Transfer of Power

by Vince Flynn

  “What?” asked an impatient Rapp, wishing Adams would explain what good a little vent could do.

  Adams brought his hands up as if he were a quarterback signaling how far to go for a first down. He slid the two hands forward and placed them on the outside of Rapp’s shoulders. Then with a frown he said, “You’re too damn big.”

  Frustrated, Rapp asked, “Milt, what in the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m almost sure this vent is there, but it’s only eighteen inches wide. Your shoulders are all that plus a couple.”

  “Back up.” With a confused look, Rapp asked, “Where will this vent get us?”

  Adams flipped back to the drawings of the third basement. “This vent drops right down at the corner. If you could get to it, you would have a clear shot into the anteroom of the bunker . . . that’s assuming the first door is open.”

  “But you’re saying I won’t fit.”

  “No. You could lower me down, but—” Adams stopped and rolled his eyes.

  “You’d sneeze, and they’d hear it.”

  “Afraid so.” Adams nodded.

  Rapp swore under his breath. He would have done almost anything to get a look at what was going on in that anteroom. Rapp glanced up from the blueprint and looked at Rielly. She looked like a teenybopper at a slumber party with her ponytail and sweats. He looked at the rest of her body and was willing to bet that Rielly weighed a buck five tops. It took Rapp only a second to decide it was worth it. If she was going to write a story, she might as well earn it.

  RETURNING TO THE scene of the crime couldn’t have been a more accurate description. Salim Rusan had found a spot for his ambulance at the end of a line that ran almost a block long. Immediately to his right was the Willard Hotel, the Washington, D.C., landmark that boasted it had served cocktails to the likes of Abraham Lincoln, Mark Twain, Buffalo Bill, and countless others. In the middle of the block was the Willard Office Building, and next to that, on the corner, was Rusan’s former place of employment, the Washington Hotel.

  Across the street to his left was Pershing Park, named after General “Black Jack” Pershing, the commander of the American Expeditionary Force in Europe during World War I. The park was lined on two of its four sides with fire trucks. The firemen that were assigned to the trucks lounged about on the green grass of the park, some of them playing catch with a football, others with a bright orange Frisbee. A sandwich truck kept the firemen and ambulance drivers filled with coffee, soda pop, and a variety of sandwiches, soups, and microwavable dishes. Four D.C. police squads blocked the intersection barely thirty feet behind Rusan’s ambulance at the corner of Pennsylvania and Fourteenth Street.

  Salim Rusan had returned to within two blocks of the White House. He slouched behind the wheel of the ambulance, a book perched on the bottom half of the steering wheel, and pair of headphones covering his ears. He was hoping to avoid conversation. A very thin cover story had been crafted, one that would not stand up well after two or three wellpointed questions, especially in an industry where, Rusan assumed, many of the drivers knew each other. Fraternizing with the other paramedics could get hairy, so he would keep to himself.

  Rusan twisted his wrist and looked at his cheap digital watch. It was approaching two in the afternoon. He had been sitting in his spot for almost three hours. So far so good. The other drivers congregated from time to time on the sidewalk or across the street at the sandwich truck. Several of them even played catch with the firemen. As he had thought, they seemed to know each other. The ploy of being immersed in a novel was working thus far, but he couldn’t sit in the ambulance forever. There were several things he had to take care of, and that meant taking a walk among the enemy.

  Rusan checked his side mirror again. The reporters and curious onlookers were milling about like cattle behind a police barricade one block back to the east at the corner of Thirteenth Street and Pennsylvania. Rusan could make out a cop atop his mount eyeing the crowd. If he had time, he would have to try to plant one of the devices near the crowd. The key was to get people running in every direction—toward the White House and away from it. Looking across Pennsylvania Avenue, Rusan admired the shiny red fire trucks, lined up one after another. What a wealthy country. Wealthy and selfish. Selfish and greedy. It would be nice to sneak a bomb under one of the trucks and watch the whole row explode one after another. That would cause some serious confusion. But that was out of the question. Too many firemen. Too many of them milling about. Someone would see him.

