Aziz hadn’t executed him. Ragib told him how Abu Hasan had knocked the woman out and dragged her from the room. He gave his leader the details of what he had found and what little he knew about the woman.

  When Ragib was done, Aziz looked at the body for a second and then at the nervous man standing before him. No bad deed was to go unpunished. Examples had to be made; fear had to be maintained. With no warning whatsoever, Aziz brought his hand up and slapped Ragib across the face.

  Ragib held his ground, offering his chin for another blow. Although he was stronger and bigger than Aziz, he feared his leader deeply. Fighting back or blocking the blow was not a consideration.

  Taking the muzzle of his MP-5, Aziz shoved it under Ragib’s chin and backed him up until he was pinned against the wall. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you for your stupidity.”

  “I have no excuse.” Ragib kept his voice calm, knowing that any sign of fear or disrespect could end his life instantly. “I deserve to die. I was stupid.”

  MITCH HAD MADE it into the room with seconds to spare. Milt Adams knelt in the corner next to the woman Rapp had just saved and tried to keep her calm. The battered woman had been shaking for the better part of five minutes, and Adams was beginning to worry that she might be slipping into some type of shock.

  Rapp tried his best to ignore Adams and the woman and stay focused on what the people back at Langley were saying. He had already received his reprimand for not seeking the approval of the high command before saving the woman. Rapp liked to use the phrase “high command” to describe anyone who sat comfortably in a dark room that was dimly lit with computer and TV screens and gave orders to operators in the field. On this particular mission, he respected the people who were giving orders. Kennedy was someone whom he trusted implicitly, and Campbell, Flood, and Stansfield had all been in the field before—something that went a long way.

  Rapp, however, had a new axiom in life. The stubborn half German had just recently figured out that instead of fighting the system, it was often better to say yes and then go off and do whatever you thought was best. Washington was a bureaucratic monolith that more often than not moved with the speed and agility of a five-hundred-pound man. Like most clandestine operators, Rapp saw Washington’s role as a secondary one, and because of this he had developed the habit of being very cautious about what information he passed on while in the field. Rapp had discovered that the less they thought he was doing the more support they seemed to give him, while inversely the more he told them, especially bad news, the less support he seemed to get. Kennedy almost always went to bat for him, but there were others in Washington who had built their entire careers on doing nothing.

  Rapp sat on his heels, his eyes trained on the monitor, his left ear receiving the audio from the president’s bedroom and his right ear receiving the audio from Langley. The only voices coming from Langley were those of Kennedy, Campbell, Stansfield, and Flood. None of them had bothered to criticize him for saving the woman. They all knew or hoped they would have done the same thing. General Flood had, however, stressed that from this point forward there was a chain of command firmly in place, and it was to be used.

  Using his new axiom, Rapp replied with a simple, “Yes, sir.”

  For the next several, tense minutes the group discussed how to proceed, but before long, there was no need to speculate. The entrance of two men into the bedroom silenced all radio chatter.

  Rapp squinted at the small monitor and instantly recognized the body language of the smaller man. The hair on Rapp’s neck stood on end, and his palms became moist. When Rapp heard the voice of this man, his heart began to race almost out of control. Instinctively, Rapp found himself reaching for his MP-10. The desire to kill seemed to possess him. Rafique Aziz was on the other side of the wall, probably no more than ten feet away, and his back was to the door.

  As Rapp rose to one knee, the voice of Irene Kennedy came over the handset. “Iron Man, I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not going to happen. The odds aren’t right. There are three of them and one of you.”

  Rapp paused, tempted not to reply. Unfortunately, he had already tried that one, and it wasn’t going to work twice. Rapp exhaled and said, “I can take them down and end this right now,” his voice a little edgy.

  Kennedy’s even voice came right back, “Or you could get killed and ruin our only chance for finding out what’s going on in there.”

  “I won’t get killed,” answered Rapp in a tense voice. “At least not before I take all three of them down first.”

