Transfer of Power

by Vince Flynn

  “The only good news I have to report is that the president is safe. I have spoken to the engineers who built the new bunker, and they say there is no way Aziz can get to him.”

  Vice President Baxter sat leaning back in his chair with one hand under der his chin and the other dangling from his armrest. He and Dallas had rehearsed this next part. As a newcomer to the unique power circles of Washington, he needed to let everyone in the room know he was in charge. An example had to be set, and Tracy’s head was on the chopping block. Baxter kept his eyes on Tracy, as he uncrossed his legs and let his chair tilt forward. In a voice devoid of compassion, he asked, “Director Tracy, would you mind explaining to me how in the hell something like this could happen?”

  Tracy stood silent at the podium, a little caught off guard by the bluntnessof the question. Vice President Baxter looked at him while drumming his fingers on the table. After a long moment, Baxter said, “Director Tracy, your agency has failed our country miserably. You have put us in dire straits, and now you stand before us with nothing to say.” Baxter looked around the table trying to build a mood of consensus. “I have decided that the FBI will relieve your people as soon as Director Roach can have his agents in place.” Baxter turned to look at FBI director Roach.

  Secret Service Director Tracy’s embarrassment was quickly replaced by anger. “Sir,” he protested, “the White House falls under the Secret Service’s jurisdiction. We are—”

  Baxter raised his voice and cut Tracy off. “I have been advised by the attorney general that although the White House normally falls under the purview of the Secret Service, it is still a federal building and that makes it the FBI’s territory.”

  “But my men have an intimate knowledge of the building and its grounds,” stated Tracy in earnest. “We have agents that are being held hostage . . .”

  Baxter shook his head vigorously. “Director Tracy, the Secret Service had its chance, and they have failed . . . miserably, I might add.”

  The humiliating public rebuke caused Tracy’s cheeks to flush. He couldn’t believe it was happening. He had worked in Washington for twenty-nine years and had seen countless others thrown to the lions in situations far less serious than this. He should have seen it coming, but everything had happened so fast. He had spent the last several hours worrying about the men he had lost, not the political fallout of the crisis. Tracy stood a little straighter and tried to salvage some honor. “We saved the president’s life today and lost at least eighteen of our own men. . . . I would hardly—”

  Baxter slammed a fist to the table, and with a rage no one in the room had witnessed before, other than King and Tutwiler, he cut Director Tracy off in midsentence.

  “You have lost the White House, and you have embarrassed the entire country!” Baxter glared at Tracy a moment longer and then sat back in his chair. After taking a deep breath, he reined himself in a notch and continued in a quieter but equally firm voice, “I have consulted with Treasury Secretary Rose and have decided I want your resignation on his desk before I address the nation tonight.” Shaking his head, Baxter added, “It is entirely beyond me how you could have let this happen.”

  Rather than cowering, the tenacious director stood his ground. The combination of the murder of his people and becoming the sacrificial lamb to satisfy the media sent Tracy’s blood pressure shooting upward. Baxter had no idea what it was like to devote one’s life to the pride-sucking job of guarding men such as him, some of whom had fewer scruples than a pimp. Tracy’s complexion reddened as he stared at Baxter. In the briefest of moments he had to decide if he would bow to protocol and be dismissed like a servant or stand and fight. He decided on the latter. He owed at least that much to the men and women who had died under his command.

  “I’ll tell you how it happened. It happened because you and all of your esteemed colleagues have ignored every request the Secret Service has made for increased security since I have taken over the agency.” Tracy raised his voice. “It happened because in your obsession with raising money for your beloved party, your chairman sidestepped Secret Service procedure and invited the most notorious terrorist in the world to the White House!”

  Baxter shouted, “That will be enough, Director Tracy! You may gather your things and leave!”

