Transfer of Power

by Vince Flynn

  Aziz shook his head, feeling so confident in his prediction that he didn’t need to give a verbal response.

  “I wish I shared your optimism, but after what they tried to do this morning I can’t help but think they are preparing to attack.”

  The comment caused Aziz to smile. “That is why you are so valuable, Muammar. You are so cautious. They will not do anything until they hear the next round of demands.” Aziz tapped the side of his head with his forefinger. “You need to understand the American mind. Especially the mind of the politician. Being decisive is not in their character. They will put off making a decision until they are forced to do so. Right now they have gained the release of a third of the hostages and they are playing under the assumption that they can continue to negotiate for the release of more.”

  Bengazi frowned. “It makes no sense to me. Surely the military is advising to attack.”

  “They probably are, but it makes no difference. As long as the politicians think they can free more hostages without firing a shot, they will do so.”

  “Not when they find out what the next demands are.” Bengazi shook his bald forehead. “There is no way.”

  “When we have our hands on the president, everything will change. Speaking of the president, how is our little thief proceeding?”

  “He says he is still on schedule. Sometime around seven this evening.”

  Aziz smiled with anticipation. “It will be a great moment.”

  Bengazi nodded slowly, not sharing in his leader’s complete confidence. After looking down at the table for a while, he said, “I think we should announce that we have the president as soon as we get him out of the bunker.”

  “Why?”

  “It will deter the Americans from attacking.”

  Shrugging, Aziz placed his hands behind his neck. “My plan will not change. When I make my final demand tomorrow, I will need the surprise of having the president standing beside me to shock the world into doing what is right.”

  42

  RIELLY STRETCHED OUT on the concrete floor, her legs before her forming a V. First the left leg, hold it for a twenty count, and then the right. The stretching felt good.

  While she worked out the soreness in her legs and lower back, she thought about her career. Rielly was, after all, an insider. She had pulled back the curtain and had watched and participated in the Mighty and Powerful Oz’s show. The public was not allowed to peer behind that curtain, to see how stories were shaped, how careers were made or broken around those one-week periods known as Sweeps Week. The public never saw how producers and executives juiced up stories. Exaggerating some details and downplaying or ignoring others. How they went after something or someone, not based on how strong or important the story was, but what their ratings books told them.

  Anna knew her story would be hot. It would be more than hot. It would be incredible. She would have to be cautious. NBC would try to suck the story from her on every possible outlet: the Today show, Dateline, CNBC, and MSNBC. They owned her; there were no illusions about that. She was on the clock, and her contract left no loopholes for appearing on other network news shows. To keep her happy, they would repay her with exposure, probably allow her to do some stories for Dateline. That was the way the game was played.

  There would be a book deal, for sure, but she would have to be careful-about that. She wanted to write it herself, and take her time—no bigbucks, hire-a-ghostwriter, and have-it-on-the-shelves-in-two-months deal. The key would be to find the right agent. One who was willing to push for money and more time. The result would be a more authoritative story. She honestly felt that this was a story that needed to be told, but in the right way—dignified, worthy of the seriousness of the situation and of the people who had died.

  She would work with Mitch Kruse. Rielly smiled pleasantly at the thought of the man who had saved her. He was all man and then some. Nothing pretty about him. Handsome and rugged. A real man. As to his real identity, the no-brainer answer was that he worked for the CIA, but one could never tell. He could be FBI. They weren’t exactly forthright with information either—at least when dealing with journalists. Rielly could hardly blame them, though. She’d seen her father and his fellow law enforcement brethren get burned countless times by dishonest journalists. Rielly had vivid memories of her father’s scathing criticism of reporters, especially newspaper reporters. Barely a week passed when he wouldn’t throw the paper down in disgust and explain to her mother how the reporter had his or her facts all screwed up. Seeing how lax reporting affected her father served as motivation for Rielly to get things right. That’s what she would do with the book.

