"What?" The voice came from the lightweight cell phone in his hand. It was crisp, efficient. Authoritative in a noncommittal way. The FBI negotiator.
"Nothing," Hardwin said. His fingers fled the hole. He became once more Reginald Hardwin, world terrorist. "I have your President and his wife captive above me. All escape routes, including those to the old Executive Office Building, have been secured."
"What do you want?" the negotiator asked evenly.
Hardwin the terrorist smiled. He played the part with great panache. Worthy of an Oscar.
"There is time for that later." He checked his watch. "My men are about to release all of the White House employees captured during our raid. You should see them at your end right about now." There was a pause.
"I do."
Hardwin smiled, placing the palm of his watch hand delicately back on the President's desk. "If you would be kind enough not to shoot at them, that would be splendid for all concerned, I should think."
"Hold your fire! Hold your fire!"
There was a long wait while the hundreds of White House staffers and government employees trapped inside the building at the start of the siege were trundled down the long drive to the Fifteenth Street entrance.
Hardwin was inspecting his fingernails when the FBI negotiator resumed the conversation.
"What about the wounded? We'll need to come get them."
"They will be brought out to you."
"They shouldn't be moved, except by professionals."
"Agent Plover, do you really think I would allow your men to sneak onto these grounds dressed like emergency medical technicians? Perhaps I sound stupid to you."
"Unfortunately, you don't," the negotiator said.
Hardwin smiled. "It's kind of you to lie. But we both know that you do think I am stupid. After all, I am in the most famous building in the world, surrounded by FBI, Marines and Secret Service. What could I possibly want? How could I possibly hope to achieve my ends? Clearly, I must know that this will end in my death. I am stupid in your opinion, am I not, Agent Plover? Please, be honest. You will find that honesty is very important to me."
The FBI agent was reluctant to admit that this was indeed the case. "You could have been smarter," Agent Plover said finally.
"There. That wasn't so difficult," Hardwin said encouragingly. "I appreciate your honesty. You will find that I am not a brutal man. As with the other hostages, the wounded will be brought out to you. That is, if I have your word that my men will come to no harm."
No hesitation. "You do."
"Excellent. We have established a trust between us. Important for any working relationship."
The histrionics were unbelievable. There was no panic. No frantically screamed ultimatum. No gradual erosion of demands until the compromise of surrender was reached. There was an utter calm about Reginald Hardwin, terrorist. An icy assuredness. Hardwin's confidence radiated to Agent Plover.
"Who are you?" the FBI negotiator asked.
"I am the man who brought terror to your New York City. You would be advised to listen to me. Remember the Regency. I will be in touch." Hardwin calmly depressed End.
He dropped his hand to the president's desk. "And Act Two commences." He smiled. It was the phrase Captain Kill had used to describe this phase of the drama.
Thinking of his mysterious employer, Hardwin allowed his eyes to scan the rounded contours of the famous room.
It was bigger than it appeared in the movies. A few of his men patrolled beyond the French windows on the patio that led to the Rose Garden.
The drapes and furniture were ghastly. Exactly what one would expect from a hippie hillbilly, Hardwin thought.
After a few long moments of consideration, Hardwin lifted his cellular phone once more. Quickly, he stabbed out a familiar eleven-number code. When the connection was made, he pressed three more numbers for the proper extension.
"Solomon, Raithbone and Schwartz," a perky female voice exclaimed. "Mr. Leffer's office."
"Let me talk to Bernie," Reginald Hardwin the actor said. Maybe he could spin this into something bigger than underwear ads.
Chapter 22
Both Washington National and Dulles International Airports had been closed indefinitely. During the crisis in the nation's capital, Baltimore-Washington was also shut down, along with all of the smaller municipal airports scattered within the entire area of Maryland. The no-fly zone extended far into northern Virginia.
The only things airborne within a hundred-mile radius of Washington were military aircraft. Jets and helicopters crisscrossed the ominous, rainstreaked night sky.
