Transfer of Power

by Vince Flynn

“What happens if you lose one of the drills?”

  “Then we are in trouble.” The little thief shrugged. “It could end up taking three to four days.”

  “And if you play it safe?”

  “I can have it open in forty-eight hours.”

  Aziz put his hands in a prayerful grip and bounced them off his chin twice. “Forty-eight hours will suffice.” And with a wave of his finger, he cautioned, “But no longer than that.” Aziz walked past him and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good work, Mustafa.” Aziz left the room, leaving his little thief to retrieve the crown jewel. As he walked down the hallway, he thought, All I have to do is keep them at bay for two more days.

  THE LIGHTS WERE off in the bunker, and everyone was trying to get some sleep. Warch was lying on the bunk closest to the door. The Secret Service agent was wide-awake. He could hear President Hayes snoring at the far end of the room, and every minute or so squeaking springs could be heard as someone turned on the narrow beds.

  Warch wondered how his wife and children were doing. His family would be afraid, but that couldn’t be helped. Being married to someone who was trained to throw himself in front of an oncoming bullet was a little nerve-racking, but Sara was strong. She would have the kids to keep her busy, and her parents were in Baltimore. The Service would tell her and the kids that he was all right.

  Warch’s thoughts turned to the other wives and husbands that weren’t as fortunate. Over and over again, Warch had replayed the frantic radio traffic that had barked out over his earpiece while they rushed the president to the bunker. “Agents down! Agents down!” And then there was the explosion and the machine gun fire. And now, over twelve hours later—nothing. Everything added up to one conclusion: Aziz and his terrorists were in control of the White House. Warch ran down a list of the faces and names of his agents who were on the day shift. He couldn’t help but wonder which ones had made it out alive and which ones were dead.

  Still, despite what was undoubtedly the worst day in the history of the Secret Service, they had at least saved the president from the talons of Aziz. Warch savored that one accomplishment as he felt sleep coming on. He rolled toward the wall and let out a yawn. When most of the air was expelled from his lungs, he froze.

  Warch had not heard the noise before; he was sure of that. Craning his neck toward the door, he tried to listen. It was a clanging noise, metal on metal. There were several more clanging noises and then a low whine, almost like an electric razor. Warch listened for another moment and then sprang out of bed, throwing his blankets to the side. The concrete floor felt cold to his feet. In his white T-shirt and boxers he knelt on the floor and pressed his left ear to the door, and then it hit him. It was a drill. They were drilling through the vault door, which meant they had already broken through the outer door. Warch’s palms became sweaty on the cool metallic surface, and he swore out loud. Standing, he turned on the light and said to the room at large, “Wake up, people. We have trouble.”

  14

  A FAINT METHODICAL beep could be heard in the distance. Rapp felt as if he were swimming upward for it, out of a deep black hole. The noise became more pronounced with each kick and downward stroke. It was getting lighter; he was nearing the surface.

  Suddenly, Rapp sat up in bed, his thick black hair sticking out in Medusa-like fashion. It took him a second to realize he’d been dreaming. It was the same damn dream he’d been having for as long as he could remember. Drowning, it was always drowning. He was always swimming for the surface, gasping for air.

  Several shakes of the head later, Rapp realized where he was. The faint gray light of early morning was spilling through his bedroom windows. He turned to make out the red digital numerals of his alarm clock. There was a four followed by another and then a five.

  God, it was nice to be home, Rapp thought. Without looking, he reached over and swatted the snooze button. Then he flopped backward onto the crisp white sheets and stretched out, kicking the blanket to the side. Not quite ready to get out of bed, he allowed his mind to drift. Outside the bedroom window, he could hear the gentle waves of the Chesapeake lapping against the rocky shore. They were calling his name, tugging at him to get out of bed. Rapp turned diagonally across the queen-size bed and stretched his arms way above his head, letting out a drawn-out yawn.

  He had forced himself to go home and sleep after a meeting at Director-Tracy’s house. There was nothing else to do. Dr. Hornig had promised a full report on the results of her interrogation with Fara Harut in the morning, and until then it was a waiting game—something Rapp wasn’t very good at.

