by Vince Flynn
Aziz thought about it for a second and then said, “No. She can do us no harm. All of the exits are wired. Chances are she’ll set off one of the bombs and kill herself.”
Bengazi cleared his throat and got Aziz’s attention.
Aziz looked at his second and said, “Yes.”
“I think at the very least we should do a sweep of this floor and the third.” Bengazi paused. “It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes.”
Aziz thought about it for moment and replied, “All right, but let’s do it quickly.”
As they prepared to leave, Ragib pointed to their dead comrade on the floor and asked, “What do you want me to do with Hasan?”
Without looking back, Aziz said, “Leave him there, and let the stupid fool rot.”
26
BACK AT LANGLEY a lively discussion was under way. General Campbell wanted to broaden their vague mandate by sending two more people through the ventilation shaft. His reason was sound. They knew Aziz had brought a large amount of explosives into the White House, and they now had evidence that Aziz had strategically deployed the devices. Before any type of an assault could take place, those devices would have to be defeated, or, at the very least circumvented. To do that, they needed more information, and that meant getting someone with technical expertise into the White House.
General Campbell and Irene Kennedy had again resumed their huddle with their respective bosses. Campbell stated confidently, “Six has the people and the equipment in place, and no one knows explosives better than they do. One call to Lieutenant Commander Harris and we can have them in the shaft in under five minutes.”
“I’d prefer to have Iron Man look around a little more,” Stansfield said.
Campbell sighed. “I’m not so sure we shouldn’t have let Iron Man take them out a couple of minutes ago.”
Stansfield raised an eyebrow. “It was a very risky play for so early in the game.”
“Yeah, but one that might have been worth it. . . . And if we get it again, I’d like to be in a position to increase the odds.”
“So”—Flood leaned forward, placing an arm on the table—“you want to move these people in immediately.”
“Yes.” Campbell looked at his watch. “It’s almost oh-one-hundred. The sun’s gonna be up in five hours. The sooner we get a clearer picture of what we’re up against the sooner we can end this thing. Plus, like all of our Special Forces personnel, these demo experts are cross-trained. You put two SEALs on Iron Man’s flanks and”—Campbell nodded confidently—“the next time we get a chance to take out Aziz, we’re not gonna miss.”
Stansfield cautioned, “Right now we have three armed terrorists moving about the mansion in a very surly mood. It might be wise to let them cool down before we start.”
“I agree,” replied Campbell. “We just heard them say they’re gonna check the second and third floors, which should take about twenty minutes. Even if we get our people moving in under ten, it’ll be close to a half hour before they make it in. And besides, they’re coming into the third basement, not the second floor.”
“What about Mitch?” asked Kennedy.
“He can sit tight until Aziz is done checking the second and third floors, and then he can head back down using the elevator.”
Kennedy thought about it for a moment and then said, “It sounds reasonable to me.”
Both Kennedy and Campbell looked up at Flood and Stansfield. General Flood looked at Stansfield first and then Campbell. “Tell Commander Harris to get his men ready to move, but they are to wait for my order before they cross the fence line.” Campbell and Kennedy went back to their spots, leaving the two older men alone. Flood moved close to Stansfield and asked, “How does this change things with the vice president?”
Stansfield pondered the question momentarily and then replied, “I’m not sure; he was awfully vague in his direction. He seemed to leave the door open for everything up to the point of an actual raid.”
Flood shook his head and muttered, “Vice President Baxter is severely hampered in the leadership department. . . . He is not the person we need for this crisis.”
Stansfield slowly nodded. “He’s trying to cover all of his bets.”
“So what do we do?”
The director of the CIA thought about it for a moment. “He was vague for a reason. . . . I almost got the feeling he wanted to be kept out of the loop.”
“He wants his deniability.” The general was not happy. “Well, screw him and the horse he rode in on. We can tell him in the morning when he gets his lazy ass out of bed.”