So many planes were up at one point early on, there were nearly a dozen midair collisions. The number had been pruned down now, but the dead spaces between roars of thunder were still filled with the persistent hum of unseen aircraft.
The flight from Edwards in California had taken Remo directly to Bolling Air Force Base across the Potomac from Washington National. An Air Force helicopter was waiting for him there.
The chopper flight was a short hop up the Washington Channel to the tourist section of the city. Rotors slicing tension from the very air of the nation's capital, the helicopter deposited him near the Ellipse at Constitution Avenue and Fifteenth Street Northwest.
Behind him, the darkened Washington Monument held aloft the sallow sky. The spotlights that ordinarily lighted the great obelisk had been doused. Without illumination, the ring of American flags that encircled the monument should have been taken down. But etiquette of the flag, as well as all other social and civil mores, had been abandoned at the start of the crisis.
In darkness, the wet flags flapped crazily in the wind kicked up by the departing helicopter.
As the chopper tilted south into the rain, Remo raced in the opposite direction.
The Ellipse was choked with government officials. Waterproof maps were spread on car hoods. Questions were shouted back and forth, some heated. There seemed to be a turf war going on among different branches of law enforcement.
Rather than worry about having to fish in his pockets for proper ID, Remo merely plucked a laminated tag from the lapel of an unsuspecting FBI agent. As he walked, he affixed the silver clip to the collar of his own black T-shirt.
Weaving through the crowd, he found what appeared to be the nucleus of official activity.
"I'm telling you, FBI is in charge here," a bulky man in a tan raincoat was insisting when Remo arrived. A drenched tourist map of the city wilted in his wet hands.
"Not in there," snapped another. He wore a sopping wet black suit. A thin white cord ran from jacket to ear. "That's Secret Service's domain."
"Take it up with the Attorney General," the FBI assistant director challenged.
"No, you take it up with the Secretary of the Treasury," the Secret Service agent countered.
A gray-haired Marine colonel in full dress uniform was about to interject when Remo interrupted. "What's the situation?" Remo asked, voice taut. All three men spun on him. The FBI man noted Remo's stolen identification with harried irritation. "If you're FBI, you work for me, which means you shut up," the assistant director growled.
"In that case, I'm not FBI," Remo said.
There was a flash of movement, faster even than the streaks of lightning that split the sky above the darkened capital. The FBI man abruptly felt something flat and square slip between his lips.
At the same moment his tongue was tasting the ID tag's metal clip, his eyes noted that the laminated tag had vanished from the T-shirt of the man before him. Before he could spit out the name tag, the agent-who had to be an impostor-gave the ID a light tap with the tip of one finger. The assistant director's eyes shot open as the tag rocketed down his esophagus. He gagged and gulped and grabbed his throat.
As the FBI man danced in place, Remo spun to the shocked Marine colonel and Secret Service agent.
"Before anyone gets any bright ideas, I'm on your side and I can do the same thing with chevrons and sungla
sses." His dark eyes were chipped from the ice-dead heart of a glacial rock. "What's the situation?"
The two men looked at the choking FBI assistant director.
The tag had gone down sideways, so his breathing was not impeded. The outline of the ID was clearly visible in the stretched skin of his neck. He coughed like a cat with a fur ball even as he jammed his fingers into his own desperately open mouth.
The man was staggering off when the Colonel and the Secret Service agent turned back to Remo. "An enemy force of unknown origin has taken the White House," the Secret Service man said without hesitation. "Our side suffered heavy casualties. Big Creep and Shrieker are inside."
Remo assumed these were the new code names for the President and First Lady. "Are they alive?"
"So far," the colonel answered. "The terrorists are holed up mostly on the ground level. The First Family is up in their living quarters. We're still in contact with the agents who are with them."
"Why don't you come up from below?" Remo asked, knowing that the offices of the White House extended well below street level.
"They seem to know the layout even better than we do," the Secret Service agent explained angrily. "All routes of ingress have been blocked. You heard about the bombing in Manhattan the other day?"
