Transfer of Power

chapter 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's 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 twenty-plus 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 cover-up 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 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 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 with 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.

In addition to the monitor that showed the inside of the president's bedroom and the one that showed Lt. Commander Harris's makeshift command post, four more monitors now showed images. They said it all. Those screens didn't come to life all on their own, and since Mitch Rapp was the only person capable of installing them, it was obvious that he had directly disobeyed General Campbell.

Kennedy looked at one of the watch officers sitting in the back row. "Have you tried to raise him?"

"Repeatedly."

"Any luck?" Kennedy knew the answer before the man started to shake his head.

Director Stansfield walked toward the front of the room so he could more closely examine the monitors. He tried looking at the monitors both with and without his bifocals. Two of them covered staircases. The old director knew from memory which ones they were. The other two monitors covered the wide main hallways that cut east-west across the second and third floors. As Stansfield was watching, a fifth monitor came on-line. This one showed a staircase that he was not familiar with. The row of technicians and analysts to his left began talking in earnest as several of them hurriedly flipped through books about the White House. After about twenty seconds one of the pronounced that the staircase in question was the one that led from the third floor to the roof.

Stansfield looked from the monitor back to the rear of the room to find General Flood and General Campbell engaged in a heated and animated discussion. Watching the two generals talk, Stansfield's face maintained its always neutral expression. His discerning mind was, however, busily extrapolating the problems, complaints, and solutions that this most current bump in the road would create. In a matter of seconds Stansfield had the solutions formed, filed, and ready to be stated in his always unambiguous fashion. Slowly, he stared back up the stairs.

When he reached the two generals, he placed a hand on General Flood's shoulder and said, "Let's go to my office where we can talk."

Stansfield started for the door and gave Kennedy a look that told her to join them. The group proceeded through a locked and guarded door, down a ramp, and then onward to the director's corner office. As soon as Stansfield heard his soundproof office door close, he knew what was about to happen   and it did.

"This is absolutely unacceptable," stated a barely restrained General Campbell. "I gave him a direct order! I don't care how good his reason may or may not be; this is bigger than him, and we cannot have him running around doing whatever he wants, when he wants!"

Stansfield turned around to face Campbell. Kennedy, the last one to enter the room, stopped midway between her boss and the generals. Stansfield nodded slowly, acknowledging Campbell's complaint.

With his jaw clenched, Campbell continued, "I ordered him to stand down because I knew we would be out of the loop for at least an hour. What happens if he gets caught. . . if he kills one of Aziz's men? We need to be here." Campbell pointed at the ground. "We need to be monitoring every little move, so if the shit hits the fan, we can give the order to move." Campbell was so upset it seemed that his bristly flattop was standing even more upright than usual. "Your boy needs to start following orders, or I swear to God   " The stocky ranger stammered for a second, his neck veins bulging. Campbell didn't finish the thought, but it was obvious to all that he was thinking of physical confrontation.

Stansfield nodded slowly in an effort to validate Campbell's anger. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered who would actually win that fight. Campbell, although twenty years Rapp's senior, was not a man to trifled with. Shifting his gaze from the Campbell to Flood, Stansfield asked, "Would you like to add anything?"

Flood shook his sizable head. "There's nothing left to say. It's a no-brainer. Rapp is wrong, and he needs to be reeled in."

Stansfield digested Flood's comments. They were every bit as warranted as Campbell's. The director of central intelligence walked around his desk and looked out the window for a brief moment. The day was as it had been for the last two, sunny and bright. Turning back to the generals, Stansfield said, "We have a difference of opinion, gentlemen. I'll tell you what I see. I see a man who is trained to act on his own. A man who is used to spending days if not weeks in the field without the aid or interference of his country. Mitch Rapp is not a soldier, and he most definitely is not a politician. His ability to know when to take risks, when to push ahead, when to pull back, is uncanny. It's, quite honestly, the best I've ever seen. He thrives in this environment where every decision could mean life or death."

Stansfield paused for a moment and then in an almost academic tone continued, "He has a much clearer picture of the tactical situation, not only because he is on-site, but because he is not distracted by all of the things that we are." For clarity, he added, "Most notably, he doesn't have to deal with Vice President Baxter."