  Rielly smiled as the ideas fell into place. The very thing that would make the story all the more appealing, and at the same time honor Kruse’s request, would be to keep him as he was—a very lethal, dark, rugged, and anonymous individual. She would be protecting her source, just like a good reporter, and it would only add to the intrigue of the book.

  Rielly heard something on the other side of the door. Her heart leapt into her throat, but before she could scurry for cover, the door opened. Rapp and Adams quickly entered the room. Rielly placed her right hand on her chest and felt her pounding heart.

  From her spot on the floor, she said, “You guys scared the hell out of me.”

  Rapp’s face was tense. Sticking his hand out to help her up, he said, “Next time we’ll be sure to knock.”

  Rielly ignored the comment and took his hand. Standing, she asked, “What’s next?”

  Rapp didn’t speak at first. Instead he looked over at the room’s second door. He was thinking something through. After a short while he looked Rielly in the eye. “We’re gonna try something that might be a little risky, but there’s no other alternative.”

  Rielly looked at the door, not knowing what was behind it. Kruse’s intensity sent a shiver up her spine. With a forced confidence, she asked, “What’s behind that door?”

  DALLAS KING STRUTTED back and forth in front of Baxter’s desk. The two had been debating what to do with the new information, that there was a good chance Aziz was in the process of extricating President Hayes from his bunker.

  In his typical defeatist tone, Baxter had whined that it was over. Everything they had done was for naught. Helicopters would be sent in, the men in black would rappel from ropes, and the bloodbath would ensue. He would forever be remembered as the man who presided over the destruction of the White House and the deaths of dozens of Americans. His presidential ambitions were gone. Snuffed out. This would be a disgrace the fragile American ego would want to forget. And Sherman Baxter the Third in the Oval Office would be a constant reminder of this entire ugly week and this gruesome assault on the American way.

  King stopped his pacing and started snapping his fingers in front of Baxter. “You’re not listening to me. Pay attention.”

  “Shut up, Dallas. I’m listening to you. I just don’t believe you.” The vice president leaned back in his chair and tossed a black pen onto his desk. It hit a leather-bound desk calendar and skidded to a stop in between a photo of Baxter’s family vineyard and a photo of his parents.

  King looked down at his boss, not really hurt by the harsh words, but acting as if he were. King was practicing patience. His boss needed to be both coddled and whipped, depending on the situation. Looking down, the chief of staff pulled back the white cuff of his blue dress shirt and looked at his watch.

  “Maybe I’d better leave you alone for a while. You seem like you could use some rest.” King pulled his cuff back over the watch with an aristocratic flair.

  Baxter pointed to King. “Don’t speak to me with that condescending tone of yours, Dallas.”

  “Well”—King looked down at his fingernails—“my opinion doesn’t seem to matter much to you, so I thought it would be best if I left you alone.”

  Baxter rocked forward. “Don’t give me this crap, Dallas.”

  King turned to face his boss. Now was the time to dig in and then
hit him over the head with both the carrot and the stick. “Then why do I have to fight you at every turn?” King put his hands on his hips and looked to his boss for an answer. “Sherman, no one ever said this would be easy, but for Christ’s sake, I’m getting sick of your loser attitude.” To himself he added, If you had my problems, you’d want to crawl under a rock and die.

  Baxter pulled away, leaning back in his chair. After eyeing his agitated chief of staff for a second, he said, “I don’t see what in the hell I should be so positive about.”

  “How about the fact—” King stopped and looked over both of his shoulders, making sure no one was around. Then leaning over the desk he whispered, “—that maybe a certain person might not make it out of the White House alive.” Nodding his head confidently, he added, “One heartbeat away. Don’t ever forget it.”

  Baxter looked down at his desk for a moment, too embarrassed to let King see the thirst in his eyes. The politician in him told him to say the right thing. “I don’t want to become president that way.”

  “I know you don’t, but, Sherman, it would be your duty.”

