Transfer of Power

by Vince Flynn

  When Colonel Fine finished giving the background on the individuals, Kennedy asked, “Could you repeat the info on the last Yassin, please?”

  “Sure, but let me caution you, Yassin is a fairly common name over here, so this might not be the same guy. The last Mustafa Yassin is an Iraqi. We don’t have a lot of information on him, but what we do have all revolves around the invasion of Kuwait. Since then there has only been one update added to his file. According to our intelligence, his alias is the Thief of Baghdad. When the Iraqis rolled into Kuwait and started looting, it was this Yassin fellow who they put in charge of breaking into all of the bank vaults.”

  “What else do you have on him?” asked Kennedy.

  “Not a lot, but this isn’t the guy I would worry about. My bet is Aziz recruited this eighteen-year-old fellow from Gaza as cannon fodder.”

  Kennedy looked down at Flood’s desk and thought about the possibilities. “Can you locate him?”

  “I already have my people checking on all three. So far I’ve only been able to confirm the whereabouts of the Jordanian officer.”

  “I thought you kept close tabs on these dissidents.”

  “We do,” started Fine, “but things are a little stressed over here right now. What is the phrase you like to use? . . . The natives are restless. We have another intifada on our hands. Aziz seems to have motivated every Palestinian between the age of two and seventy to pick up a rock and protest.”

  Kennedy had been so focused on the immediate concerns of the crisis-that she hadn’t thought of the repercussions it might be having abroad. What Fine said made sense, and if they didn’t step in and handle things more firmly, it would only get worse.

  “Ben, it would be a big help if you could track down this kid as soon as possible.”

  “I have my best people on it, Irene. I can assure you of that.”

  “Thank you, Ben. Is there anything else?”

  “Well . . .” There was a four-second pause. “The word on the street is that you grabbed Sheik Harut, the night before last.”

  “Where are you hearing that?”

  “Several sources, actually. The Huns are all guessing it was either you or me, and since I know it wasn’t me, then it must be you.”

  “I’m not in a position to discuss that matter right now, but I can assure you when I know anything about it, you will be briefed fully.”

  Fine didn’t say anything for a long while and then said, “Irene, this is uncomfortable for me, but there are those in my government who are very unhappy with the way this crisis is being handled.”

  Kennedy turned around and sat on the edge of General Flood’s desk. There were many that, put in her shoes, would simply have told the colonel that the U.S. was doing just fine managing the crisis, and that it would appreciate it if its allies would keep their opinions to themselves.

  Fine continued. “It is our fear that you may make a short-term decision that could be catastrophic to Israel’s interests.”

  Kennedy thought about Fine’s words honestly and refused to let nationalism seep into her thought process. There was no doubt that Israel had a lot on the line, and it didn’t take a Rhodes scholar to figure out how they would like the crisis resolved. Kennedy usually stayed out of this type of discussion, but in the current situation, and considering her own frustration with Vice President Baxter, she felt it prudent to try to assuage some of Fine’s fears. She also knew that whatever she said would be relayed up to the highest levels of the Israeli government.

  “Ben, people like us don’t make policy; we only advise. Having said that, however, I can assure you that at every juncture of this crisis, there have been those of us who have forcefully stated our concerns over our relationship with your country—our concern that we don’t lose focus on our longterm commitment to Israel’s security and stability in the Middle East.”

  Fine again digested the comments in silence and then added tensely, “There are those in my government who are very nervous.” Pausing, again Kennedy could hear the stress in his breathing. “There are many who don’t like the fact that you are dealing with Aziz . . . that you have done an about-face on your position of not negotiating with terrorists.”

  Kennedy chose her words carefully. “There are many in my own government who do not like this change in policy, but this is an extremely difficult situation.”

  “Who has made these decisions to negotiate?”

  “Ben, you are moving into an area that I am not comfortable discussing.”

  “Well, then let me say this last thing. We have a good idea where this is headed, and we will do whatever it takes to protect our own security.” Fine stopped and then repeated himself. “Whatever it takes.”

  “I understand,” replied Kennedy. The colonel couldn’t have been clearer, and Kennedy knew that he had been told what to say by someone above his pay grade. Quite possibly the prime minister himself. “Is this something that I should pass on as an official or unofficial position of your country?”

  “It has always been our position that we will do whatever it takes to protect ourselves.”

  “Then why the need to remind me?”

  “Because,” started Fine, “this is an unusual situation, and we would not want anyone to question where Israel stands on this issue.”

  “Fair enough, Ben. I will make sure that your position is well known.” Running a hand through her hair, she added, “I need to check on some things. Could you do me a favor and let me know just as soon as you track down your eighteen-year-old dissident?”

  “Of course. When can I expect to hear more about Sheik Harut?” Kennedy knew she had to give him something or at least the promise of something. “You can expect me to brief you fully when I have a chance to take a breath.” Kennedy intentionally let loose a tired sigh.

  “I understand. Please keep me informed, and I will do the same.”

  “Thank you, Ben.” Kennedy kept the phone in her hand and disconnected the call by pressing the button in the cradle. Quickly, she punched in seven numbers, and when the person on the other end answered, she asked to be connected to a certain location via code word. Approximately twenty seconds after that Dr. Hornig was on the phone.