  Rusan checked his watch again. A nervous habit. The black digital letters hadn’t change since the last time he’d checked, just forty seconds earlier. It was time to put the book away and get to work. Keeping the headphones on, Rusan stepped through the small passageway into the back of the ambulance. The gurney sat latched to the middle of the floor and the side compartments were all secured and locked. Using a small key, Rusan unlocked one of the cabinets and pulled out a plastic toolbox. Typically, it would have been filled with medical supplies to treat accident victims, but instead it was filled with small bombs that had been designed by Aziz. They were ingenious yet simple. Each bomb consisted of Semtex, a blasting cap, and a pager that acted as both the receiver and the power source. The bombs could be activated either by Rusan or Aziz from within the White House or, Allah forbid, someone dialing a wrong number and then punching in the wrong code, which the odds were astronomically against.

  Rusan reached down and with his hand scraped the freshly ground coffee beans to the side. The smell of the coffee would help confuse any canines that the FBI might use to check for bombs. As an extra precaution Rusan had also rubbed cayenne pepper on the tires and back tailgate before embarking. If one of the pooches got a sniff of the pepper, they would want nothing to do with the truck.

  Packed in the coffee grounds were six bombs. Two were shaped to be placed under toilet bowl lids: thin sheets, one inch thick with the pager and blasting cap imbedded in the claylike explosive. These two sheets of Semtex were wrapped individually in wax paper. Underneath the two sheets were four cans of diet Coke. The top of each had been carefully removed, and the cans had been packed with the malleable explosive, pager, and blasting cap.

  Rusan picked up a black fanny pack that was lying on top of the gurney and carefully slid the two sheets of Semtex into the pack. After zipping it closed, he climbed back into the front seat and sat there for a minute. When he had gathered the nerve, he opened his door and stepped out into the sunlight. He sauntered around the rear of the truck, like a man who did aerobics twice a day, seven days a week. His tight pants and shirt, white hair, pierced right ear, and tattoos announced to all his sexual orientation.

  Skipping up the steps of the Willard Hotel, Rusan pushed through the revolving door. When he stepped into the opulent lobby, he noticed two D.C. cops. Rusan smiled at them as he walked across the tile floor. He had scouted everything out. He knew exactly where he was going and where he would place the first four bombs. He continued across the lobby and up a short flight of stairs. The hotel was closed to the public because it was within the three-block perimeter that had been set up around the White House. When he entered the men’s room, he quickly checked to make sure he was alone, which he was.

  Once in the stall he had prechosen, Rusan pulled off the ceramic tank cover and laid it upside down on the toilet seat. He wiped the condensation off the lid and then carefully extracted the first bomb from his fanny pack. It fit inside the lid precisely. Rusan had taken photos of the lid to make sure there were no mistakes. Pressing the Semtex into place, Rusan made sure the bomb was affixed to as much of the surface as possible, and then he extracted a roll of duct tape. At each end of the bomb there were two inches of uncovered ceramic. Rusan cut three pieces, laying each one across the Semtex and making sure it was firmly attached to the underside of the cover. When he was done, he put the duct tape back and replaced the lid. Satisfied, Rusan unzipped his pants and began to relieve himself. One down, three to go.

&nbs
p; 40

  IT HAD TAKEN almost no effort to convince Rielly. Adams actually made several attempts to douse her enthusiasm, but she would have none of it. She was in. Rapp wasn’t sure if she wanted to do it out of patriotism, sympathy for the remaining hostages, or professional greed. He hoped it was one of the first two and not the latter.

  The plan came together in short order. Adams was a natural problem solver with the tedious mind of an engineer. Rapp, with his practical experience, tried to simplify every aspect of the operation, knowing that the more complicated it became the stronger the chance that it would fail. For her part, Rielly listened well and asked pointed questions when needed.

  Rapp had told them, “This is simple recon. Nothing fancy, just take a look and then get out.” He then went on to brief Rielly on how they would proceed, and then before leaving the stash room, he gave her one more chance to back out. She didn’t waver for a second. With everything covered and the clock ticking, Rapp grabbed the proper gear and gave Adams the go-ahead signal.

