Transfer of Power

by Vince Flynn

  Rapp took the barrel of his silencer and stuck it under the access panel. Standing on his toes, he closed the metal panel, and with the very tip of the silencer he pushed up one of the latches and secured it.

  As Rapp looked toward the door, he whispered, “Any questions?”

  “Nope.”

  “All right. Let’s move out.” Rapp walked quietly across the concrete floor to the doorway with his silenced weapon up and ready. Adams followed a step behind, and when they reached the door, he stuck the tip of the cable under the door to check to see what was on the other side. Rapp looked over his shoulder while Adams maneuvered the tip of the cable from side to side with a small dial. The coast appeared to be clear.

  22

  VICE PRESIDENT BAXTER’S national address had lasted less than five minutes. It was delivered at eleven P.M. eastern time, an hour later than most presidential addresses, due to the deep dissension between Baxter and King over what should be said. In the end, the speech consisted mainly of the standard condemnation of terrorism, the assurance that President Hayes was safe in his bunker, two minutes of nationalistic rhetoric, and of course, a solemn plea for prayers.

  The early ratings were predictably high. The networks and the all-news channels were playing the crisis for everything it was worth. The newest angle they had started to play up was the theme of a government in exile. For the first time in the history of the republic such an address had been from the vice president’s official residence at the Naval Observatory.

  Dallas King stood nervously in the vice president’s study, leaning against a bookcase while he listened to a Democratic pollster explain the early results from the national address. Several other staffers were ringed around their new commander-in-chief and offered their opinions on a variety of issues. All of the camera equipment and lights had been left in place on the assumption that they would probably be needed again before the crisis was resolved. The polling numbers were awesome, but expected. Dallas King listened with feigned interest. His mind was elsewhere.

  King looked down at his chrome Tag Heuer watch and anxiously ran his right hand through his sun-bleached hair. He was late for a meeting, a meeting he hoped would encompass both business and pleasure. The handsome chief of staff didn’t like the idea of leaving Baxter alone with the other staffers, but it was unavoidable. He shifted his weight away from the bookcase and started for the other side of the study, his black cap-toed shoes marking his steps on the spotless hardwood floor. When King reached a well-worn Persian rug, he reached out and snatched his sport coat from the back of an old wooden chair.

  Vice President Baxter folded his arm across his small belly and smoothed an errant strand of his slicked-back hair. “Where are you headed?”

  “I have some business I need to take care of.” King winked at his boss as he casually draped the coat over his left shoulder. The wink was a signal that they could discuss his activities when they were alone. Baxter nodded, and Dallas moved for the door, saying, “I’ll see you in the morning. If anything comes up, you can reach me on my cell.”

  With that King opened the door, nodded to the two Secret Service agents posted in the hallway, and walked out across the large porch with a lively spring in his step. His metallic blue BMW convertible was parked backed into its space next to a large black Secret Service Suburban. King threw his coat onto the passenger seat and jumped in behind the wheel. He started the car and reached for the button to lower the top, and then decided he should wait until he made it through the gauntlet of reporters at the front gate. He nosed the little sports car out of the spot and gunned it down the hill for the main gate. King flashed his brights twice to make sure the Secret Service officers knew he was coming. By the time he reached the gate, it had already begun to open. Instead of using his brakes, King shifted the car back into first gear and deftly released the clutch. The low-slung car growled as it slowed, and then, when there was just enough room to make it through the opening, he shifted into second and hit the accelerator.

  The large tract of land, almost twice the area of the White House grounds, was besieged by the media. The main gate off Massachusetts Avenue was crowded with news trucks pulled haphazardly onto the curb, and the reporters and cameramen tried frantically to get a photo of King’s car as it sped past. King kept his foot on the gas as the car shot onto Massachusetts Avenue, the Secret Service stopping traffic in both directions. He raced northward up the avenue. King checked his rearview mirror and cranked the stereo. Four blocks north of the observatory, and out of sight of main gate, he yanked the car back into second gear and turned hard to the right, the wide tires of the BMW squealing into a one-hundred-degree turn onto Garfield. King floored it through the residential neighborhood at speeds approaching seventy miles per hour. At Twenty-ninth Street he took a hard right turn, and one block later at Calvert, he slowed to about ten miles per hour, paid no heed to the stop sign before him, and shot out in front of an approaching cab. The wild maneuver solicited both the horn and the finger from the cabbie. King ignored both as he raced through the light at Connecticut and crossed over into the Adams-Morgan neighborhood.

  He was late, and the woman he was meeting would not be happy. King took another hard turn at Eighteenth Street and slowed his speed as he entered one of the most congested areas in town. Two blocks later he pulled up in front of Stone’s, a posh, hot new bar. King stopped the car and yanked up the emergency break just as a valet appeared at his door. Grabbing his black sport coat, he handed the man a ten-dollar bill and said, “Keep it close.”

  Standing just inside the door was an Asian woman in a body-hugging red dress with a slit that seemed to run from the floor to her left hip. She looked up at the dashing Dallas King and offered her cheek. When she stepped forward, the slit in her dress revealed a long, toned thigh.