Remo frowned. "What's that got to do with this?"
"The head terrorist mentioned it to the FBI negotiator. 'Remember the Regency' or something like that."
Remo's frown deepened. "I've been in Oz the last few days," he said. "What's that mean?"
"It's the name of the office building they blew up," the agent explained. "When he said that, we got the preliminary report of the FBI investigation in New York faxed here on the double. They used plastic explosives to destroy an entire floor of that building."
"Which means the White House could already be set to go up like a Roman candle," the Marine colonel finished.
"Stalemate," the Secret Service agent grudgingly admitted. Rainwater dripped down the sour lines of his face.
E Street was crawling with government agents. Remo looked across the road to the South Executive Place fence of the White House. He could see the many missing bars in the wrought iron through which the terrorists had slipped.
And as the reality of this violation sank in, a cold fury welled up from the pit of Remo Williams's stomach.
The White House taken captive by terrorists. The single most aggressive assault ever on all that was symbolically American.
Remo might not approve of the current President or his treatment of Smith but-like the present occupant or not-the White House was the seat of world democracy. A symbol of hope for oppressed people around the world. And if Remo had anything to say about it, it would remain such.
"How many men?" he asked, voice coldly uninflected.
"Unknown at present," the Marine colonel offered. "At least two hundred."
Remo looked at the Secret Service man. His eyes were dead. "Get on the phone with the D.C. morgue," he instructed. "Order up two hundred body bags."
And with that, he was gone.
They saw him blend into the crowd of agents. But even as their eyes tried to track the stranger, he melted from their vision. He was like a ghost who had faded into the shadows.
"Who the hell was that?" the Secret Service agent asked once Remo was gone.
"I don't know," the Marine colonel admitted, his eyes flint. The chill that ran down his spine had nothing to do with the rain. "But I think you better make that call."
Chapter 23
Bruce Marmelstein was on his way back to Taurus from his day's tanning appointment when the call came through.
"Put on the news, Bruce." Hank Bindle's voice was anxious on the limo's speakerphone. Marmelstein put down his drink and reached for the control panel. "News?" he complained. "That's like Entertainment Tonight for losers. What do I want to see that for?"
"Just do it," Bindle pressed.
Marmelstein rolled his eyes even as the small color monitor winked on. "Okay, where do I find it?" he sighed.
"Right now, anywhere will do," Bindle said. "It's on every damn channel."
Marmelstein frowned as he watched the action on-screen.
"I don't know, Hank," he said, sipping his scotch and soda. "I usually don't question you in creative matters, but remember I just optioned Petticoat Junction and we've got the Wonder Twins with Nick Cage and Uma Thurman opening this fall. Do you really think we should give Yogi Bear the big-screen treatment?"
"Not Fox!" Bindle snapped. "One of the Big Three!"
Marmelstein reluctantly switched from the cartoon to the local CBS affiliate.
Immediately, images of a familiar residence appeared on the screen. Even Bruce Marmelstein recognized the White House. He had been there several times in the past few years. In fact, he and his partner had been on the past two inaugural committees. The building was bathed in darkness.
"Did they forget to pay the electric bill?" Marmelstein asked.
"The terrorists wanted it that way," Bindle supplied.
"Oh." Marmelstein nodded. He took another sip of scotch.
"The terrorists who took over the White House," Hank Bindle elaborated.
"I don't get this, Hank," Bruce Marmelstein finally admitted. "Frankly, I like your Yogi Bear idea better. I mean, how do you option the news?"
"We don't have to option it. We already own it."
"We do?" Marmelstein said. He didn't remember buying the rights. "Well if it's ours already, how about Huntley-Brinkley: the Early Years? I'm thinking DiCaprio and Van Der Beek. We could glue fake Brinkley ears on Leo-"
"The White House has been taken over by a group of armed terrorists, Bruce!" Bindle yelled. "They blew through the fence and swarmed the grounds. The President and his family are trapped upstairs. Doesn't that scenario sound just a little familiar to you?"