  Tracy stared down the long table with a look of flagrant disrespect. In a voice dripping with contempt, he said, “You go ahead and blame all of this on the Secret Service when you address the nation tonight, and when I hold my press conference tomorrow morning, I’ll be sure to remind everyone of your comment regarding the Secret Service during the last election.” Tracy shook his head. “I remember it verbatim because it seemed rather inconsiderate of you to be taking a shot at the very people who were putting in one-hundred-plus-hour weeks protecting you. You said that ‘the Secret Service is comprised of a paranoid group of people, who, although well-meaning, have an inflated sense of self-importance.’ I’m sure those words, combined with your and President Hayes’s recent refusal of a request for an increase in our budget, will go over just great with all of your voters. And let’s not leave out the fact that while my people were being killed, you were getting ready to attend a five-thousand-dollar a plate breakfast with all of your network buddies in New York.”

  Tracy turned his rage on the secretary of the treasury. “And let me remind my boss of his response to my request to expand the security perimeter around the White House. In a letter this last February, Secretary Rose refused, saying that the White House is one of the securest buildings in the world and that any further requests to expand the building’s security perimeter will be denied.”

  Tracy grabbed his file from the podium. “How dare you call into question my commitment and professionalism! I have spent twenty-nine years of my life protecting presidents and their families!” He started for the door and then stopped abruptly, turning to look at the assembled crowd. “Right now we need to be worried about saving the men and women who are trapped inside the White House . . . not worrying about our careers.”

  Having spoken his piece, Tracy turned for the door, and with a stiff arm, he slammed it open and disappeared into the hallway.

  Director Tracy’s exit left the room in a shocked silence. After several moments the attendees began to whisper comments to one another, and then the room broke into a series of regionalized conversations. At the far end of the table Dallas King asked his boss if he had, indeed, made such a comment, and all Vice President Baxter could do was nod in frustration. King then turned to Treasury Secretary Rose and asked him if he had put his words in writing. Rose confirmed that he had, and Dallas King turned back to his boss and stated the obvious, “We’re screwed.”

  Baxter shot his chief of staff a look of irritation and then turned his attention to General Flood at the far end of the table. The vice president twirled his finger in the air, signaling to the general that he wanted to get things moving. The general nodded, and with his baritone voice, he quieted the room. Flood then nodded to Irene Kennedy, who rose from her chair and made her way to the podium.

  RAFIQUE AZIZ LOOKED at the Situation Room’s TVs and then his watch. It had been almost twenty minutes since the vice president had arrived for the meeting. The timing should be about right, he thought to himself. Aziz studied the large phone next to him and looked at the twenty or so labels that marked preprogrammed telephone numbers. Most of the labels Aziz didn’t recognize, but some were familiar. Not far down the first column he found the one he was looking for. It was marked Pentagon JCBR, which he understood to be the Joint Chiefs briefing room. Aziz went over his scripted words one more time, and then picked up the phone and pressed the button.

  * * *

  GENERAL FLOOD WAS listening to Kennedy give the background briefing on Aziz when he heard the quiet ring of the phone next to him. Flood glanced down and looked to see where the call was coming from. The screen at the top of the phone read, “WH SIT ROOM.” Flood raised one hand to stop Kennedy from talking, and with th
e other, he snatched the handset from its cradle. “General Flood here.”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting your meeting.”

  Flood squeezed the phone and asked, “Who is this?”

  “That is none of your concern. Put me on speakerphone so I can talk to the entire group. I do not want to have to repeat myself.”

  Flood considered the demand for a moment, and then reluctantly gave in and pressed a button. He then placed the handset back in its cradle and folded his arms across his chest. “You are on speakerphone. Go ahead.”