  Adams slid back the bolt, and Rapp was the first one into the closet. Having already checked the surveillance units, they knew no one else was currently on the second or third floors. They moved quickly and quietly across the hall and into the small elevator. Rielly was in sweat socks and made no noise. When they arrived in the first basement, the doors slid open and Adams went to work with the snake. Rapp and Adams were working well as a team, but now with Rielly as the third wheel, it was another variable to worry about.

  Adams retracted the snake, and over his shoulder he whispered, “All clear.”

  Rapp asked, “We go to the right, halfway down the hall?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good,” whispered Rapp. “Here’s the routine.” Rapp looked to Rielly, who was no more than a foot away. “When we open this door, I step out first. I sweep to the left and then the right. When I give you two the signal to move out, you go. Milt in the lead; you with your right hand on his right shoulder.” Rapp was happy to see that her eyes were open wide, a sign that she was paying attention. “You keep that hand on his shoulder and keep your eyes on the back of his head. If he speeds up, you speed up; if he slows down, you slow down; and if he crouches, you get down. If I have to start shooting, I don’t want to worry about you jumping out in front of me.”

  Rielly nodded and then blinked for the first time in a while. All of a sudden she didn’t think this was such a good idea. Either it was colder down here or she was getting the chills from fright. Rapp asked her something, and she stared back at him with a blank expression.

  “Are you nervous?”

  Rielly nodded, eyes wide open.

  “Good.” Rapp grinned. “You should be.” He grabbed her right hand and placed it on Adams’s shoulder. “Just follow Milt, and everything will be fine.”

  Rapp cracked the door just an inch at first and looked down the hallway. With nothing in sight, he opened the door another foot and peered in the other direction. With his MP-10 leveled in his left hand, he opened the door the rest of the way and stepped out into the hallway. After checking both directions again, his right hand shot up and pointed for Adams and Rielly to move out.

  Adams started out on cue, his bald head scrunched down between his shoulders as if bullets might start whizzing over his cranium at any moment, the all important S-key in his right hand. Rielly mimicked his posture and scampered behind him on the balls of her stockinged feet. As soon as they were clear, Rapp closed the nondescript door that concealed the elevator and fell in behind them. Within seconds Adams had stopped at another door and was inserting his key. He fumbled with it for a second, his hands shaking slightly. After one misfire, he stuck the key all the way in and turned the knob. Adams yanked the door open and was immediately pushed inside the room by Rielly, who was being pushed by Rapp.

  Rapp pulled the door shut and looked around the rectangular-shaped storage room. Rielly was doing the same and whispered, “I thought we were going to the China Room.”

  “No.” Adams shook his head. “The china storage room.” He approached one of the many wheeled gray plastic containers that stood about four feet tall. Adams pulled off the protective cloth cover and revealed a collection of plates, saucers, and cups. “These things are springloaded.” Adams picked up a china dinner plate. “When they decide which china they want for an event, they just wheel this whole thing into the kitchen elevator and they take it upstairs.”

  Rielly looked around the room. “All of these contain sets of china?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s great.” Rapp was already moving several of containers out of his way so he could get to the wall where the vent was located. Adams joined in, and they passed the wheeled containers from one to the other. While they were doing so, Rapp looked at a second door, located on the wall to his right, and asked, “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Yep.” Adams nodded as he looked up for a second.

  “Good. I think it’s gonna come in real handy.” Rapp moved the last container and saw the vent cover on the bottom of the wall. It looked to be about a foot and a half wide and maybe a foot tall. Rapp stepped out of the way, and Adams moved in. Dropping down to one knee, he pulled out a small cordless drill and quickly backed out both screws. With his fingers, he pulled the slatted cover off and dropped all the way down to his stomach. With a flashlight in hand, he stuck his arm in first and then half of his head. After bouncing the light off the duct work for a couple of seconds, he found what he was looking for. The down chute that led to the lower floors and eventually the HVAC unit in the basement.