  Now, as he rolled onto his side, he suddenly remembered the events of the day before and of the little crisis that was taking place thirty-some miles to the west. A small voice in the back of his head screamed something, and Rapp was on his feet instantly. Naked, he walked across the hardwood floor of his bedroom and stopped in front of a set of French doors. They were open, and through the screens he could now hear birdsongs filling the still morning air. Across the bay, on the treelined horizon, the sky was brightening. The sun was coming up over the Atlantic, and a memorable day was about to begin, whether he liked it or not.

  The lapping water continued to call his name, and with more enthusiasm than any sane person would have had, Rapp turned and headed across the worn and creaky wood floor of his beach house. Once he’d finished negotiating the precipitous staircase that led down to the main floor, he walked to the kitchen and then the mud room. Hanging on a brass hook by the backdoor was a faded, salt-stained blue swimsuit that looked as old as its owner.

  Rapp put the worn trunks on, grabbed his goggles and a towel, and headed out the backdoor. The thermometer on the deck railing told him it was a comfortable sixty-two degrees. Just cool enough to wake him up, but not so cold as to dash his enthusiasm. With several shakes of his arms, he continued across the brand-new deck to the stairs that led down to the water. Rapp had bought the house the previous year, and his only home improvement to date was to tear down the rotted wood deck and stairs and replace them. After a thirty-foot descent, he put on his goggles and picked up the pace. Rapp ran across the long, flat section of dock that jutted out into the water. On the right was a twenty-four-foot Boston Whaler, and at the end of the dock was a bench that sat atop an eight-foot section that turned at a ninety-degree angle to the left. By the time Rapp reached the bench, he was at a full jog. Without breaking stride, he tossed the towel onto the bench and dove into the salty water.

  He found his rhythm within six or seven strokes and settled in for the one-mile swim up the coast. Rapp no longer competed professionally, but just three years earlier he had been one of the world’s top-ranked triathletes. In the Mount Everest of triathlon competitions, the Ironman in Hawaii, Rapp had posted three top-five finishes and a first place. But his work with the CIA had picked up considerably in the last five years, and the hectic and unpredictable schedule had forced him to give up competition.

  Rapp returned to the dock in front of his house at twenty to six feeling-fresh and loose. After toweling off, he made it back up to the house and into the shower. Fifteen minutes later he was shaved, dressed, and out the door, with a cup of piping hot coffee in his hand. Rapp slid behind the wheel of his new black Volvo sedan and eased it out of the narrow garage. He took it slow as he drove down his crumbling asphalt driveway. That was another project he would have to tackle before winter came. When he reached a sturdier surface, he increased speed and began to enjoy the performance of the new sedan. It felt good to be back in civilization.

  Several minutes later he was on Route 50 and on his way to a meetingat Langley. Dr. Hornig was to give a briefing at seven a.m. on everything she had learned from her session with Fara Harut. Rapp was not overly excited about sharing breakfast with Dr. Strangelove, but considering the information she would provide, he was willing to bite the bullet.

  Twenty-two minutes later, Rapp caught the Beltway and took it around the northern part of D.C. Traffic was picking up, bu
t at this early hour it still moved along at a brisk ten miles per hour over the posted speed limit. Fifteen minutes after reaching the Beltway, Rapp pulled through the first security checkpoint at Langley and parked his car. After passing through the main security checkpoint of the old building, Rapp took the elevator to Director Stansfield’s office on the seventh floor.

  Stansfield’s administrative assistant reported his arrival over her headset,-and a moment later Irene Kennedy appeared. Kennedy escorted Rapp into the director’s inner sanctum, where the man himself was seated behind his large desk, a pair of bifocals perched at the edge of his nose, his attention focused on an open file.

  Stansfield took another moment to finish and then closed the file. Before-standing, he grabbed a stack of documents, opened one of the drawers-behind his desk, inserted them, closed the door, and locked it with a key.

  Stansfield left his suit coat hanging on the coatrack and came around the desk, pulling up his suit pants another notch. “Good morning, Mitch. I hope you got some sleep last night.”

