Transfer of Power

chapter 39
Barely a half hour had passed since Stansfield's edict. Rapp had to remind himself continually to be more cautious as he and Adams searched the blueprints for a way to accomplish the task. Rielly had edged her way over from her nest in the corner and now lay on her stomach, her hands under her chin. Every once in a while her white stockinged feet would kick up in the air behind her like a little teenager's. She was playing it smart for the moment, saying nothing and listening to everything. She had worked her way back into the group.

On at least three occasions Rapp had run through the different options, none of them all that appealing, and now resigned himself to take the direct route   the route that would most quickly accomplish his task but also endanger the lives of the remaining hostages. Feeling as if he'd been pent up in a cage since he'd landed at Andrews two days ago, it was difficult for him to resist the desire simply to go down to the basement, shoot the guard, shoot this Yassin fellow, and disable the scrambler. If he couldn't find another way, it might be the only solution, but there had to be another way, or the whole thing would end in a bloodbath.

Rapp was beginning to resign himself to what he had known when the whole mess had started. Take Aziz, enough Semtex to blow up the whole building twice, and you end up with a bunch of dead hostages. Why even risk the assault team? Just let the idiot blow himself up and end the thing.

Milt Adams flipped several sheets over and studied something. Rapp watched him, then asked, "What?"

Adams looked at the drawing and then up at the blank wall. He was trying to visualize something. Looking back down, he said, "This is the hallway on the third level. It runs down like this and takes a ninety-degree turn to the left." Adams tapped the spot with his thin finger. "There is a recessed vent here. . . at least, I think there is."

"What do you mean you think.' Isn't it marked?"

Adams shook his head. "No. That's why I'm saying I think' there is." Adams closed his eyes again, forcing himself to try to remember what the hallway looked like. "I really think there's a vent there." Adams tapped the spot again.

"Why isn't it marked?"

"These aren't the final blueprints. If I remember right, they were worried that there would be too much moisture in the hallway if they didn't have some ventilation. You see, this entire hall was added when they put the bunker in, and the bunker's environmental systems are buried underneath it so they can't be compromised." Adams brought his finger up and ran it along his bottom lip. "I'm pretty sure they spliced into the house's regular system through the floor right above." Adams pulled one of the sheets back over. It was the layout of the second basement.

He searched for the right spot and said, "This is where they would have done it. They would have just cut in a down chute and brought it in from the second basement." Adams grabbed the next sheet, showing the first basement, and pulled it over. His eyes darted excitedly back and forth over the drawing. "This could be perfect."

"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 fro 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 thing cover story had been crafted, one that would not stand up well after two or three well-pointed 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. They 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 on lookers 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 sitting 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 changed 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 tow 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.