  Adams pulled his head out and looked at Rapp, who was kneeling next to him. “It’s right where I thought it was. Ten feet down this way, go straight down two floors, and she has to crawl about a dozen feet, and there’s the vent.”

  “Which way does she go when she hits the third level?”

  Adams jerked his thumb. “She keeps going the same way.”

  Rapp looked at his watch and said, “All right.” Then turning to Rielly, he said, “Last chance to back out.”

  Rielly grinned reluctantly and looked at the small opening that Adams was lying next to. “I’m ready.”

  Rapp looked at her and again wondered what her motivation was. Standing there in the president’s oversized West Point sweats, she did not fit the image of the brave and bold. Rapp thought she looked scrawny. He had to hand it to her, though; whether it was professional motivation, sense of obligation to her fellow hostages, or just good old Catholic guilt, the woman was tough. She’d had the crap kicked out of her, was almost raped, and yet here she was, willing to go right back into the fray.

  Rapp nodded at her with admiration and said, “Give me a couple of minutes, and we’ll get you on your way.”

  Rapp took off his fanny pack and laid out the climbing rope and one of the surveillance units.

  “Is she going to have enough light in there?”

  Adams thought about it for a second. “Yeah. It spills through the vents about every ten to fifteen feet.”

  “Good.” Holding the rope up, Rapp turned to Rielly and said, “Go lie down over there by the vent, and we’ll tie this around your ankles.” Rapp cut a four-foot section from the end of the rope and tied one end to Rielly’s right ankle and the other to her left. When he was satisfied with the knots, he tied the rope to the middle of the four-foot section. This allowed Rielly to move her legs independently, which would have been impossible if her ankles were tied together.

  After asking her how the knots felt, Rapp asked, “Any questions before-we get started?”

  Rielly looked up from her position on the floor. “Yeah, how in the hell do I signal for you guys to pull me back up?”

  Rapp frowned. “That’s a good question. How about if you tug three times on the rope?”

  “How?” Rielly craned her neck backward and looked into the duct. “There isn’t enough room for me to do that.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” Looki
ng to Adams, Rapp asked, “Any ideas?”

  Adams thought about it for a second, his lips scrunched up. Finally he said, “Yeah. I got one.” Adams then sat and began taking his boots off. He took out the left bootlace, then the right, then tied them together. He tied one end to the long rope and the other one he loosely knotted around Rielly’s neck. “When you want us to take you back up, tug on this three times.”

  Rielly nodded and Rapp said, “Good thinking, Milt.” Then looking down at Rielly, he said, “Down this way about ten feet and then straight down until you hit the bottom. Now, remember when you reach the third level, you’re going to need to turn yourself around one hundred and eighty degrees so you can bend at the waist. Then once you get back into the lateral duct, you can spin back onto your stomach.” Rapp mimicked the maneuver with his hand. “From there, you crawl down to the first grate, and that’s where you should have a view into the room just outside the bunker. Don’t hang around long. This should take no more than a minute. Note how many people you see, if any, and what type of equipment. Then tug on the shoestring, and we’ll pull you right back up.”

  Rielly nodded, her face tense with nervousness.

  “And don’t forget to flip back over on your back so you can make the turn when we’re pulling you back up.”

  “All right, let’s get going before I change my mind.” Rielly rolled over onto her stomach and started squeezing into the vent. “Three tugs.” That was it, and then she wiggled her thin body into the air duct.

  It was cramped and dusty. Rielly doubted that Rapp could have fit in the duct, and if he could have, there wouldn’t have been any room left for him to maneuver. It didn’t take long to reach the shaft. As Rapp had said, it was maybe ten feet. Rielly paused at the top, only her fingertips and chin hanging over the edge. There was just enough light for her to see the bottom. It wasn’t as far as she had expected. Slowly she started down. Her arms first, her head, then her whole upper body. After that the rope became tight and Rapp and Adams began to lower her. Rielly remembered what Rapp had said, and when she neared the bottom, she spun herself around so she could bend at the waist and make the turn.