  “I did, sir. And you?”

  Stansfield placed his fragile hand on Rapp’s shoulder. The DCI was almost a full head shorter than Rapp. “When you get to my age, Mitch, sleep becomes a very elusive thing.” Stansfield turned his young specialist away from his desk and started walking him across the office. “I’ve set up a meeting for you this morning, but we’ll talk about that later. Dr. Hornig is waiting for us, and I’d like to hear what she’s found out before we get into anything else.”

  As Rapp followed Stansfield and Kennedy through a door and into a windowless conference room, he wondered who his mystery meeting was with. Dr. Hornig was already seated on one side of the table and was looking over her own handwritten notes. Stansfield took his seat at the head of the table, and Rapp and Kennedy sat across from Hornig. Rapp noticed she was wearing the same clothes as the day before. It appeared as though she had not slept.

  Taking off her black horn-rimmed glasses, Hornig set them on top of her notes and rubbed her eyes, saying, “We have a lot of information. An incredible amount, really.” She lowered her hands and shook her head. “It’s going to take months to sort through all of it. But having said that, I know you are more interested in information involving Mr. Aziz and the current White House crisis.”

  Hornig looked down at her notes. “I apologize for the lack of summaries and transcripts, but I was working on Mr. Harut right up until I left for this meeting.”

  “No explanation needed, Dr. Hornig,” stated Stansfield.

  “To start with”—Hornig grabbed a piece of paper—“I have the names of the other ten terrorists who are with Mr. Aziz at the White House. It was very difficult to get this information out of him.” Hornig handed Stansfield the sheet.

  The DCI looked at the yellow piece of paper for no more than five seconds and then handed the sheet to Irene Kennedy, who studied it with Mitch Rapp looking over her shoulder. Stansfield gave them about ten seconds and asked, “Irene?”

  Kennedy looked up and brushed a stand of brown hair back behind her ear. “This will be a big help. Off the top of my head, I know about half of them. I can run the rest through our data banks, and any of the ones that we don’t get a profile on, we can ask MI-Six or Mossad.”

  “Good. I want full traces and profiles prepared on each and every one of them as soon as possible.” Stansfield turned back to Hornig. “Now, what do we know about the demands?”

  Hornig looked down at her notes and flipped through several pages. “Mr. Harut knew in detail about the first demand, involving the return of the frozen assets to Iran. We can infer, since Mitch took him before those demands were made public, that he has intimate knowledge of what Mr. Aziz is going to ask for—up to a point, that is.”

  Rapp ignored the first part of Hornig’s comment—the part involving the rookie detective work—and asked, “What does ‘up to a point’ mean?”

  “I’ll get to that in a minute,” replied Hornig. “His second demand involves the lifting of all UN sanctions against Iraq.” Hornig looked at her audience to gauge any reaction, and then continued. “The third demand involves the U.S. recognizing a free and sovereign Palestinian state.”

  With a furrowed brow, Rapp asked, “Where?”

  Hornig cleared her throat and said, “The West Bank and the Gaza Strip.”

  Rapp set his coffee down. “The Israelis are going to shit their pants.”

  “I would concur.” Stansfield looked to Hornig. “What else?”

  “There’s one more demand . . . one final demand, but Mr. Harut doesn’t know what it is.”

  Rapp tilted his head skeptically. “Come again?”

  “I really don’t think he knows,” replied Hornig a touch defensively. “I spent almost two full hours delving into this specific subject. I pushed as hard as I felt I could.”

  “Maybe you need to push harder,” stated Rapp.

  Hornig leaned back slightly and folded her arms. “I plan on it. Just as soon as Mr. Harut gets some rest.”

  “As soon as you both get some rest,” interjected Stansfield. “I don’t want you burned out, Dr. Hornig.”

  Hornig was slightly frustrated by all of the unsolicited advice. She didn’t tell them how to do their jobs, and she’d appreciate it if they would return the courtesy.

  Stansfield, oblivious to Hornig’s issues, turned his attention to Kennedy. “Any thoughts on what the final demand might be?”