  “Jane,” started Kennedy, “I need you to ask Harut what he knows about one of the terrorists named Mustafa Yassin. Specifically, ask him if Yassin is a teenage Palestinian or an Iraqi.”

  “May I ask what this is all about?”

  “I can’t really get into it right now; I just need some verification.”

  “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  The door to General Flood’s office opened, and the general himself entered with General Campbell and Director Stansfield. Kennedy turned away from them and said, “I have to go. How long do you think it will take to get the info?”

  “I don’t know . . . We seem to be losing him a bit.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Kennedy as her face twisted into an expression of concern.

  “The techniques we use are not exactly beneficial to the long-term health of the human brain.”

  “You mean you’re losing him as in, he’s turning into a vegetable?”

  “Crudely put, yes . . . but we have extracted an extraordinary amount of information. I have found out some very interesting things that will give us terrific insight into the minds of—”

  “That’s fine, Jane,” Kennedy cut Hornig off, “but I really need you to ask him those questions about Yassin. And the sooner I get the answers the better. I have to go now. Call me as soon as you get anything.” With that Kennedy hung up the phone, just as General Flood made his way around the backside of his desk.

  Flood looked at Kennedy and asked, “What’s wrong now?”

  Kennedy exhaled and said, “We might have a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?” asked Flood.

  Looking across the room, Kennedy placed her hands on her hips and said, “I’m not sure, but I hope to know more within the hour.” Then looki
ng to her boss, she said, “Colonel Fine passed on a little message for us.”

  Stansfield nodded knowingly and said, “I was beginning to wonder when they would weigh in.”

  Kennedy walked over to where Stansfield and Campbell were standing.“He said that they will do whatever it takes to protect themselves.” Approaching the group several steps behind Kennedy, Flood pronounced, “Good for them. At least someone is sticking by their guns in this mess.”

  “What happened after I left?”

  The group settled into their seats, and General Flood began to recount for Kennedy the strategy laid forth by Vice President Baxter. Judging from the facial expressions around the room, even Thomas Stansfield’s, it was clear what was thought of the vice president’s plans. It seemed as if things were only going to get worse.

  32

  THE DOOR WAS so hot in one spot that Warch could only touch it for a second or two at a time. He took this as a terrible sign. That, and the fact that nightfall had come and gone and there had been no abatement in the drilling. Things were getting bleaker by the moment, and you could see it on the faces of the tired agents.

  To make matters worse for the Secret Service agents, President Hayes had done the unthinkable. He had ordered all of them to place their weapons on the small table near the kitchenette. The president made it clear that there were to be no acts of bravado. That they would surrender without a shot. In Hayes’s opinion, if the terrorists got the door open, there was no sense in further bloodshed. At that point the battle would be over.

  Warch had tried only once to change President Hayes’s mind, but it was to no avail. Hayes was steadfast in his decision that there would be no more bloodshed. As Warch stood by the vault door, Hayes came over. The president placed his hand on the door.

  “It’s getting warmer.”

  “Yep,” answered Warch.

  “Any bright ideas?”

  “Nope.”

  Hayes gestured for Warch to follow him. They walked over to the couches and sat, Warch on the love seat, and Hayes on the couch.

  Hayes looked at Warch and said, “Jack, stop beating yourself up. There’s nothing else we can do.”

  “It’s not in my personality to give up, sir.”

  “Well, that’s admirable, but I just want you to know that I appreciate everything you and your men have done.”

  “Thank you.”

  A question had been burning in Warch’s mind since the attack. With the president in such a complimentary mood, Warch decided to ask it. “Sir, who was that prince, and how did he get in to see you?”

  Hayes had thought long and hard about this over the last two days, and he kept going back to his meeting in the Situation Room three nights ago. The meeting where he had authorized the abduction of Fara Harut. In that meeting he had seen a black and white photograph of Rafique Aziz. It was an old one, but the eyes had left an impression on him. The face was different, but there was something about the eyes that made him think it was Aziz.

  “I can’t be sure, but I think it might have been Rafique Aziz. Or if it wasn’t, it was one of his people.”

  Warch nodded. “I told you about the call I got from Irene Kennedy, right before the attack.” Hayes nodded. “Well, I’ve never seen a photo of Aziz, but whoever that man was standing in the Oval Office, I didn’t like the look in his eye.”

  “I’ve seen a photo of him, but it was old.”

  “Sir, I’ll understand if you don’t want to answer this question.” Warch looked at the president to see if he was open. Hayes nodded for Warch to go ahead. “I have my suspicions, but I’d like to know for sure. . . . What did these terrorists hang in front of the DNC to entice them into getting a face-to-face meeting with you?”

  Hayes thought for a moment. It was ingrained in his political instincts to avoid answering this question. He had worked on the Hill for twentyplus years, and the only thing that was as certain as hot summers in Washington was congressional investigations. And when this whole thing was over, they would see an endless stream of investigations, reviews, and reports. If recent history had taught Hayes anything, it was that the coverup usually created more problems than it solved. If national security wasn’t on the line, it was best to get everything out in the open. For this mess, that would damage the party—how much was anyone’s guess—but it was better than dragging the whole thing out for years.