  The young hostess had no idea what King did for a living, nor did she care. All she knew was he was handsome, well-dressed, and graced the trendy bistro with his presence at least once a week—and usually with a different woman. The stunning jewel had been asked out by approximately every other man who entered the establishment, and she was beginning to wonder when this one would get around to the task.

  As King kissed her cheek, the woman slipped her hands inside his suit coat and placed them gently just above his belt line. King felt the gentle touch of her hands on his waist, and a sexual jolt hit him straight in the groin. Letting his nose linger by her smooth skin for a second, he took in a deep breath of clean, fresh perfume. With a furtive grin he said, “Kim, you look gorgeous, as always.”

  The young Asian woman took the compliment with a smile and slowly removed her hands from King’s hips. “Thank you.”

  King stared at her for a moment, allowing her the chance to ask him the obvious question about what was going on at the White House. The moment came and went, and it dawned on King that the beauty before him was either severely hampered in the brain department or she honestly had no idea what he did for a living. In either case she wasn’t about to run out and join the local Mensa chapter.

  King winked and then made his way toward the rear of the restaurant.

  The bar area was crowded. The hostage crisis had given the city something to talk about. For Washington bar owners a scandal or crisis was like a big sporting event. Several of the more astute bar patrons recognized the young Californian as Vice President Baxter’s chief of staff and began to whisper as King worked his way through the crowd.

  As King walked past the trendy rag-rolled walls and secluded booths, he scanned the dining area for his newest infatuation. In the last booth before reaching the pay phone and the bathrooms, King saw her. Sheila Dunn had her laptop open, a cell phone in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Upon seeing King, she said into her cell phone, “He’s here. I’ll call you back.” The thirty-four-year-old reporter set the phone down but kept the glass of wine securely in her grip.

  “Dallas, where in the hell have you been?”

  “I’m s
orry.” King bent down to kiss the blond-haired woman sitting in the booth.

  Dunn offered her cheek and said, “I have fifteen minutes to get my story in, and my editor is about to pull my hair out.” With an angry look, she added, “You’d better talk fast.”

  King sat in the booth, and as he did so, a waiter approached. Dunn held up her nearly finished glass and said, “Two more of these,” without bothering to say please, then turned her glare back in the direction of King. “You’re an hour late. That’s a hell of a way to try and endear yourself to me.”

  “Excuse me,” King uttered, a touch irked by her comment. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we have a bit of crisis going on, and I’m just a touch busy right now.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Dallas. I’m very aware of what’s going on, and I have a deadline to meet, so when you say you’re going to be here at a certain time and you show up an hour late, without calling, don’t expect me to act like one of your congenial little empty-headed bimbos.” Dunn took a deep breath and folded her arms across her chest. She had intentionally worked herself into this frenzy, figuring the more upset she was the more likely Dallas would be to hand over some good info.

  This was the exact reason why King liked her. She was feisty. Most of the women he dated were great arm pieces, but they lacked something up top. Sheila Dunn was different. She wasn’t knock-down gorgeous, as many of his women were, but her brains and drive made her every bit as attractive. Dunn was fairly plain looking. She had slender features, was not curvaceous in any sense of the word, but while many women her age had already seen their best days, Dunn was just moving into hers. She had the mature confidence of a woman who would hold her beauty for years to come. And most important, she was married, something that King had seen as an obstacle for years, but now embraced as a bonus. With the married ones it was all about sex. He didn’t have to spend large amounts of money or play tiresome games.

  Dunn had rebuked all of King’s romantic advances, but the young Dallas could tell he was wearing her down. She was one of the Post’s political correspondents, and King had gotten to know her since his recent arrival in the nation’s capital. As Baxter’s chief of staff, King had, as one of his first priorities, to cultivate sources in the media that could be used to leak information when needed.

  He reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “How are things with your husband?”

  “Shitty,” was Dunn’s terse one-word reply.

  Rubbing her hand, he asked, “When was the last time you two slept together?”

  She pulled back quickly. “Dallas, that’s none of your business.”

  “Fine . . . you don’t have to answer it, but you’re far too beautiful a woman to be so lonely.”

  “Dallas, let’s change the subject.”

  King had taken her down this road before, and he was gaining ground. Dunn was having serious doubts about her marriage. She knew that King wanted her, and she thought this might be the time to give up the jewel. This was the biggest story in three decades, and no one had any idea what was going on inside the White House or the FBI’s command post. No one was talking. The crisis had people tight-lipped. If sleeping with King meant she could get some info out of him, it might be worth it.

  The drinks arrived, and King took a big sip. He let the dry merlot run down his throat and then said, “You wouldn’t believe the shit that’s going on down there.”

  Dunn leaned forward and placed her forearms on the table. “Like what?”

  Rolling his eyes, King said, “Tutwiler, that stupid bitch. She’s the damn reason Schwartz and his secretary are dead. It was her stupid idea to jerk this nut-bag’s chain and only send him part of the money.” King stopped briefly and took a sip, thinking of the warning the man from the CIA had given all of them—that Aziz would react exactly the way he did.