ON THE EAST side of the White House, Lt. Commander Harris and his men were busy getting ready. The air under the tarp was soupy. Condensation had formed on the sides of the three vehicles, and rivulets of water were dripping to the ground. Every man was sweating profusely, but they all ignored it. They were used to working in conditions far worse than this.
Harris had already chosen his two men. The first was Nick Shultz, a thirty-eight-year-old chief petty officer. Shultz was an EOD—explosive ordinance disposal specialist—who had been on the teams since he was twenty. Due to his natural knack for explosives, he had spent a fair amount of time as a basic underwater demolition/SEAL instructor—for the grueling twenty-six-week course that all candidates must complete before they can become a SEAL. However, what made Shultz one of the very best experts was his steady, unflappable demeanor.
The second man Harris had picked was Danny Craft. The choice was actually a foregone conclusion, since Craft was Shultz’s swim buddy. Craft was Shultz’s junior by ten years. Where Shultz was calm and introspective, Craft was active and outgoing. And where Shultz was plain-looking, Craft was boyishly handsome. Looking quite a bit younger than his twenty-eight years of age, Craft had used his blue-gray eyes to woo college coeds on both coasts. There was rarely a free night that the young SEAL spent alone.
The two men were polar opposites, and as the older Shultz had expected, this worked to their advantage. Craft saw things that Shultz didn’t and vice versa. Over the last two years they had honed their skills and become a very effective duo.
As they prepared for their insertion, the two men stood side by side in front of a long folding table and checked their equipment one last time. Besides their weapons and specialized tool kits, they were bringing one exceptional piece of equipment. Laid out on the table before them was a mobile X-ray imager made by Safety and Security Instruments out of San Diego. The first two pieces of the unit were the RTR-4 X-ray Imager and the XR-200 X-ray Source. The two units worked in conjunction with a third piece of equipment, the RTR-4 control unit. This portable Pentium computer was mounted in a supersturdy gasket-sealed aluminum case with shock-mounted components. The active-matrix color flat-panel display on the control unit would provide Shultz and Craft with a real-time sneak and peek into the guts of Aziz’s bombs. Without the RTR-4, any attempt to open the outer casing of the bombs would be a game of Russian roulette.
Standing fifteen feet away, in the open doorway of the CIA communications van, Lt. Commander Harris was busy listening to General Campbell and Irene Kennedy back at Langley. Harris was waiting for an opportunity to make his pitch, but hadn’t found it. General Campbell was asking a lot of questions, as was Kennedy. When there was finally a pause, Harris made his move.
“General Campbell, I’d like to request permission to go in with my demo boys. I think—”
Campbell cut him off. “Request denied. I want you with your team.” Harris held the handset of the secure field radio to his ear. He was not to be deterred so easily. “I respectfully disagree, sir. I think I would be more valuable helping conduct the recon of the building.”
“You are to stay put, Commander.”
The voice was not Campbell’s. It was General Flood’s. Harris, slightly caught off guard, had not expected Flood to be listening in on the conversation.
The highest-ranking officer in the entire U.S. military continued by saying, “If things proce
ed well, there’s a good chance we’ll be sending you and your team in.”
“Yes, sir,” was the only reply Harris could muster.
“Now get your boys moving. Iron Man will be waiting for them on the other side.”
BACK IN THE stash room, Mitch Rapp was reorganizing his gear for his incursion back into the bowels of the two-hundred-year-old mansion. Things were happening fast, but he was more than happy to receive the professional services of a couple of SEAL demolition experts, especially since it would mean he would not have to deal with the bombs.
One thing he did want to do before he headed out, though, was talk to the woman he had grabbed from the president’s bed. Rapp had been so busy talking to Kennedy and the others that he hadn’t had the chance to find out who the woman was and, more important, if she had any information that might help them.
Moving his gear to the side, Rapp took off his baseball cap and scratched his head. Watching Adams give the woman some water, he noticed for the first time that she was very attractive, stunning actually. Rapp scooted forward on his knees to get a little closer and asked, “How are you feeling?”