  The politics of greed had shown its ugly head in the worst of ways, and because of it they were now in this fix. Hayes knew what was the right thing to do, and it was probably better to do it now, while he felt a sense of honor, because, God only knew, if he waited until he was out of this, he’d have a room full of lawyers and consultants telling him to keep his mouth shut and say nothing. Feeling indebted and unusually forthright, Hayes began to tell Warch what had happened.

  AZIZ GRINNED FROM ear to ear as he watched the pundits, experts, and analysts go over every word of his speech to the American people. He had changed back into his fatigues and was sitting in the Situation Room. He now sat, remote control in hand, simultaneously watching six TVs, with his feet up on the long conference table. He was spending more and more of his time with MSNBC on the main screen, but whenever he saw someone on one of the other stations with a title such as former FBI agent, or counterterrorism expert, he couldn’t resist switching to that station.

  The analysis was almost exactly as he thought it would be. For every law enforcement type, there was a former State Department official, politician, journalist, or religious leader that would talk of a peaceful solution to a horrible situation. His favorite comment so far had come from some Baptist minister who had noted an incredible amount of religious tolerance on the part of Mr. Aziz in his acknowledgment of “our Christian God.”

  They were literally falling all over themselves in an attempt to make it sound as if a nonviolent end to the crisis was within sight. They were saying things like, “The ball is now in Vice President Baxter’s court. If he wants to find a way out of this horrible siege, this will probably be his best chance.”

  Aziz loved it. The pressure was a reality. It was no longer something he hoped he could elicit. If things went as planned, he would be in a perfect position for his final demand and his triumphant return to the Middle East. The U.S. would meet his most recent demand. Most of its allies would just as soon begin trading with Iraq again. As long as military hardware and technology were off the table, the deal was palatable to all but Britain and Israel.

  Aziz confidently rubbed his chin as he thought of the moment when the vault door would be opened, the moment he looked into the eyes of a defeated president of the United States—the sheer joy of being able to gloat over President Hayes, hold a gun to his head, and watch him cry. After he had broken Hayes and made him think his life was about to end, he would show him the slightest ray of hope, and slowly, he would reveal to him how there was a peaceful way to resolve the entire crisis. Then he would change back into his suit and shock the world by going on national TV with President Hayes.

  The endless parade of military personnel and Secret Service agents who had sworn on their reputations that the president was safe in his bunker would be embarrassed and shamed. They would be shunned in favor of the politicians who could broker the safe release of the president and the hostages.

  Aziz was relishing his exceedingly favorable luck when an image on one of the TVs caught his attention. His feet were off the table in a second, and the remote control was pointed toward the main TV like a gun. As the channel changed, the unmistakable image of Sheik Fara Harut took center stage. Aziz’s eyes widened as he listened to the anchor on NBC talk about reports out of the UN that Iran was protesting the abduction of an Islamic cleric. A moment later a woman appeared on the TV.

  Aziz listened to the anchor say, “We’re fortunate to have with us Sheila Dunn from The Washington Post. Sheila, you wrote an article that appeared on the front page of the Post this morning. Can you explain how that article might tie in wit
h this most recent development between Iran and the UN?”

  “Yes.” Dunn looked seriously into the camera. “I have it from the highest sources that CIA alerted the Secret Service that the White House was targeted for a terrorist attack. It appears that this warning was given with just minutes to spare.”

  The anchor leaned forward, placing his elbow on the desk. “How do Sheik Harut and Iran figure in this?”

  “Well, Iran has filed a grievance with the UN stating that a group of commandos from a foreign country carried out a mission in the Iranian town of Bandar Abbas three nights ago that left dozens dead and Sheik Fara Harut missing. Sheik Harut is the spiritual leader of the group Hezbollah, and he and Rafique Aziz are very close. So it stands to reason that the CIA obtained the advance information of the attack from Sheik Harut.”

  “Do we know what role, if any, the CIA played in this raid?”

  “No.” Dunn shook her head, acting as if she was really disappointed. “Both the Pentagon and Central Intelligence Agency have refused comment on the subject.”

  Aziz turned the television off. He would make them pay. The connection had been made, and there was no way they could lie their way out of it. Someone would die for this. Abruptly, Aziz turned and started for the door.

  A SPECIALLY OUTFITTED U.S. Army Black Hawk helicopter ferried Kennedy, Stansfield, General Flood, and General Campbell from the Pentagon to Langley. When they arrived in the control room on the seventh floor, they all stood in silence while they looked up at the wall of monitors. One of the watch officers had called Kennedy and warned her what was happening. In truth, it didn’t surprise her. If she hadn’t had so many other things on her mind, she probably would have predicted it.

  Thomas Stansfield stood, impassive, looking at the large wall, taking in the tiny images. General Flood and General Campbell were a different matter, however. They were men who were used to giving an order and having it followed to the letter—and almost always without question. In this particular situation General Campbell couldn’t have been more specific. He had told Rapp in very clear English that he was to stay put until further notice.