by Vince Flynn
Aziz glanced down for a second as if searching for something special. When he looked back up, he said, “I ask you, as citizens of this great nation, the greatest nation the earth has ever known, to help me make these first steps toward a lasting peace. I wish you all the best and will pray for you. Thank you, and may your God bless you.”
Aziz nodded his head once, and his man at the back of the room cut the live feed. Walking quickly to his right Aziz grabbed his MP-5 and yanked at his tie. He started for the Situation Room, where he could gloat over his performance and watch the pundits dissect his every word.
VICE PRESIDENT BAXTER sat with his mouth agape, watching for the second time Aziz’s nationally televised address. The heavy armorplated presidential limousine rocked ever so slightly as it raced across the Chain Bridge on its way from Langley back to the Naval Observatory. A stream of motorcycles, police cruisers, sedans, vans, Suburbans, and two other limousines both preceded and followed the black Cadillac. Dallas King sat next to Baxter on the spacious backseat, his digital phone held firmly to the left side of his face. King was already on his second call in as many minutes. He was in classic political-crisis mode and happy to be doing something other than obsessing over the imminent demise of his short-lived career. Before Aziz’s original address had concluded, King had been punching numbers into his tiny phone and barking out orders.
With one eye on the small color TV in the back of the limo, he nodded his head and then said, “No. Don’t waste your time asking any of the regular questions. I couldn’t care less who they voted for last time or if they plan on voting this time. I don’t want to have to say it again. This is an issue that transcends party lines. I want the nuts and bolts, and I want them within the hour. We can go back and get specifics later.” King stopped talking for a second and listened to the Democratic pollster on the other end. He started shaking his head in frustration.
“You’re not listening to me. I don’t want you to skew the results . . . at least not yet. I want to get an honest feel.” King listened and nodded. “That’s right. After we take a stance, we can go back and push for the numbers that will back us up, but for now I want to know what they think of this guy.” King paused again and looked at the small TV. It had not been lost on King that Aziz came off very well on TV, a hell of a lot better than most of the politicians in this town. He was very well spoken, looked sincere, and was movie star handsome to boot.
“Don’t forget to get me the splits on the women versus the men. The soccer moms are going to eat this guy up.” King paused once again and then said, “Yep, put together a dozen questions and call me back in five minutes.”
Pulling the phone away from his face, King pushed the end button and looked to see his boss’s reaction to the speech. Baxter’s expression had turned from one of surprise to a mysterious frown. King asked, “What do you think?”
“We’re fucked,” mumbled Baxter without taking his eyes off the TV. “The press is going to go berserk over this failed raid.”
Looking at his boss, King thought, You think they’re mad about this? Just wait until they find out I gave one of them a tour of the building last month. King gathered himself. “The press will be fine. This story is so big and it’s moving so fast this little speech will be old news by tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t think so,” said Baxter, not yet prepared to look at any upside. “This little incident has ‘congressional investigation’ written all over it.”
King looked at his boss, who was still staring at the TV with a look of defeat on his face. “This whole thing, from start to finish, has ‘ congressional investigation’ written all over it, and this one incident will be a footnote. . . . Besides, we insulated ourselves from it. General Flood has already taken the blame, and he did it right in front of Director Roach . . . the man who will eventually investigate the whole thing.”
“I don’t know . . . It still stinks.”
“The whole thing stinks. You just have to remember, when this is all over, it’s gonna be the guy who stinks the least who comes out smelling like a rose.” King pointed at his boss. “And I’m going to make sure that guy is you.”
“Dallas”—Baxter grimaced—“I don’t think you’re being realistic about this. All of this stuff is not just going to be swept under the rug. The press is going to want answers, and they are going to want to know if I authorized sending those men in last night.”
King shifted sideways in his seat. He wanted to choke his boss and scream, “If only you had my problems!” Instead in a calming voice, he said, “For the last time, don’t worry about the press. I can handle them. You need to get your spirits back up and start acting like the president. We’re going to have to react to this new development, and if the polls come back the way I think they will, we really might have a chance to squeeze our way out of this mess.”
Baxter turned his head toward his aide and asked, “How?”
“I haven’t figured it out yet, but I will.”
Baxter looked away from King and checked his watch. Then with a sigh, he said, “I suppose I’d better call a meeting with the National Security Council.”
King nodded. “That would seem to be the next logical step.”
Baxter waved his right hand as if shooing away a fly. “Take care of it.”
“When and where?”
Twisting his lips, Baxter gazed out the window and said, “Ten o’clock at the Pentagon.”
30
“YOU KNOW WHAT he’s doing, don’t you?” Rapp sat with the handset of the secure field radio gripped tightly in his left hand. He stared blankly at the wall in front of him while he listened to General Campbell give his take on Aziz’s national address. They had played the speech for Rapp over the radio and had asked if he would like to hear it again. Rapp had declined. He knew exactly what Aziz was up to and didn’t need to waste a second more analyzing it.
Rapp nodded in response to what General Campbell was saying and said, “That’s right. He’s trying to play you guys for patsies.”
