by Vince Flynn
Seated at the head of the table was Director Stansfield. To his left were Vice President Baxter and Dallas King. To the director’s right sat General Flood and Director Roach. McMahon and Kennedy took seats next to each other on Director Roach’s side of the table. It was a small meeting and intended to be so.
FBI Director Roach had paused for a brief moment when Kennedy and McMahon entered and then continued, saying, “I can see no valid reason for not informing us that you were sending those men into the building. It absolutely mystifies me.” Roach shook his head. “Skip and I have already talked about it . . . we would have agreed with sending them in. I just don’t get it.”
Vice President Baxter leaned forward and stabbed his index finger into the tabletop. Staring at General Flood, he started angrily, “I did not authorize sending any SEALs through that air duct.”
Flood looked back at Baxter with barely masked contempt and then turned to Roach. “It’s my fault. I was given the authority to conduct surveillance, and we were presented with a unique opportunity.”
“I still don’t see why you couldn’t pick up the phone and call us,” said Roach.
Flood sat up a little straighter. He wanted to tell the director of the FBI that he was left out of the loop because the vice president had suggested it, but that was not the way things were done in Washington.
“In the flurry of events that took place early this morning, I made a critical mistake of not informing both of you.” General Flood looked to Baxter and then Roach. “I will make sure that it does not happen again.”
Both Roach and Baxter grudgingly accepted the general’s apology with a nod, but Skip McMahon was less cordial. With his gruff demeanor, which was in many ways similar to the general’s, McMahon placed a big fist on the table and asked bluntly, “What else haven’t you told us?”
Flood and Stansfield kept their poker faces fixed, while Baxter and King shared a look that caused McMahon to ask the question again. “What else? You can’t send me out there to get blindsided again. I need every advantage I can get over Aziz.”
Director Stansfield liked Skip McMahon. In many ways he admired him. This was an unusual situation, however. McMahon was under an immense amount of pressure, and he was the person dealing with Aziz—the only person. Aziz had been adamant about that. Stansfield, always thinking a dozen moves ahead, did not like the idea of telling McMahon everything. The older spymaster saw a potential problem. He envisioned Aziz with a gun to a hostage’s head making a demand that McMahon could not meet. He saw the dangers of telling McMahon too much, of putting McMahon in a position where he might be tempted to give Aziz some of that information in exchange for the life of a hostage. Stansfield couldn’t do that. Rapp was far too valuable a card in this game to start waving around for the other players to see.
Stansfield observed McMahon as he stared down Baxter and King, sensing that they knew something. Knowing he had to act fast, before one of them opened his mouth, Stansfield decided to kill two birds with one stone.
“There is something I should tell you.” Stansfield reached down next to his chair and grabbed the morning’s copy of The Washington Post. Standing, to further draw McMahon’s attention away from King and Baxter, Stansfield walked around the table and set the paper in front of McMahon. Stansfield pointed to a front-page headline that read “CIA Saves Day by Warning Secret Service.”
“How this story ever got to the Post is something that I will deal with later.” Stansfield looked across the table and gave Dallas King a knowing look. “But, in the meantime, I will bring you up to speed on a highly classified subject. We have in our possession certain intelligence that we deem to be highly accurate. That source did in fact provide us with the information that enabled us to alert the Secret Service to a potential attack just minutes before the actual attack took place. That source has also provided us with information pertaining to the demands Mr. Aziz will put forth and the men and equipment he brought with him.”
McMahon looked up at Stansfield, who had worked his way back to his seat. “That’s how you knew about all of the plastique explosives?”
“Yes.”
“What about the demands?”
“That I am willing to share with you, but”—Stansfield again glanced over at Dallas King—“it is extremely confidential information that is not to be passed on to anyone.” Looking back to McMahon and Roach, he added, “I trust both of you, so I assume you will keep this confidential.”
Both of the FBI men nodded, and Stansfield said, “Aziz’s next demand will be to ask that the UN vote to lift all economic sanctions against Iraq. He is going to make a slight concession, in an effort to sound reasonable, and state that all sanctions regarding weapons of mass destruction may remain in place.”
“The UN,” started McMahon, “can they move that fast?”
“If we want them to, they will,” answered General Flood.
“There is one last demand.” Stansfield stopped and looked around the room, wanting to hedge his bet just a touch. “But unfortunately we are still trying to find out what it is.”
McMahon looked at Stansfield. In all the years that he had been workingfor the FBI, he had never come across an individual as cool and analytical as Thomas Stansfield—on either his side of the law or the other. The man was impossible to read. McMahon turned away from Stansfield and looked immediately to his right to see if he could get anything from Kennedy. He studied her face for even the slightest clue to whether Stansfield was being forthright about the family jewels or if he was still holding out. She stared back at him blankly, just like her boss, giving nothing away.
After several seconds of silence, McMahon looked across the table at Vice President Baxter and Dallas King. Before entering this meeting, Kennedy had told him that Baxter had authorized the insertion of the SEALs, but just minutes ago, General Flood had taken the blame for the whole mess. Either Kennedy was lying or General Flood was covering for the vice president. McMahon decided to play along until he could get Kennedy alone, and then, he would get to the bottom of the whole thing.
