by Vince Flynn
The buzz level was high. Everyone had either seen Aziz’s national address or heard about it. Now the natural question was, what would the U.S. government do in response? The answer was actually tied to a lone individual in Omaha, Nebraska. Reginald Boulay was his name, and at this exact moment he was giving Dallas King the results of his Husker Poll. Boulay had built up his poll over the years and made it into one of the most accurate in the political-consulting business. And he only supplied it to a few well-paying clients. The numbers from the Husker Poll were never found in the newspapers or on TV. Boulay wasn’t in the business to skew results by push polling and a variety of other techniques; he was in it to get the most accurate results possible. And he did it by asking brutally honest questions in plain English. King had decided after talking to two of his regular pollsters, and being irritated at their inability to understand what he wanted, that if there was ever a time to spend money on Boulay and his Husker Poll, now was it.
King nodded as he listened to Boulay relay the results. Although King had honestly expected them, he was, nonetheless, surprised. They reflected the new trend in America, almost a refusal to judge and condemn. King had sensed it while listening to Aziz’s speech and wondered if he was smart enough to know what he was tapping into, or if he was just one lucky bastard.
The handsome King liked what he was hearing from Boulay. Accordingto the Husker Poll, a little over sixty percent of those surveyed felt that Vice President Baxter should exhaust almost all options in an effort to resolve the crisis in a peaceful way. When it came to lifting economic sanctions against Iraq except those involving weapons of mass destruction, the numbers jumped to almost eighty percent. As Boulay had explained it to King, “There’s about twenty percent of the population that would just as soon level the White House before giving these terrorists a thing, and nothing you do or say will change that.”
King had also expected that. The zealots at either end of the spectrum would always be around. They were not the people you had to worry about. The rest of the populace was whom he had to keep his eye on—the sixty to eighty percent of the people who were not too far from the middle on any given issue. As a political adviser, King saw it as his job to try and get those people leaning in his direction or, more precisely, to position his boss in the middle of them. That would be his next course of action. After asking Boulay to fax him the results, King ended the call and brought the vice presidential armada to a screeching halt. Grabbing his boss by the arm, King stopped at the next door on the right and pulled Vice President Baxter over with him. The Secret Service agents were used to this type of semiprivate consultation between their charges and their aides, and without having to say a word, they turned their backs to the vice president and deployed in a protective shell.
King placed a hand on Baxter’s shoulder and said in a whisper, “It’s just like I thought. Over sixty percent of the people want to see a peaceful resolution to this mess, and almost eighty percent think we should lift the economic embargo against Iraq, just so long as the military embargo is kept in place.”
Baxter nodded and said, “So we’re safe if we push for the UN to raise the sanctions?”
“I think so,” said King with confidence. “Besides, if we can get him to release another third of the hostages, we’ll be in a really good position to get some mileage out of this.”
Baxter pointed down the hall toward the direction of the room they’d be meeting in. “They aren’t going to like this.”
King shrugged. “They’re not going to like anything short of storming the place with a battalion of commandos. You have to prevent that from happening. You have to take the higher moral ground. You have to protect the lives of those innocent hostages.”
“What about policy? What about precedence?” Baxter shook his head. “We think the American people are behind it, but what about the Hill? There’re going to be some hard-liners up there who are going to scream bloody murder over this. Hell, some of them are already pissed that we gave them the Iranian money.”
“Fuck ’em,” snarled King. “They’re gonna hate you no matter what you do, and if you do what they want and send in the troops, you’re gonna have a group of hard-liners from the left trying to crucify you.” King shook his head. “You can’t please both groups. You have to stay with the majority of public opinion and stick with your base. That’s where your protection is.”
It was Baxter’s turn to shake his head. “That’s comforting. Public opinion, which you are so infatuated with, is about as predictable as the weather.” Baxter continued shaking his head. “Public opinion is like a mob. It’s fine just so long as you can predict where it’s going, but the second you screw up and they turn on you . . . you’re screwed.”
King looked at his boss, his eyes sagging. He had been working nonstop for the last three days, he was tired, he was sick of hearing his boss whine, and he had bigger problems of his own. “Sherman”—King’s face twisted into an expression of contempt—“maybe you should just quit. If you can’t see that we have a golden opportunity here to build you up as a great statesman, as the man who saved the day, as the politician who stepped in and brokered the peace during the biggest crisis this nation has faced in possibly”—King paused while shaking his head—“its entire history? Then maybe you really should just let General Flood and Director Stansfield and the rest of the warmongers storm the place, destroy that great building, and kill all of the people in it, and then you can go down in the history books as the butcher who sent fifty Americans to their death because he was afraid to step up to the plate.”
Baxter stood silently and looked at his chief of staff. He was not used to being spoken to in such a manner by anyone, not even a peer. This was probably the principal reason why King’s words sank in. It was true, Baxter thought to himself. If he wanted to be president someday, which he did badly, more than anything in the world, he would have to stand up and be a leader. Slowly, he started to nod in an affirmation of King’s words.