  Baxter chewed on the thought.

  “We don’t know where this thing is going to end up,” King continued. “That’s why we have to stay loose. That’s why I need your head in the game.” King studied Baxter to see if he was getting through. “Keep the pressure on the UN, and I’ll worry about the rest of it. I have some ideas on how we can handle things if Flood and Stansfield keep leaning on you, but I have to think them through.”

  King looked out the window while he thought about his plans. It was getting late in the day. Maybe four more hours of sunlight, and then it would be dark again. If they could just make it until the morning and get another third of the hostages released, that would go a long way toward a victory. Then they could turn Flood and Stansfield loose, and hopefully his other problem would then be taken care of.

  43

  RAPP POINTED TO the second door, saying, “Behind that is a reinforced steel door that leads into a tunnel. The tunnel that was used to evacuate the president when the attack started. It runs from here, down a flight of stairs, under the Rose Garden, and up into the West Wing.”

  Rielly was leaning against one of the wheeled storage containers, and Rapp and Adams were standing. Rielly listened intently to Rapp’s plan. Talk of hidden tunnels and the evacuation of the president had her curiosity piqued.

  “At this end, the tunnel goes down a flight of stairs”—Rapp gestured with his hand—“a quick turn to the left, and then down another short flight, where there’s another door. That door,” said Rapp, talking very fast now, “leads to the room just outside the president’s bunker. The room that you could see from your spot in the ventilation duct.”

  Looking up, Rielly asked, “So where does that get us?”

  “We need to reestablish communication with the president. Aziz is using-some type of a jammer to block communication with the bunker.”

  “How do you know that?” Out of habit, the reporter was ticking down her notepad of questions.

  “When the raid started, we were in communication with the president via Secret Service radio and cell phone for a short period. That is how we knew he was safe in the bunker. When Milt and I came in through the air intake, our reception got worse the closer we got to the White House. Up on the second floor the reception is a little better. We’re pretty sure that the jamming unit is located as close to the bunker as possible for maximum effect.”

  Rielly took in his words and asked, “So why do we have to risk this just to talk to the president?”

  This is where it gets tricky, Rapp told himself. He didn’t want to lie to her, but at the same time, he knew he couldn’t tell her what he had figured out—that the reason they were doing this was that the vice president wouldn’t order the takedown. “Anna, I can’t get into that with you right now, maybe later. Just trust me that there’s a good reason why we need to reestablish contact with the president.”

  Rielly eyed him suspiciously, wondering what he was hiding. “This is one of those things we’ll talk about over dinner when you tell me your life story.”

  Rapp laughed. “Yeah, sure. I’ll put it at the top of the list.”

  Nice laugh, Rielly thought. He used it as defense mechanism. Every time he wasn’t comfortable with a question or a proposition, he laughed and moved on. Rielly gave him a knowing look as if she could see past the smoke screen.

  “So I’m going to crawl back down there and wait for that guy to go to the bathroom. And then I’m going to tug on the rope twice”—Rielly held up two fingers to make sure—“twice, and then you’re gonna run down there and do whatever it is that you do for whatever agency it is that you work for, but can’t say you work for.”

  Rapp’s quiet laugh and smile popped up right on schedule. “That’s about it.”

  “What if this guy doesn’t need to go to the bathroom?”

  “Don’t worry, he will. My guess is he’s been up for almost three days straight, and he’s probably had twenty cups of coffee.” Rapp looked over at the door and then back. “Any questions before we get started?”

  “What if I give the signal and two seconds later he turns around and starts coming back?”

  Rapp nodded and pointed to her. “Now, that’s a good question. If that happens, tug on the rope four times, nice and hard.” Rapp watched her nod and then again asked, “Any more questions?”

  “Yeah,” said Rielly. “What if I have to go to the bathroom?”