  Back at Langley, Kennedy spun around in her chair and looked up at Director Stansfield. She shook her head vigorously at her boss. Stansfield, for his part, sat calmly in his chair with one arm folded across his chest and the hand of the other one under his chin. Touching the arm of his headset, he said, “Iron Man, hold for a second while we discuss our options.” Stansfield pressed a button on his console and leaned forward. General Flood scooted his chair over several feet, and Kennedy and General Campbell placed their hands on the long table that ran in front of the elevated row.

  Kennedy was the first to speak. “I don’t like the odds.”

  Stansfield looked from Kennedy to Campbell, and the general replied, “I don’t know . . . I’m tempted. We’ve had a bull’s eye on this guy’s head for a long time, and Mitch is awfully good.”

  Stansfield turned to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Flood rubbed the knob of his chin with his hand. Frowning, he answered, “We’re not even an hour into this operation, and we have sixty-plus hostages on the line. I think we wait.” With a shake of the head, Flood added, “If he doesn’t get all three of them, we’re in deep shit.”

  All of them turned and looked at the monitor showing the three terrorists. One of them turned and walked closer to the door.

  Stansfield shook his head and punched the button on his console. Adjusting the lip mike of his headset, he said, “Iron Man, you are to hold your position. I repeat, you are to hold your position.”

  Back in the stash room, Rapp squeezed the tough plastic handset so tightly his knuckles turned white. In his mind he was swearing the same four-letter word over and over while kicking himself for answering Kennedy’s call. He should have put a bullet in the field radio and gone out and ended it.

  Thinking he still had a chance, Rapp stated, “I respectfully disagree. I have three targets, all standing within fifteen feet of each other.” Rapp looked at the monitor. “They have their backs to my position, and I have the element of surprise on my side. This is not a difficult takedown.”

  This time it was General Flood’s voice that came back over the radio. “Iron Man, you are not to move, and that is an order. We need your eyes and ears in there, and we have time on our side.” Flood’s voice boomed with authority. In a slightly softer tone he added, “You’ll get your chance, son. Just be patient.”

  Reluctantly, Rapp replied, “Roger that.” Then, taking the handset, he tapped the ear portion against his forehead repeatedly. Next time, he t
old himself, just do it. Don’t bother asking.

  RAFIQUE AZIZ STILL had the muzzle of his MP-5 stuck firmly under the chin of Ragib. If he’d had more men at his disposal, Ragib would be dead, but he needed every last body. That was why Aziz had brought so many explosives. It was the only way he could neutralize the advantage the Americans would have in manpower.

  Ragib, his head contorted in a painful, twisted position, spoke cautiously. “I will find her. I promise you, Rafique.”

  Slowly, Aziz backed away, letting his rifle fall to his side, considering whether it was worth looking for the woman. He grabbed the pile of clothes on the floor. Hasan’s pistol was still in its holster, and his rifle was on top of the dresser on the other side of the room. The bloody knife was on the floor near the clothes, so the woman was unarmed. Sideways, Aziz looked at Ragib and asked, “Was this the same woman Abu Hasan had me pull out of line this morning?”

  Ragib nodded his head vigorously. “Yes. It is the same woman.”

  Aziz scoffed and looked at Bengazi, who was standing closer to the door. “I know this woman. I met her when I arrived for my meeting with that fat pig Russ Piper.”

  In typical mute form, Bengazi said nothing. Aziz nodded as things started to make a little more sense. He remembered Russ Piper telling him abut the woman’s family. “The woman’s father is a Chicago police officer.” Aziz looked down at the dead body before him. “That helps explain this.”

  When Aziz was done looking at the body, he bent down and grabbed the pile of clothes. From them, he took the pistol and the radio, then walked over to the dresser and grabbed the extra assault riffle. Aziz turned and tossed the rifle across the room at Ragib.

  With his own rifle in one hand, Ragib caught the other rifle with his free hand. “Do you want me to find the girl?”