  Aziz’s voice came pouring down from the room’s overhead speaker system. “I have complete control of your White House. Any attempt to retake it will be futile. The United States currently holds fourteen point seven billion dollars in frozen assets that belong to the country of Iran. You illegally seized this money when the corrupt government of the Shah was overthrown by the people of Allah. If you return all of this money to Iran by nine tomorrow morning, I will release one-third of the seventy-six hostages I currently hold. This is non-negotiable. If this demand is not met precisely as I have stated, I will kill one hostage every hour until it is met. I will remind you one more time, any attempt by you to rescue the hostages will be futile. The FBI’s vaunted Hostage Rescue Team is no match for my men; just as your highly touted Secret Service was no match. In fifteen minutes I will place all of the wounded and dead outside of the West Entrance. Medical technicians in short-sleeve shirts and pants will be allowed to come in groups of two, one stretcher at a time, to pick up the bodies. No equipment or bags. Only two men at a time and a stretcher. Anything unusual and we will open fire.”

  The voice paused for a second and then said more firmly, “The account numbers that the money is to be transferred to are as follows . . .”

  IT TOOK AZIZ a little over a minute to give all of the numbers. Then, without giving them a chance to ask any questions, he repeated the demand one last time and hung up the phone. Aziz leaned back and took in the moment. Keep it short, keep them off balance, and most important, let them know who is running the show. Aziz knew what would happen at nine tomorrow as sure as if he had a crystal ball. He had read all of the books that had been written by former FBI agents on hostage negotiations and most important, he knew Vice President Baxter was in charge, and with Baxter came Attorney General Tutwiler.

  Aziz had done his homework on Tutwiler. Via the Internet he had obtained copies of her speeches and lectures. She had been an outspoken critic of the FBI’s techniques at Ruby Ridge and Waco. In Tutwiler’s opinion the FBI should have worn the captors down over time and obtained the incremental release of hostages through negotiation and actually giving in to some of the group’s smaller demands.

  What a fool she was to speak in public and give him the chance to study her, Aziz thought. These Americans were fat and lazy. He knew what her every move would be. He would break her within two days, and when Baxter finally realized he should listen to his generals, it would be too late. Aziz would have the president, and everything would be in position for his final demand.

  PRESIDENT HAYES LOOKED at Valerie Jones and asked, “What in the hell happened?”

  The two of them were sitting next to each other on the couch. Jones looked very uncomfortable. Hayes had finally got around to asking the obvious question, and his chief of staff didn’t know how to answer it.

  Shaking her head and looking at the ground, she replied, “I don’t know.”

  Hayes had met Jones years ago when she worked on his congressional staff. After that, the Ivy League—educated New Yorker had gone to work for CBS and risen through the ranks. Jones was bright, hardworking, and at times a little pushy. If she were a man, she’d be called a hard-ass, but because she wore skirts, she was referred to by some as a real bitch. Jones knew this and didn’t let it bother her. As gatekeeper to the president, it worked to her advantage. Every day she received dozens of requests for the president’s time. If she were patient and nice with everyone that called, those requests would double within a week. The very definition of her job required that she be blunt and firm. Not enough time. Not enough energy.

  “Valerie, you have to have some idea who in the hell that was.” Hayes watched her for a response. He got none and expanded his questioning. “What did Russ tell you?” Hayes asked, referring to the chairman of the Democratic National Committee.

  “He said the man was a wealthy Arab prince who wanted to make a donation to the DNC.”

  “A foreigner making a donation to the DNC.” Hayes shook his head in anger.

  “Russ said it would all be legit.”

  Hayes frowned. “I thought I told all of you people, ‘No funny stuff.’ I want everything to be aboveboard.” Hayes kept his voice low, but it was obvious he was angry.

  Without looking up, Jones replied, “It was a lot of money, and it was going to be legal.”

  Hayes almost lost it. This was something he had been adamant about since the day he had decided to run for president. The expression on his face told his chief of staff that the amount of money would not make the transgression any easier to take.

  Jones realized it had been the wrong thing to say.

  “‘Sorry’ might not be good enough for this one.”

  Jones looked up with a fair amount of fright. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Exactly what I said. ‘Sorry’ might not be good enough. People have died, Val, and there are a lot of questions that are going to have to be answered.” President Hayes stared at her, making sure she truly understood the gravity of the situation.