“Excuse me,” replied the stern ranger on the other end.
“Patsies,” repeated Rapp, never one to choose his words too carefully. “He wants Vice President Baxter and all of the other politicians up on the Hill to roll over and meet him at the bargaining table. Then, once he gets what he wants, he’ll go back to the Middle East, disappear, and a year from now he’ll be building more bombs and killing more people.”
“What if he seriously wants to make peace?” chimed in Irene Kennedy.
“It’s out of the question,” Rapp replied emphatically.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Irene, don’t play this game with me. I don’t have the time or the patience to sit here and listen to you play devil’s advocate. You know as well as I do that Rafique Aziz could give a rat’s ass about the American people, or his Arab brothers and sisters, for that matter. Hell . . . the only Arabs he cares about are the ones that want to wipe Israel off the map. As far as the rest of us are concerned, he’d slit our throats in a second if we got in his way.”
“Then what’s he up to?” asked Kennedy.
Rapp sat back, swinging one of his legs out from underneath him as he thought about it. He looked over at Rielly, propped up in the corner with the blanket wrapped around her. She was watching him intently.
Looking away from her, Rapp said, “He’s trying to find a way out of this without getting his head blown off. We know he’s a meticulous planner. He thinks everything through from start to finish and prepares multiple contingencies in case things go wrong. As I look at his plan, the one big problem I see is how he gets out of there . . . how he gets home. We can bank on the fact that he’s thought it through every step of the way in terms of how we’d react. And from that, we can assume he knows there would be a strong contingency in the government that would push hard for an all-out raid. Now, if he had gotten his hands on the president, everything would be a little different. My guess is that he was pl
anning to use Hayes as his bargaining chip to get home, but he blew it, and now he’s been forced to fall back and use a different plan.”
“And what would that be?” asked General Campbell.
Rapp looked up at Rielly while he thought about it. She was still staringat him with those emerald green eyes. He knew she was listening to everything he said, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.
Rapp looked away and said, “He’s trying to manipulate the media and sway public opinion. He knows without the president he’s not getting home. Let’s face it—” Rapp paused, feeling somewhat awkward about saying the next part in front of Rielly, but there was really no other way. After clearing his throat, he said, “If you look at the big picture, we all know every one of those hostages is expendable, and if we know it, so does Aziz. If he was to continue an aggressive, hostile position, he would eventually force us to storm the place. There is no way we could just sit by while he killed hostages on national TV. So by going in front of the public this morning and putting on this bullshit peace-loving attitude, he’s taken the wind out of our sails. Baxter won’t let us take action until an effort is made at peace.”
“I agree,” said Kennedy. “In the end, he knows every single one of those hostages is expendable. The president was his trump card, and he didn’t get it.”
General Campbell added, “He’s trying to give the politicians a way out of this mess without firing a shot.”
“Well, that’s not gonna happen as long as I have a say in the matter.”
“Iron Man,” stated Campbell in a firm voice. “I don’t want you doing anything unless you are authorized. The last thing we need right now is you running around half-cocked. Now, Irene and I have to get over to the Pentagon for a meeting, and in the meantime, we want you to stay put. When we get back, we’ll have a better idea of how we shall proceed. Am I understood?”
Rapp looked down at the floor and held his temper in check. He’d already learned his lesson. Don’t ask a question if you’re not going to like the answer.
“Yes, sir,” was Rapp’s simple two-word reply as he placed the handset back in its cradle. Pausing for a second, he looked at the power switch and debated his next move. After about fifteen seconds of indecision he turned off the radio and looked up at Rielly.
Anna Rielly sat passively in the corner with the blanket wrapped tightly around her body. Milt Adams sat in the opposite corner, behind Rapp, and chewed on a granola bar. Rielly continued to stare at Rapp and finally asked, “What was that all about?”
Rapp glanced sideways at her as he began rifling through one of his packs. “Nothing.”
“It sure sounded like something to me,” Rielly said.
“Listen, Anna, you’re a reporter. I can’t exactly let you in on what’s going on.”
Rielly smiled. “Who am I going to tell? What do you think, I’m going to call the station with your radio and give them a live update?”
Rapp grabbed several more granola bars from his pack and held one up for Rielly. “Here, chew on this.” And with a grin, he added, “And stop asking questions.”
Rielly took the bar and while she tore the wrapper off asked, “Who do you work for, Mitch Kruse, the FBI?”
“Ah . . . no. Not exactly.”
“What are you, then—military?”
Rapp ignored the question and continued looking for something in his pack.
Rielly smiled and said, “Hey, listen, you saved my life. I don’t care who you work for.” Rielly continued to watch him.
Rapp stared back for a long moment thinking about what he should say. Finally, he replied, “Anna, if I tell you something off the record, will you promise that you’ll never report it? That is, since I saved your life and all.” Rapp said the last part with a smile.
Rielly took the question seriously. “I’m a reporter. Whatever you tell me in confidence will be kept a secret.”