31
GENERAL FLOOD, GENERAL Campbell, Director Stansfield, and Irene Kennedy were all sitting next to each other at one end of the long table of the Joint Chiefs briefing room. Across from them sat the secretary of defense and the secretary of state, both with one aide. When Vice President Baxter entered, he and Dallas King sat at the head of the table with the other members to their immediate left and right, leaving over twothirds of the massive table’s seats unoccupied. The crisis was wearing on everyone. Eyes were bloodshot, and hands were a little shaky from either a lack of sleep or too much coffee or both.
Vice President Baxter folded his unsteady hands and placed them on the table. His kick in the pants from King had given him a newfound sense of focus and determination. Instead of asking for opinions, Baxter looked to the secretary of state and said, “Charles, I want you to light a fire under the UN’s ass and get this vote taken care of before the end of the day.”
Secretary of State Charles Midleton bowed his head and asked, “How much pressure may I use?”
“As much as you want. Threaten to veto every resolution midway into the next century, threaten to pull all funding—just do whatever it takes to get the vote passed by the end of the day. Once we get the hostages released, we can always go back later and pass a reversing resolution.”
“It might not be that easy,” warned Midleton as he adjusted his glasses.
“I don’t care. Get it done, and we’ll worry about the rest of it later.”
Director Stansfield cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Aren’t we getting a bit ahead of ourselves?”
Baxter’s head snapped to his left. He wasn’t in the mood to debate anything. He was only in the mood to give orders and have them followed. But now, as he looked across the table at the cool and grandfatherly Thomas Stansfield, his newfound confidence wavered just a touch. Stansfield was quite possibly the most harmless-looking individual that Baxter had ever met, but the rumors about the old spymaster caused one to think twice before
locking horns with him.
Baxter eased back several inches and asked, “How do you mean, Thomas?”
“I think it would be prudent if we analyzed what was said and then decided on a course of action.”
“I feel that I have all the information I need to make this decision. Aziz is willing to deal . . . deal for American lives, and in return we will have to give in and do something that, as humanitarians, we should probably do anyway.”
“And what would that be?” asked General Flood in an uneasy tone.
“Stop starving the Iraqi people.”
“We,” started an irritated General Flood, “are not starving the Iraqi people. Saddam Hussein is starving his own people by refusing to comply with the terms of surrender for a war that, I’d like to remind everybody, he started.” Flood stabbed his thick forefinger at the surface of the table. “We have confirmed intelligence reports that Saddam has funded Aziz with the express purpose of carrying out a terrorist attack on U.S. soil. With that information how can we even consider asking the UN to lift the sanctions?”
“We don’t know for sure if those reports are accurate,” retorted the vice president.
Thomas Stansfield looked the vice president squarely in the eye and said, “I would stake my entire career and reputation on the validity of that information.”
Baxter felt himself losing ground. Leaning all the way back in his chair, he brought his hands up and said, “I’m not going to sit here and defend Saddam Hussein. I hate the man. I find him despicable, but what I want to do is free as many hostages as we can, and then we can go back later and fix things.”
“‘Fix things.’” Flood was getting angrier. “What if we can’t go back and ‘fix things’?”
“I think almost everybody will recognize that we were forced to make some decisions under duress. Hell, basically with a gun to our head.”
Flood moved his glare from the vice president to the secretary of state, who was sitting directly across the table. “Charlie, how badly do the French want to get back into Iraq?”
The secretary of state replied without enthusiasm but bluntly, “Badly.”
“How about the South Africans?”
“Badly.”
“How about Russia?”
“Badly.”
“Do you have any reason to believe that after we’ve opened the gate, they would turn around a week or a month from now and pull back out?”
“I doubt it. They’ve been itching to get the embargo lifted for years, and they’re already doing a fair amount of business with them on the sly.”
Flood turned back to Baxter. “It won’t be that easy to just reverse course when, and if, this whole mess is resolved.”
“I know that there is nothing easy about this, General.” Baxter knew he had to reassert his authority. “You don’t need to explain the obvious to me. My number one concern is the lives of the American citizens that are being held hostage. If I have to change a foreign policy, that isn’t even working, to gain their freedom, I will gladly do so.” Baxter tilted his head back indignantly.
“You would jeopardize the entire foreign policy and national security of this country for the lives of forty to fifty-some people?”
“I think you’re being a little melodramatic, General Flood.”
“Melodramatic,” Flood repeated the word while his face reddened. “This is a war, Vice President Baxter, and in war there are casualties. Saddam Hussein has attacked us. He has paid this terrorist, this mercenary”—Flood flipped his hand in disgust—“call him what you want, to come and attack us. Men like Saddam and this Aziz only understand one thing, and that is force. Overwhelming force!”
Baxter looked at the general with scorn for challenging him. Disagreement was one thing, but this was a show of disrespect. “General Flood, your opinion has been noted. Now, if we could move on to some other issues . . .”