  Across the bunker, near the door, Special Agent Jack Warch was sitting on his bunk, sprawled against the cool concrete wall. The usually rigid Warch had removed his tie and jacket, both of which were neatly folded next to him on the hinged navy-style bunk. The thirty- by twenty-foot room had eighteen sturdy bunks. Two sets of four, one lower and one upper, were bolted along each of the long walls and two more on the wall by the door. The bunks were of the no-frills military style. One side of the bed was attached to the wall by two hinges, and the outer corners were each attached to a three-foot chain that was bolted to the wall. When not being used the bunks could be swung up and out of the way. The floor and the first four feet of the wall were covered by the same plain brown carpet that adorned the floor and walls of the evacuation tunnel. At the opposite end of the bunker there was a small bathroom and kitchenette. In the middle of the room was a square arrangement of two couches and two love seats, all four made of brown vinyl trying to disguise itself as leather. The seamless ceiling and walls were painted an off-white that helped to soften, just slightly, the room’s bleak appearance.

  The special agent in charge of the presidential detail reached out and picked up his black Motorola encrypted radio. His flesh-toned earpiece and hand mike lay uselessly coiled on the bunk’s pillow. Not more than ten minutes after they made it into the bunker the expensive little radio had dropped code—the Secret Service’s euphemism for the radio not working. It was not just Warch’s radio. All ten agents had looked at each other at the exact same moment, knowing instantly that they were cut off. The terrorists had gotten to the digital encryption system and crashed it, taking all of the radios off-line. Warch had switched to his digital phone, and for five minutes he tried frantically to reestablished contact with the Secret Service’s joint operations command. The phone was working, but they weren’t answering. Then the line went dead.

  They were completely cut off from the outside and could only assume the worst. If the Secret Service had fended off the attack, they would not still be siting in the bunker. With or without communications, his people knew the codes and could simply come and open the door. The worst had to be assumed. They had lost the White House. Warch looked across the bunker at a disheveled President Hayes and his chief of staff. They were sitting on one of the couches talking in whispers. It was time to tell him the truth.

  11

  AFTER AZIZ’S ELECTRIFYING phone call, chaos
had once again broken out in the Pentagon’s Joint Chiefs briefing room. To Mitch Rapp’s left, his bosses were conferring with the Joint Chiefs, and to his right, Vice President Baxter was holding court with the cabinet. Rapp, having a fairly good idea how most of the people to his left would handle the situation, decided to focus his listening on the politicians to his right. After several minutes, Rapp concluded that no one in Baxter’s group knew their head from their ass, and in the process of coming to this conclusion, he also discovered a correlation between their opinions and the conviction with which they stated them. It seemed that the less someone knew, the more forcefully he tried to state his case.

  Words like “caution” and “prudence” crept into every sentence, and every time Rapp heard them uttered, he couldn’t help but think that these men and women had no idea whom they were dealing with. On more than one occasion, Rapp fought the urge to interject his frank opinion and correct the neophytes to his right. Twice he actually started to come out of his seat, but caught himself in time. Kennedy was right. It was best for him to keep a low profile.

  The fragmented conversations continued for several more minutes, and then Vice President Baxter began snapping his fingers and calling for the group’s attention. The discussions trickled to a stop, and then Baxter said, “Attorney General Tutwiler has a plan, and I would like everyone to hear her out.”

  All eyes went from Baxter to the attorney general as she pulled her chair forward. Tutwiler took off her glasses and held them in both hands. “Treasury Secretary Rose has confirmed that this money does in fact exist, and as most of us know, it was frozen by our government when the Shah was overthrown. There is a case to be made that this money is not ours.” Tutwiler set her glasses down and centered them on her leather briefing folder. “I strongly believe that as a sign of good faith and willingness to negotiate for the hostages we should release part of the money at nine tomorrow, and in return, we will ask Mr. Aziz to show his good faith and release some of the hostages.”