Rielly had wrapped herself tightly in the sheet and had one arm out. Looking up at the man kneeling in front of her, she replied timidly, “I’m fine.” But, before the last syllable left her mouth, the tears started again. Rielly brushed some of them from her cheek and added, “I’m not fine . . . I’m a mess.”
Rapp laughed at her blunt observation. Reaching out, he grabbed her shoulder and said, “You’re fine. Everything’s gonna be fine.”
Rielly looked up again, her bottom lip quivering slightly. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for what you did.” Grabbing his hand, she squeezed it and said, “I owe you my life.”
Rapp blushed slightly. “Now . . . now. . . there’s no need to be melodramatic.” He didn’t know how to deal with the unusually personal gratitude of the woman, having grown used to his deeds going unnoticed by all but a select few.
“I’m serious.” Rielly squeezed his hand tighter. “I’m not being melodramatic. You saved my life.”
“Well,” Rapp started uncomfortably, “he might not have killed you.”
“Oh,” scoffed Rielly in between sniffles. “That’s a hell of a consolation.” She started to cry even harder.
Milt Adams was still sitting next to Rielly. He looked at Rapp and shook his head. “You need to learn how to accept someone’s gratitude, you big oaf. ‘You’re welcome’—that’s what you say to the pretty little woman.”
With his hand still on the woman’s shoulder, Rapp scowled at Adams. Etiquette was hardly a concern of his at the moment. Rapp turned back to the woman, whose moist cheek was now resting on his hand. After squeezing her shoulder lightly, Rapp reached out with his other hand and brushed some of the tears from her cheek.
“You’re welcome,” he started tentatively. “I’m glad I was there to help.” Rapp held her cheek for a moment and then lifted her head, so he could look her in the eye. That was when he noticed them, the greenest eyes he had ever seen. So beautiful were they that Rapp lost his concentration for a second and forgot what he was about to ask.
He blinked several times and then remembered where he was headed. “I need to ask you some questions. Are you up to it?”
Rielly nodded and wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks. Taking part of her sheet, she blew her nose quietly and said, “God, I haven’t cried this much in years.”
“Well, you’ve been through a lot.” Rapp was making a concerted effort to say the right things.
“What a shitty couple of days.” Rielly shook her head and managed a laugh.
“Yeah . . . I’d imagine they don’t get much worse.” Rapp looked at his watch and said, “Listen, I have some things I have to do, but I want to ask you some questions first.”
Rielly nodded.
“Good. Let’s start with your name.”
“Anna . . . Anna Rielly.”
“I’m Mitch and this is Milt.”
Rielly wiped her hand on the sheet and extended it. “Nice to meet you, Mitch.” Rielly gave a warm smile, showing off her dimples. “Very nice to meet you.” Rapp grinned and shook her hand. Rielly then turned to Adams and shook his hand.
“What do you do here at the White House?” asked Rapp.
“I’m a reporter.”
From the look on Rapp’s face, one would think they were on their first date and she had just told him she had a husband. Oh, shit, Rapp thought to himself. This could be a problem. “Who do you work for?”
“NBC. It was my first day on the job.”
“Nice timing,” Rapp said with a raised eyebrow.
“No shit.” Rielly shook her head.
“Where have you been held for the last several days?”
“In the White House mess.”
Rapp looked to Adams, who nodded and said, “That’s where I thought he would hold them. No exterior windows and the room is big enough.”
Rapp was worried about whether Aziz had kept all of the hostages together or split them up. As a general rule that decision depended on assets and the layout of the building. With this in mind, Rapp was inclined to believe that with Aziz’s limited manpower, he would be forced to keep all of the hostages in one place.
“Were all of the hostages kept in the mess?”
“Yes.” Rielly shrugged her shoulders. “At least I think so.”
“How many of you?”