Chuckling, he said, “My dad always said, ‘Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.’” Rapp studied an abrasion on Rielly’s cheek and a spot of dried blood on her lip.
Changing the subject once again, Rapp pulled a penlight from his assault vest and said, “Now, let’s see how you’re doing this morning.” Holding the light up in front of her face, he said, “I want to check your eyes and see how your pupils dilate.” Rapp held Rielly by her chin and checked the left eye first and then the right. Both dilated properly, and then he asked her to follow the light as he moved it from one side of her face to the other. Again she checked out fine.
Turning the light off, Rapp gently touched the abrasion on her cheek and asked, “How does this feel?”
Rielly frowned and said, “I don’t know. How does it look?”
After studying her face for a second, Rapp nodded. “I’d say considering-what you’ve been through, you look pretty good. Darn good actually.” He meant it.
Rielly smiled slightly. “Well, in that case I feel fine.”
Looking back toward Adams, who was on his second breakfast bar, Rapp asked, “I’d say we have a regular tough girl on our hands.”
“I’d say so,” replied Adams with a nod for emphasis.
Rapp turned his attention back to Rielly’s cheek, and when he got closer to inspect the mark, she said to him, “You know women have a higher tolerance for pain than men.”
“So I’ve been told.” Rapp fished a sterile alcohol pad from his first aid kit and tore the small package open. Gently, he started to wipe the dried blood from the corner of Rielly’s mouth, and then the light scrape on her cheek.
When Rapp was done, he turned her head from side to side to check for any other cuts. He had not missed the obvious beauty of the reporter. He felt slightly guilty, under the current circumstances, for letting his mind wander, but it couldn’t be helped. Her skin was soft and smooth with just the right touch of color. Rapp nudged her chin to the side and noticed a trail of dried blood that ran down the back of her neck. He wiped away the blood and then placed both hands on her scalp. Rielly flinched slightly and pulled away.
“Does that hurt?” asked Rapp.
Rielly nodded, and Rapp said with a smile, “What happened to that high tolerance for pain you were bragging about a moment ago?”
“I don’t know, but whatever you just touched hurt like hell.”
“Try to hold still for a second. I want to find out how bad the cut is.” Rapp lifted and separated her thick brown hair. The cut ran only about an inch but looked to have broken the first several layers of skin. Holding one hand on her scalp, he reached behind him and grabbed another sterile alcohol pad. Without looking, he said, “Milt, would you do me a favor? Take those blueprints that you brought, and spread them out on the floor.”
Rapp wiped the cut several times and then waved his hand over the area to dry the alcohol. Rielly’s face twisted in pain. After a moment, Rapp let her hair fall back down onto her shoulders and sat back on one heel. “How’s that?”
Rielly brought her hand up and gently touched her head. “I’m fine if I don’t move too much.” But Rapp noticed the flicker of pain moving across her face when she raised her arm.
“What was that?” asked Rapp.
Gently, Rielly touched her side. “Something hurts in my side.”
“Can you stand up for me?”
“I think so.”
Rapp helped her up. “Does it hurt on the back, the front, or the side?”
She gestured with her hand. “The back and the side.”
“I need to take a look at it. Are you all right with that?”
Rielly looked at Rapp’s concerned face, and the corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly. Reaching out, she placed her hand on his cheek and said, “If I can’t trust you, I don’t know who I could.”
Rapp blushed slightly and said, “Good, then turn around so I can take a look.” Rielly did as she was asked, and Rapp lifted up her sweatshirt.
Her skin was a golden olive from her narrow waist up and then the discoloration began t
o appear. Halfway up her back, on her left side, a red mark about four inches long and three inches wide had started to form. He checked for bright red streaks and found none. Rapp touched the area softly at first, and Rielly showed no sign of pain. Then he pressed a little harder, and she winced sharply.
“Can you take several deep breaths for me?” Rielly did so without pain, and Rapp let her shirt fall. “It’s probably just a bruise, which can still hurt like a bitch, but it’s ten times better than having a broken or cracked rib.” With a smile, he added, “You must be one tough chick.”
Rielly smiled slightly. “I have a lot of brothers.”
Rapp nodded. “I think you’re going to be all right, but then again, I’m no doctor.”
“What are you, Mr. Kruse?” asked the persistent Rielly.
Squeezing her shoulder, Rapp said, “I’ve got some work to do.” Turning toward the seated Adams, Rapp said, “Milt, I need you to show me every stairwell and elevator that leads from this floor to the third, and from this floor to the first.”
DALLAS KING WAS already on his second battery. His digital phone had left his ear only momentarily over the last hour and a half. He walked at a hurried pace next to Vice President Baxter as their entourage moved down the wide hallway of the E Ring at the Pentagon. A slew of seriouslooking Secret Service agents surrounded them. King thought the large contingent a bit much; they were, after all, in the Pentagon; but he had other things to worry about. As the group continued forward, the sea of people before them parted as Pentagon employees moved out of the way and clung to the walls while the current commander-in-chief passed by.