Dallas King took his forefinger and as nonchalantly as possible wiped the bead of sweat that had formed on his upper lip. He felt as if he were standing in downtown Phoenix at high noon in the middle of July. Every time someone looked at him, he wondered if they knew. Since seeing the photo of his beer-drinking buddy on CNN this morning, King had been an absolute basket case. At first he tried to convince himself that it wasn’t the same man. The guy that he drank beers with was named Mike, and he was a student. Mike didn’t wear his hair slicked back like the man on the news. King tried to convince himself that it wasn’t the same person, but it was futile. As he recollected his relationship with the mysterious Mike, there were too many strange coincidences. For several weeks straight he had run into Mike everywhere he went. Mike had conveniently known all about the Stanford basketball team, King’s alma mater.
King closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he remembered the evening they took the late-night tour of the White House. King remembered how Mike had claimed he had an uncle who used to work for the Secret Service under Kennedy. He convinced King to show him the Treasury tunnel, saying that it was originally designed as a bunker during World War II. Mike told King that during the Kennedy administration, the staffers used to sneak women down into bunk rooms off the tunnel and have sex.
And that’s exactly what they had done that night. President Hayes was out of town, and King had no problem gaining access for his newfound friend and a couple of hot young ladies. King couldn’t believe how unlucky he was. Of the hundreds of people who worked at the White House, this crazy terrorist had to pick him. Squeezing his nose even tighter, he said to himself, How could you have fucked up so bad? The pressure was unbelievable. He needed time to think, time to maneuver.
MITCH RAPP WOKE up to the sound of Milt Adams snoring and a brown ponytail in his face. His left arm was pinned under Rielly’s neck, and his right arm was draped acr
oss her chest. Rapp lifted his head up and tried to retrieve his right arm. This only spurred Rielly to clutch his arm tighter.
How they had ended up sleeping in this embrace might have seemed a little strange, but the stash room was not particularly spacious. After the debacle earlier in the evening, Rapp had stayed on the radio with Langley until almost four A.M. At that time the FBI was screaming to find out what was going on, and the entire operation was put in a holding pattern. Kennedy had ordered Rapp to get some sleep, and they would call him with orders in the morning.
Rapp, in turn, had let Langley know how he felt, telling them that if they had allowed him to act when he wanted to, Aziz and the other two terrorists would be dead and one Navy SEAL would still be alive. It was no surprise to Rapp that Langley signed off without responding to his statement. Rapp then forced himself to bring it back down. He had done enough clandestine insertions to know that when you are given the opportunity to grab a couple of hours of sleep, you should take it. Rapp found comfort knowing that the next time he came across Aziz, he would shoot first and ask questions later. There would be no more checking in with Langley for the green light.
Rielly had surprised Rapp by taking his arms and wrapping them around her as they lay down to go to sleep. As he drifted off, Rielly had kissed Rapp’s hand and whispered something he didn’t quite catch. He was more than a little surprised by the warm feeling the little kiss had given him.
Now, craning his neck away from Rielly, Rapp looked at the secure field radio that was sitting between him and Adams. The overhead light was still on, and he could see just enough of the control panel to know that the radio was still on. Rapp had absolutely no idea how long he had been sleeping. He didn’t want to wake Rielly but saw no other choice. Taking his left hand he reached up from under Rielly’s neck and pried her hands loose. His digital watch told him it was 7:41 A.M. He’d had at least two hours, maybe two and a half. Rapp figured that was more than enough for now. This was hardly the time or the place to be sleeping in. If Langley wasn’t going to call him, he would have to call them and get things moving.
29
RAFIQUE AZIZ WAS showered, shaved, and back in the expensive suit he had worn for his historic visit to the White House. All of his men were still at their posts except one. That man was standing behind a television camera in the White House pressroom. The morning sun spilled in from the windows running along the side of the narrow room. Aziz stood behind the familiar podium at the front of the room and checked his watch. It was nearing eight. Behind him, mounted on a blue curtain, was the White House logo.
Aziz watched his man move from the camera to a control panel at the rear of the room. The man looked up from his position and yelled, “I started the two-minute countdown. All of the networks should be receiving the feed.”
Aziz grinned, taking satisfaction that he was about to put into play another part of his ingenious plan. He was going to go over the heads of the military and the FBI once again. Like everything else, this had been planned. He was about to appeal to the American people and thus the politicians. The only new touch was that he would be able to incorporate the repelling of the early morning raid into his speech. That had got him excited. It had been very close. The hostages and the building were wired to blow, and Aziz had no doubt that any attempt by the Americans to free the hostages would result in a bloodbath. That was a price he was willing to pay. He did not want it to come to that, in the interest of self-preservation, but if it did, he wouldn’t hesitate for a second to annihilate everybody, including himself.