“Sir,” stated the general loudly. “If or, more accurately, when it becomes known that Saddam had a hand in this whole mess, the American people are going to want action, and there will be some uncomfortable questions asked of those who were making the decisions.”
Baxter’s temper began to unravel. “Are you threatening me, General Flood?”
“No.” Flood stared him right in the eye. “I am merely, once again, stating the obvious. We are not the only country in possession of this information. Some of our most faithful allies know what is going on, and they will not sit idly by while we jeopardize their security.”
“General Flood,” bellowed Baxter, his temper finally getting the best of him. “Do I need to remind you how the chain of command works? I am in charge here.” Baxter pointed to himself. “And I am going to put the interests of those hostages above everyone else’s, especially those of another country. Whether they be an ally or not.”
Flood did not flinch, he did not twitch, he did not move a muscle; he simply returned the vice president’s stare and said, “First of all, I am very aware of the chain of command, and secondly, I would be derelict in my duty if I didn’t inform you that you couldn’t be more wrong in ignoring the national security of our allies. Israel has been one of our staunchest. In your effort to find a short-term solution, you are, in my opinion, moving one of our closest allies and possibly this entire nation toward war.”
Before Baxter had a chance to come completely unglued and Flood had a chance to elaborate, the door opened and a female naval officer entered. She apologized to the group and approached Irene Kennedy. The officer handed Kennedy a piece of paper and left.
Dr. Kennedy opened the paper and studied the note. It concerned a little issue completely forgotten about. Desperately wanting to find out what her counterpart had to say, she stood and said, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to check on this.” Kennedy waved the note in the air and left the room.
MITCH RAPP HAD everything ready to go. Bringing Adams along had proven to be a big help. Not only because of his knowledge of the building, but also because it gave Rapp an extra set of very capable hands. Adams had just finished showing Rapp the exact spots for a third time. Rapp looked at the layout of the second floor one last time and double-checked the number. When he was done, he had come up with five different locations.
Turning to Adams, he said, “Do you think you can handle the monitor and the devices at the same time?”
Adams nodded. “Yep.”
“Good. That’ll free me up to keep an eye out for any surprises.” Rapp then grabbed the small fanny pack and took out all of the micro surveillance units except five. Handing the pack to Adams, he pointed at the blueprints and said, “We’ll place them in the five locations you suggested. After we put each one in place, we’ll check it on the monitor and make sure it’s working.” Rapp then grabbed the monitor and helped Adams get strapped into it. When he was done helping Adams, he began checking out the rest of his gear.
As Rapp slid the bolt on his submachine gun back, Rielly asked, “Is that an MP-Five?”
Rapp looked up, frowning, more than a little surprised that she could even make a guess let alone get the manufacturer correct. “Close. It’s the new MP-Ten. How do you know what an MP-Five looks like?”
“My dad’s a police officer in Chicago.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“What are you going to do?”
“A little reconnaissance.”
“Where?”
Rapp placed the submachine gun on the ground. “You sure do ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m a reporter. It’s my job.”
Rapp frowned and nodded as if he had just been reminded of a particularly bad thing.
Rielly picked up on the expression and asked, “Is there something wrong with that?”
“Normally”—Rapp shrugged his shoulders—“probably not. But under-the current circumstances, I can see where we might have a problem.”
“And why would that be?”
“Why?” Rapp tilted his head. “Because when this whole thing
is over, you will probably have one hell of a story to tell.”
“I owe you a lot. I wouldn’t report anything that you didn’t agree to.”
Rapp slid his pistol out of his thigh holster and pulled back on the slide. The cylindrical brass round was where it should have been, and Rapp let the slide go forward. “What if I don’t want you to report a single word of this mess? What if I want you to act like we never met, and none of this ever happened?”
“That’s not realistic.”
“Well, then we have a problem.”
Looking at him, she wondered why he would have to be so secretive. “Who do you work for?”
“I can’t tell you that.” Rapp shoved his pistol back in its holster.
“Seriously, I’d like know.”
“And seriously”—Rapp shook his head and opened his eyes wide—“I can’t tell you.”
“It must be the CIA.” Rielly kept her eyes on him, trying to get the slightest hint of a reaction. She got nothing. “It has to be the CIA, otherwise you could tell me.”
“Wrong. Are you a woman of your word?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then someday, if we both make it out of here alive, I’ll tell you my life story.” Rapp smiled, showing a set of long dimples on both cheeks.
Rielly smiled back and nodded. “So you work for the CIA.”
“I never said that,” replied Rapp.
IRENE KENNEDY STOOD over the secure phone in General Flood’s office and felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. On the other end was Colonel Fine of the Israeli foreign intelligence service, Mossad. Fine had just given Kennedy a brief overview on the three names she had given him the night before. There was no surprising information on the first two terrorists, but the third was an entirely different matter. Mustafa Yassin was the man in question, and Kennedy was curious. The colonel had come up with three matches on the name Mustafa Yassin. The first was a fifty-seven-year-old officer in the Jordanian army, and the second was an eighteen-year-old suspected Palestinian dissident.