Biting her bottom lip, Rielly thought about it for a moment and said, “I don’t know. Eighty . . . one hundred . . . a hundred and twenty . . . ? I don’t know.”
“I really need you to think about this one. You don’t have to answer it right now, but I need you to try and remember how many people were in the mess.”
Rielly nodded. “I’ll try.”
“What about Secret Service agents? Were they held in the same room as you?” Rapp knew Aziz well enough to bet that he would at the very least separate the Secret Service agents from the hostages.
“I don’t know. When all this started, I’d only been on the job for about fifteen minutes. I don’t know what any of the agents look like.”
“You don’t have to know them personally to be able to pick them out. They all have short haircuts, athletic builds . . . They stand out.” Rapp looked at her proddingly. “Come on, you’re a reporter.” With a grin he added, “You’re supposed to notice stuff like that.”
Rielly thought about it. “I don’t remember seeing anyone like that.”
“What about any marines or other military types?” asked Milt Adams.
Rielly shook her head immediately. “I know for a fact I didn’t see anyone in a uniform.”
Rapp nodded to Adams, approving of the timely question. That settled it for him. Aziz was either holding the Secret Service and military personnel in a different location, or he had killed all of them. Knowing Aziz, the latter was a distinct possibility.
“How many different terrorists did you see?”
Rielly closed her eyes for a second. “I think I saw six of them, and I’m pretty sure I saw the leader. Some Prince something or other. I actually met him on the street on my way in the morning all of this started. He got out of a limo with Russ Piper, the chairman of the DNC. Russ is an old friend of my family.” Rielly paused. “I haven’t seen him since this whole thing started. . . . I hope he’s all right.”
“The leader is not a prince,” said Rapp. “His name is Rafique Aziz.”
Rielly had a spasm of shivers and said, “Well, whoever he is, he’s evil, and I don’t mean just crazy or goofy, I mean evil. He shot someone in cold blood just because they asked for blankets and food. He just lifted his gun without any warning and shot the man in the head.”
“That would be Rafique Aziz,” said Rapp somberly. Then looking down at his watch, he decided he had better get moving. “Well, Ms. Rielly, we’ll have to continue this later. I have to go take care of something.”
“Please
call me Anna.” Rielly smiled.
“All right, Anna. I don’t know how long this will take, but I should be back in an hour or less. Milt here will take care of you, so don’t worry. I know he doesn’t look like much, but don’t let that fool you.”
Adams looked at Rapp deadpan. Rapp grabbed the small fanny pack for his short excursion and strapped it around his waist. He turned his baseball cap around backward and placed his headset over the top, but after hearing only static interference, he turned off the small radio.
Rielly watched him intently as he moved about the room on his knees. When he grabbed his submachine gun and stood, Rielly asked, “Who do you work for, Mitch?”
“The post office.” Rapp nodded for Adams to get up and then looked back at Rielly. “Anna, we’ll have to finish this interview later.” With a wink, he added reassuringly, “Keep an eye on Milt for me.”
27
THE SEARCH OF the second and third floors of the White House had taken almost twenty-five minutes. The three men worked in unison, one always covering the other two, as they went from room to room checking the closets and under the beds. Aziz had been sure they would find her cowering in one of the closets, but they had not.
They descended from the third floor. Aziz, walking in the lead, was thinking. He was thinking about the building and how old it was, how much it bothered him that he couldn’t just walk from one building to the other without going outside. If he could just have gotten his hands around the president in his office, he would not have had to spread his people so thin. But Aziz knew if he wanted to get the Americans to meet all of his demands, he would have to extract the cowardly president from the safety of his bunker. And the only way he could do that was if his little thief, his gift from Saddam, was successful in his task.
Aziz stopped suddenly and did an about-face. Bengazi and Ragib stopped just short of running into their leader. They were tired and their reaction time dulled. Aziz pointed back down the hall and said, “Follow me. I have decided there is something else we need to check while we are here.”