Clutching his hands in front of him and then letting them fall to his side, Stansfield continued, "Now, with all due respect, gentlemen, you know I think very highly of both of you, but you must understand, Mitch is not a soldier. He has been trained from day one to think independently. If you want to get mad about this, which you have every right to, then get mad at me. He is my responsibility."

Stansfield stopped just long enough to make it seem as though he was giving them a chance to reply and then said, "We've made a mistake with you two." He pointed to Campbell and Kennedy. "I don't want you attending any more meetings. I want you right here monitoring Rapp and his progress. There are too many meddlesome issues that General Flood and I can handle. I want you two focused on Mitch and how best to aid him. He is our eyes." The elderly spymaster looked from Campbell to Kennedy and back. "The way I see it. . . he's doing exactly what we sent him in there to do. Now, General Campbell, if you want to do in there, and get Mitch on the radio, and read him the riot act, that's fine. That is undoubtedly your prerogative, and I'm not going to stand in your way. But, it won't do us a bit of good, because he won't listen."

Stansfield could see that his words were getting to Campbell. The ranger's demeanor had calmed ever so slightly. "What I would propose is that I have a talk with him and explain how important it is that he communicate his every action so we can deal with something if it comes up."

Before Stansfield could start his next sentence, the large phone on his desk started to ring. Stansfield looked down to see where the cell was coming from. On the small screen were a string of letters that caused his brow to knot into a frown. The light on the secure phone continued to blink and Stansfield debated whether he should answer it. After two more rings his frail hand moved slowly toward the receiver.

* * *

The Ambulance fought its way through the late morning traffic. Downtown D.C. was a quagmire. The security perimeter around the White House had been expanded from two or three blocks to the north, east, and west. To the south, Constitution Avenue had been blocked off, and the section of the National Mall between Seventeenth and Fourteenth was also closed. The normally congested downtown was unbearable.

The driver of the ambulance inched forward on Pennsylvania Avenue. In his side mirror he could see the large dome of the Capitol, and in front of him, a sea of cars locked in gridlock trying to make their way into the heart of the business district and around the White House. Salim Rusan was surprisingly calm. Part of this was due to his faith in Aziz's plan, and part of it was due to the fact that he would much rather be stuck in traffic than stuck in the White House.

The ambulance was the last car to make it through the stoplight at Ninth Street. The monolithic Hoover Building appeared on his right   the famed FBI headquarters. Rusan did not smile. It was not in his personality. He was more like Bengazi than Aziz. He was a worrier, and that was why Aziz had chosen him for this crucial mission. Rusan was both the backup plan and the surprise. Depending on how things went, he was to do one of three things. The first was easy and harmless, and despite what Aziz had told the men, Rusan seriously doubted that option would ever present itself. It would be either the second or the third plan that would have to be executed, and both of those would lead to death. Rusan was sure of it. Not just the death of his comrades, but the hostages, the American FBI agents, and hopefully hundreds of others. Rusan's only hope was that in the chaos that would erupt when the Americans tried to retake their White House, he could further add to the confusion and buy some of his friend the time to get away. Rusan thought he had a chance to survive. The plan for his escape was good, well thought out, and just might work.

It was unnerving, nonetheless, to be heading back into the center of the crisis, to the spot where, just three days earlier, he had fired from the roof of the Washington Hotel and killed a dozen-plus Americans. The boldness of the plan was what gave success a chance. Practically every law-enforcement officer in the world was looking for him. The old him, he corrected himself. The would never make the connection between Salim Rusan, the dark-haired Islamic militant terrorist, and Steve Hernandez, the openly gay paramedic from Miami. No, he would continue to inch his way toward the White House, taking his time. When he reached the first roadblock, he would hit the lights on the roof, roll down the window, and tell the D.C. police that he had been told to come down in case they needed him. Aziz had told him it was standard procedure for this type of crisis. He would be one of dozens of ambulances waiting to rush people to the hospital if the need arose.

Rusan had time. The American assassins did not show their faces when the sun was out. They would wait until it was dark, and if Aziz's timetable was right, they would come either tonight or tomorrow. As long as he had everything in position within an hour or two after the sunset, he would be fine.