  Kennedy stared off into space for a moment and then said, “A few, but I’d like to do a little research before I come to any conclusions.”

  Looking at one of his most trusted advisers, Stansfield thought of pressing for more information and then decided it was better to let Kennedy develop her theories in time. With some of his people he had to engage them in a game of mental gymnastics to get the best out of them; with Kennedy she was best left alone. Stansfield turned his chair back toward Hornig, who was once again shuffling through her notes. “What else do you have for us, Dr. Hornig?”

  Hornig began reading down a long list of information that would be sifted through by Agency analysts for months, possibly years, to come. Rapp listened intently, gathering more and more insight into how Aziz had put his master plan together. Hornig covered the selection of the men Aziz had brought and where they were trained. She discussed how several of them were sent to America almost a year earlier to start their cover and avoid drawing the attention of the FBI or the Secret Service. She even provided the name of the South American clinic and doctor who had given Aziz his new face. Rapp made a mental note to talk to Kennedy and Stansfield about paying the plastic surgeon a little visit at a later date. The man would live as long as he agreed to cooperate and inform for the Agency. A plastic surgeon who kept company with men like Rafique Aziz could be a very valuable informant, if Aziz hadn’t already killed him.

  Hornig was providing a bevy of facts that on their own held no great significance, but as they were pieced together, they would hopefully provide a very valuable map of Aziz’s final intent. Hornig shared her information for almost a full thirty minutes. Rapp and Kennedy took notes while Stansfield sat back and listened. As the clock neared eight, Hornig moved on to something she had discovered just before leaving the safe house.

  “Early this morning, Mr. Harut kept mentioning a certain name. He was slipping in and out of consciousness and was often incoherent. Despite this state of mind he kept repeating the word ‘Nebuchadnezzar.’”

  As if on cue, Stansfield, Kennedy, and Rapp all leaned forward. Hornig, looking surprised by the unified reaction, asked, “You all know what, or I should say, who Nebuchadnezzar was?”

  “Was and is,” answered Kennedy. “Nebuchadnezzar was the king of Babylonia from 605 to 562 b.c. His great claim to fame in the Arab world is that he destroyed Jerusalem in 586 and then enslaved the Israelites. Saddam Hussein fancies himself the second coming of Nebuchadnezzar. He feels that it is his destiny to unite all of the Arab people and destroy Israel
.”

  “He doesn’t really believe it,” added Rapp with a frown. “He just uses it as a PR ploy to get all of the religious zealots whipped into a frenzy.”

  “And it works,” added Kennedy while leaning forward. “Tell me more about the context in which he mentioned the word.”

  “I was asking him about the financing for the operation. And again he kept mumbling this word. I looked it up and found out who the historical Nebuchadnezzar was. I had no idea he could have been referring to Saddam Hussein.”

  “Where was Matt Shipley when all of this was being said?” Shipley was one of the two hundred plus employees who worked for the Counterterrorism Center. His specialty was Arabic languages, and Kennedy had sent him out to the safe house the previous evening to help with the interrogation of Harut. Kennedy didn’t show it, but she was irritated that Shipley had missed such an obvious reference.

  “I had sent everyone to bed around five this morning. We’d been working nonstop since the previous afternoon.” Hornig shrugged her shoulders. “We needed to give the subject some rest, and I needed to get my notes organized for this meeting. This oversight was not Mr. Shipley’s fault.”

  Kennedy accepted the explanation. “How did you stumble across this reference if Harut was asleep?”

  “I was in the room with him, organizing my notes. Someone has to keep an eye on his vitals, so I was sitting near him when he began to mumble about Nebuchadnezzar. It is not at all unusual for my subjects to continue to talk while they are sleeping.”

  “Was this recorded?” asked Kennedy.

  “Of course. The recording equipment is always running.”

  “Good.” Kennedy jotted herself a note to call Shipley and tell him to review the tapes immediately.

  “What,” began Stansfield, “was the general context of his ramblings about Nebuchadnezzar?”

  “Money—he kept talking about Nebuchadnezzar and money.”