  “I tried to advise against it, but she won out. You know how she is. She took charge of the entire briefing at the Pentagon yesterday. The damn woman has the worst case of penis envy I’ve ever seen. She just couldn’t pass up the chance to put all of those military types in their place.” King stopped and shook his head. “And to make things worse, she’s not around to take the heat. She had a fucking nervous breakdown after Schwartz got shot. They had to cart her off to Bethesda.”

  Dunn’s jaw hung loosely. “You’re kidding?”

  “No.” King shook his head for emphasis. “I wish I was. I wish she was here to take the heat.” King pointed to himself. “Now I’m the one who’s getting squeezed.”

  Dunn set her wine down and started tapping at the keys of her laptop. “So Tutwiler is out . . . What in the hell is the FBI up to?” Dunn watched King shrug his shoulders and take another drink. She was going to have to work for this one. “Come on, Dallas. Just give me some good background. I’m not asking you to give away any national secrets.” Dunn paused to give him a second to think about it, and then in a soft voice she asked, “What’s the FBI up to?”

  King looked over the top of his wineglass. “They’re planning for every possible contingency. Collecting information and trying to find a way out of this. Sherman has told them that unless they can guarantee getting the rest of the hostages out safely, we sit tight.”

  “What about the president? Is all that crap your boss spun in his address the truth?”

  “He’s fine.” King nodded emphatically. “Just like Sherman said.” Then waving his hand in the air as if the president was a nonfactor, he added, “The people at the Pentagon say he can last for weeks in that bunker.” King took another drink and then leaned forward. With his nose perched above the screen of Dunn’s laptop, King breathed in her perfume and said, “You smell great.”

  “Thank you.” Dunn smiled halfheartedly and then got back to business. “What else is going on? Do you know what their next demand is going to be?”

  “Nope. We’re not supposed to hear anything until the morning.” King’s attention was drawn downward. Dunn’s blouse was open one more button than normal, and a scintillating amount of soft skin was drawing his mind into a completely different area again. He looked down her shirt and said, “I want to get naked with you so bad.”

  Dunn grabbed him by the jaw and made him look her in the eye. “This stuff you gave me about Tutwiler is good, Dallas, but there’s more going on than you’re telling me, and if you want to get me into bed, you’re going to have to do a lot better . . . and fast.”

  King felt the blood rushing to his groin. His mind scrambled for any piece of information that might seal the deal, but he’d told her everything that was going on. The truth was, nothing was going on. Everybody was sitting around and waiting to react . . . except . . . except one person. King pulled away and sat back. He couldn’t talk about that, but there was something related that he could talk about—something that would play great in the press. “There is one thing.” Pausing, he tried to gauge how much information he could hand over.

  Dunn saw his hesitancy and drew closer. “What . . . what is it?”

  King looked around the immediate area and then leaned forward. “Listen, no one can find out I told you this.”

  Dunn feigned insult. “Dallas, I’ve never revealed one of my sources.”

  Unimpressed, King rolled his eyes. “All I’m saying is that this is serious-shit, all right?”

  Dunn nodded eagerly. “You have my word. Your name will never be revealed.”

  The vice president’s chief of staff looked around once again to make sure no one was eavesdropping, and then, in a whisper, he said, “The CIA knew about this attack before it happened.”

  Dunn’s eyes almost popped out of her head. “What? And they didn’t do anything about it?”

  “No.” King shook his head. “They only found out just before it happened. As soon as they found out, they alerted the Secret Service. That’s why Hayes made it to his bunker.”

  “So the CIA saved the day.”

  King shrugged. “It was hardly a banner day, but I sup
pose you could say that.”

  Dunn smiled broadly. “This could be good.” Frantically, she began typing. King watched her for about half a minute, and then Dunn closed her laptop. She packed it and her phone in her bag and said, “I’ve got to get this in before we go to press.” Dunn stood. She was wearing a tight blue skirt that hugged her thin frame. Leaning over the table, she grabbed King by the jaw with one hand and said, “You and I aren’t done. If you keep this up, you just might wear me down.” Dunn pulled King’s lips to hers and gently ran the tip of her tongue along his upper lip. She let her tongue hang there just long enough to leave him wanting more and then turned and left.

  23

  JACK WARCH STOOD by the bunker door and touched the smooth surface with the palm of his hand. It had been several hours since he had done so, and as far as he could tell the door was getting warmer. He took that as a bad sign. Warch had been beating his brains out all day over what to do if the terrorists got the door open before the Hostage Rescue Team intervened. He assumed from the explosions he had heard during the initial assaults that they had grenades. That would make it a short fight. He could put the president in the small bathroom on the other side of the bunker and buy maybe another five minutes. That would result in more dead agents and ultimately a dead or captured president.

  Warch plopped down on his bunk. As he exhaled a deep sigh, he saw the president coming over. Warch straightened up a bit and started to stand.

  Hayes gestured to him with a patting motion of his hand and said, “Don’t get up. Do you mind if I sit?”