  “Hold it.” Rapp reached into his pocket and pulled out a Velcro patch and one of the mini surveillance units. “I want you to install this while you’re down there. Lay it flat like this.” Rapp set the small device in the palm of his hand and held it horizontally. “This little wick at the end contains a fiber-optic camera. Make sure it has an unobstructed view of the bunker door.”

  Rielly took the device and nodded. “I’m ready when you guys are.”

  “Milt?” Rapp looked at his partner.

  “I’m good to go.”

  “Good.” Rapp brought his hands together and said, “Let’s do it.” Rubbing them, he shrugged his head toward the second door and said, “Let’s get that thing open, and then we’ll lower Anna down.”

  Adams walked over to the gray door and extracted his S-key. He opened the outer door, and there stood a sturdy steel door with rivets securing the hinges and a handle on the right-hand side. Adams brought his face to within inches of the control pad and then stopped. Stepping to the side, he looked at Rapp and said, “You’d better give this a try. You’re gonna be on your own when you open the second door.”

  Rapp agreed and stepped up to the control pad. He entered the nine numbers from memory and pressed “enter.” Immediately there was the hiss of air releasing and then a metallic click. Rapp stepped back and brought his submachine gun up.

  Adams looked at him and pointed to the handle. “Just lean on that thing, and she’s all yours.”

  Rapp pushed Adams completely out of the way and pressed down on the handle. He didn’t expect any trouble, but now was not the time to be lax. Rapp pushed the door in. Before him was a small landing and a set of stairs. The floor and lower half of the walls were covered with a brown carpet. Rapp stood hugging the doorframe, with his silhouette minimized. The thick black barrel of his MP-10 searched every inch of the dimly lit staircase before him.

  He turned to Adams and Rielly, “Everything checks out. Let’s get Anna on the move and hope this guy has a little bladder.”

  A minute later Rielly was wiggling her way back into the vent and Rapp was playing out the rope. When she reached the vertical shaft, Rapp carefully eased her down it. From there Rielly inched her way through the narrow confines until she came upon her spot. Gingerly, she inched forward the last several inches and peered through the slats. The high-pitched whine of the drills filled the air. Clutching the surveillance unit Rapp had given her, she looked out intently at the large shiny do
or of the president’s bunker. No one was in sight. The pudgy man that she had seen the time before was not visible. Rielly watched the three bulky drills working to breach the door. She wondered briefly if she should tug on the string and give the signal. After a moment she thought better of it. She could see only part of the room, and for all she knew, someone was in there, or he was gone and could be on his way back.

  Taking the arm of her bulky sweatshirt, Rielly reached in front of herself and cleared out a spot for the Velcro patch. She secured the surveillance unit to the spot and made sure the fiber-optic camera had an unobstructed view between the bottom of the opening and the first slat. With that done, she stretched out and tried to get comfortable.

  WICKER HAD A crew of eight motivated Navy SEALs working feverishly. Planning ahead, as always, Wicker had called a lumberyard in Forestville, Maryland, and placed an order for the supplies he would need to build the shooting platform. When his CO, Lt. Commander Harris, had given him the green light, Wicker was on the phone within seconds.

  SEAL Team Six’s strike element, which would be used to chase the terrorists if they left the country, was billeted at Andrews Air Force Base, where they were biding their time in hopes that they would be sent into action. Wicker explained his situation to the unit’s executive officer and told him that Harris had given him the okay. Wicker requested six men specifically, and within twenty minutes they had borrowed a truck from the motor pool and were on the way to the lumberyard. The fact that they had not obtained authorization for the truck was something the paper pushers could sort out later.

  By a little past two in the afternoon they were downtown in their jeans and T-shirts unloading their equipment. Everything was ferried by hand up the bell tower of the Old Post Office, and now the men, all of whom were experienced snipers, were putting the finishing touches on the platforms. Building one platform would not work. Two shots would be fired by two men using fifty-caliber rifles. Although the platforms’ construction was sturdy, if only one were used, the slightest movement by one man could send the other man’s shot dangerously awry.