The speech that he was about to give would serve to make sure that a raid by the FBI would never happen. Aziz had followed American politics closely and watched how the leaders handled conflicts, especially those with his new benefactor. Aziz had admiringly watched Saddam Hussein mimic the actions and rhetoric of Adolf Hitler. Just like Hitler in the days prior to World War II, Saddam knew how to push, pound, cajole, lie, cheat, and basically do whatever he wanted, right up to the point where his adversaries were prepared to put their foot down. Saddam had turned it into an art form, playing the weak United Nations and the political left in America and Europe for everything they were worth. Continually ignoring everything he had already agreed to, Saddam would flaunt his insolence in the face of the Western powers, and then, just as they were preparing to engage in military action, he would send his envoys to the UN. As the might of American warships and allied air power massed at his borders, he would act defiant until the very end, and then, and only when real action was imminent, he would back down.
Six months later the whole process would start over again, and each time the resolve of the arrogant Western powers would be weakened. Saddam had proven that the American politicians had no stomach for war. They loved their surgical strikes and cruise missiles, but were they really that effective? In Aziz’s opinion the answer was no. If one bothered to look beyond the TV clips and sound bites, the damage the surgical strikes caused was minimal.
Aziz was prepared to take a cue from Saddam. In less than a minute he would offer the American people that olive branch, and in turn the stage would be set for his last demand, and his triumphant return to his country.
Aziz looked toward the camera and straightened his tie. He had originally considered giving this speech from the Oval Office, but had decided it would only serve to undermine the entire intent of his plan. The American people would be livid over him sitting in the president’s chair. It had been hard for him to resist the temptation to give the speech from the same place that so many other presidents had addressed the nation, especially since he would have loved nothing more than to rub the faces of the arrogant American public in the fact that he was in control of the White House. But now was not the time to prod and poke. Now was the time to pull back from the brink and get the politicians working for him.
Aziz’s man at the back of the room held up his hands and started the countdown. Aziz placed both hands on the podium, and when the signal was given, he cleared his throat and began to recite his speech from memory.
“It is with a heavy heart that I come to you this morning.” Looking somber and passive, Aziz stared into the camera with his dark eyes and said in perfect English, “I wish the American people no harm and wish for this conflict to come to a speedy conclusion. I apologize to the families of the men and women who have died in this conflict. I know that this will seem empty and hollow to many of you, but you must please understand that this is a war . . . a war that your military and political leaders have started. I beg you, as a nation, to ask yourselves in front of your God, who has harmed whom in this conflict?” Aziz stopped and looked into the camera, his face utterly devoid of aggression.
“Since the end of World War Two, the West . . . mostly you . . . the Americans and your Israeli allies, has killed over a half million of my Arab brothers. Over five hundred thousand human beings.” Aziz again stopped and stared into the camera, wanting to stress this number. “You sit here in this great nation, with all of your wealth and comfort and technology, and you are numb to the pain and suffering that my people have gone through and continue to go through. I ask you for a moment to put yourself in my shoes, in the shoes of the Arab people. Who is the bigger barbarian, the terrorist who kills thirty people with a car bomb, or the president who gives the order to kill thousands by sending his air force to do his dirty work?
“This is a question that we will probably never come to agreement on, but it is one that, at the very least, we should understand is a universal tragedy. I have not come to you today to try and place blame, but rather to make the first step in putting all of this behind us. I have come to you seeking peace.
“When this conflict started, I warned your FBI that any attempt to retake this building would be futile. I further warned them that such an attempt would result in the execution of hostages. Despite these warnings, your arrogant FBI tried to sneak a group of their commandos into the building last night. Their attack was repelled, j
ust as I told them it would be, and resulted in the death of an unknown number of their people. I had intended to kill one of your fellow countrymen this morning to punish the FBI and your leaders for their reckless actions . . . but I have decided to spare that person’s life as an example of my good faith. I do not think it is right for an innocent person to pay with his life for the stupidity and arrogance of the small group of warmongers that runs your country.
“It is my sincere hope that we can resolve this conflict peacefully, and it is you, the peace-loving American people, that I am appealing to. Enough blood has been shed. It is time for us to stop living as enemies.” Pausing for a second, Aziz looked down and then back up. “But before we can do that, America must come to the Middle East peace table as a truly independent advocate, not the big brother of Israel. I have two demands left, and if those demands are met, I will give you back this great house, and the people in it, without further harm. The first of my demands is simple. By six o’clock today, the U.S. must convince the United Nations to lift all economic sanctions against Iraq. I fully understand the need to keep the blockade in place against materials that would enable Iraq to develop weapons of mass destruction, and I think those provisions should stay in place. My concern is that my Arab brothers and sisters are starving and dying because of a feud between the leaders of the West and the leaders of Iraq. This is wrong, and it should be ended.
“If this demand is not met by this evening”—Aziz’s expression turned more stern—“I will be forced to kill one hostage every hour until it is met. Let me state again that any further attempt to free the hostages by force will be met with harsh punishment. With the push of one button, this whole building will crumble to the ground, killing everyone in it.” Aziz continued his glare. “If my demand is met by this evening, I will release half of the remaining hostages, and then I will give you my last demand. If that demand is met”—Aziz shook his finger—“we can spare the innocent people that have been caught in the middle of this conflict, and we can begin mending fences among our two peoples.”