It didn't really click for Bruce Marmelstein until his Taurus cochair mentioned the First Family were hostages. In one horror-filled instant, he realized what was going on.
"Die Down IV!" Marmelstein gagged. Mind reeling, he focused his attention back on the TV screen.
"It's awful!" Bindle cried. "The head terrorist is a Brit and everything. Just like in our blockbuster."
Marmelstein clutched his gut. "I'm going to be sick."
"It gets worse. The news people intercepted a call he made with the FBI. Bruce, he mentioned New York,"
Scotch came out Marmelstein's nose. "The Regency?" he gasped, wiping the brown dribble off his chin. His nostrils burned.
"I couldn't believe it," Bindle moaned. "That's copyright infringement!" Marmelstein sputtered. "We'll sue! I'm calling the lawyers!"
"It's worse than that," Bindle insisted. He began to cry. "I think we could even go to prison, Bruce. And that's a bad thing. Not like in Stir Crazy at all. It's full of black people. And not funny ones like Richard Pryor. Angry ones, Bruce. They could hit you in the face and hurt you. Maybe even break a tooth."
"But we only hired out for New York," Marmelstein insisted. "We didn't pay for this. We pulled the plug on it. If he's doing this, he's doing it on his own."
"It doesn't matter," Bindle sobbed. "It's going on whether we paid for it or not."
"Free?" Marmelstein asked, hoping he'd pronounced the alien word correctly.
"You're the money guy. Did you sign the check?"
"I don't know," Marmelstein whined. "I just use the autopen-I don't pay attention to what it's doing. But it doesn't matter. We nixed the White House idea. It was too high profile. New York was good enough. It tied in with the movie without insulting everyone's... What's that stuff called? That country-loving stuff we looked up?"
"Patriotism?"
"Yeah, that. New York is what we agreed to."
"He must have thought we needed an extra push."
Marmelstein was getting angry. "What we needed was for the goddamn studio to blow up like we paid for and we didn't get that." He looked once more at the action on the TV, th
en closed his eyes.
"I'm going to set up a meeting," Bindle sniffed.
"We can't," Marmelstein said. "We've got what's-his-name to deal with. The desk-smashie guy."
"No," Bindle insisted. "He left here like a bat out of hell. No one's seen him for a couple of hours."
"You think he's gone?"
"We'd better hope so. For all our sakes."
The line went dead. Marmelstein opened his eyes. He stared at the TV screen for an instant. "Oh, God," he muttered.
Lunging for the wet bar, Bruce Marmelstein filled his tumbler with scotch. This time, he didn't add soda.
Chapter 24
The spotlights that ordinarily bathed the White House grounds in brightness remained doused. The only light to spill across the soggy lawn came from distant amber streetlights and from the many TV cameras huddled back at the police cordon. Though the shadows were long and deep, Remo's highly developed eyes drew in enough available light to make the area seem as bright as midday.
He had slipped through one of the openings made by the terrorists across from the Zero Milestone at the Ellipse. Although the grass was drenched, the soles of his loafers left not a single impression. No one saw him as he moved unmolested through the shadows toward the mansion.
The south lawn fountain sent gurgling spurts into the damp air. Remo skirted the pool, slipping from the edge of the long tulip bed around the fountain. The loamy smell of overturned earth was thick in his nostrils as he moved stealthily over to a tangle of purple magnolias.
From the shrubs, he slid across shadowy open lawn to the drive. Remo spotted the first terrorists as he approached the neatly trimmed hedge.
There were two of them. They stood beside the thick trunk of a spreading white ash beyond the hedge.
They didn't seem interested in the assault rifles in their own hands. Bored, one of the men banged his against the tree trunk, apparently unmindful that the barrel was aimed at his own stomach.
The men spoke in hushed tones. Their whispered words traveled to Remo's hypersensitive ears even as he moved-unseen-toward them.
"What are we doing here?" the first said with a sigh.
"Gotta pay the bills." The second shrugged. He tapped the tree with his gun butt.
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