Transfer of Power

by Vince Flynn

  In addition to the monitor that showed the inside of the president’s bedroom and the one that showed Lt. Commander Harris’s makeshift command post, four more monitors now showed images. They said it all. Those screens didn’t come to life all on their own, and since Mitch Rapp was the only person capable of installing them, it was obvious that he had directly disobeyed General Campbell.

  Kennedy looked at one of the watch officers sitting in the back row. “Have you tried to raise him?”

  “Repeatedly.”

  “Any luck?” Kennedy knew the answer before the man started to shake his head.

  Director Stansfield walked toward the front of the room so he could more closely examine the monitors. He tried looking at the monitors both with and without his bifocals. Two of them covered staircases. The old director knew from memory which ones they were. The other two monitors covered the wide main hallways that cut east-west across the second and third floors. As Stansfield was watching, a fifth monitor came on-line. This one showed a staircase that he was not familiar with. The row of technicians and analysts to his left began talking in earnest as several of them hurriedly flipped through books about the White House. After about twenty seconds one of them pronounced that the staircase in question was the one that led from the third floor to the roof.

  Stansfield looked from the monitor back to the rear of the room to find General Flood and General Campbell engaged in a heated and animated discussion. Watching the two generals talk, Stansfield’s face maintained its always neutral expression. His discerning mind was, however, busily extrapolating the problems, complaints, and solutions that this most current bump in the road would create. In a matter of seconds Stansfield had the solutions formed, filed, and ready to be stated in his always unambiguous fashion. Slowly, he started back up the stairs.

  When he reached the two generals, he placed a hand on General Flood’s shoulder and said, “Let’s go to my office where we can talk.”

  Stansfield started for the door and gave Kennedy a look that told her to join them. The group proceeded through a locked and guarded door, down a ramp, and then onward to the director’s corner office. As soon as Stansfield heard his soundproof office door close, he knew what was about to happen—and it did.

  “This is absolutely unacceptable,” stated a barely restrained General Campbell. “I gave him a direct order! I don’t care how good his reasons may or may not be; this is bigger than him, and we cannot have him running around doing whatever he wants, when he wants!”

  Stansfield turned around to face Campbell. Kennedy, the last one to enter the room, stopped midway between her boss and the generals. Stansfield nodded slowly, acknowledging Campbell’s complaint.

  With his jaw clenched, Campbell continued, “I ordered him to stand down because I knew we would be out of the loop for at least an hour. What happens if he gets caught . . . if he kills one of Aziz’s men? We need to be here.” Campbell pointed at the ground. “We need to be monitoring every little move, so if the shit hits the fan, we can give the order to move.” Campbell was so upset it seemed that his bristly flattop was standing even more upright than usual. “Your boy needs to start following orders, or I swear to God—” The stocky ranger stammered for a second, his neck veins bulging. Campbell didn’t finish the thought, but it was obvious to all that he was thinking of physical confrontation.

  Stansfield nodded slowly in an effort to validate Campbell’s anger. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered who would actually win that fight. Campbell, although twenty years Rapp’s senior, was not a man to be trifled with. Shifting his gaze from the Campbell to Flood, Stansfield asked, “Would you like to add anything?”

  Flood shook his sizable head. “There’s nothing left to say. It’s a nobrainer. Rapp is wrong, and he needs to be reeled in.”

  Stansfield digested Flood’s comments. They were every bit as warranted as Campbell’s. The director of central intelligence walked around his desk and looked out the window for a brief moment. The day was as it had been for the last two, sunny and bright. Turning back to the generals, Stansfield said, “We have a difference of opinion, gentlemen. I’ll tell you what I see. I see a man who is trained to act on his own. A man who is used to spending days if not weeks in the field without the aid or interference of his country. Mitch Rapp is not a soldier, and he most definitely is not a politician. His ability to know when to take risks, when to push ahead, when to pull back, is uncanny. It’s, quite honestly, the best I’ve ever seen. He thrives in this environment where every decision could mean life or death.”

  Stansfield paused for a moment and then in an almost academic tone continued, “He has a much clearer picture of the tactical situation, not only because he is on-site, but because he is not distracted by all of the things that we are.” For clarity, he added, “Most notably, he doesn’t have to deal with Vice President Baxter.”

  Clutching his hands in front of him and then letting them fall to his side, Stansfield continued, “Now, with all due respect, gentlemen, you know I think very highly of both of you, but you must understand, Mitch is not a soldier. He has been trained from day one to think independently. If you want to get mad about this, which you have every right to, then get mad at me. He is my responsibility.”

  Stansfield stopped just long enough to make it seem as though he was giving them a chance to reply and then said, “We’ve made a mistake with you two.” He pointed to Campbell and Kennedy. “I don’t want you attending any more meetings. I want you right here monitoring Rapp and his progress. There are too many meddlesome issues that General Flood and I can handle. I want you two focused on Mitch and how best to aid him. He is our eyes.” The elderly spymaster looked from Campbell to Kennedy and back. “The way I see it . . . he’s doing exactly what we sent him in there to do. Now, General Campbell, if you want to go in there, and get Mitch on the radio, and read him the riot act, that’s fine. That is undoubtedly your prerogative, and I’m not going to stand in your way. But, it won’t do us a bit of good, because he won’t listen.”

  Stansfield could see that his words were getting to Campbell. The ranger’s demeanor had calmed ever so slightly. “What I would propose is that I have a talk with him and explain how important it is that he communicate his every action so we can deal with something if it comes up.”

  Before Stansfield could start his next sentence, the large phone on his desk started to ring. Stansfield looked down to see where the call was coming from. On the small screen were a string of letters that caused his brow to knot into a frown. The light on the secure phone continued to blink and Stansfield debated whether he should answer it. After two more rings his frail hand moved slowly toward the receiver.

  THE AMBULANCE FOUGHT its way through the late morning traffic. Downtown D.C. was a quagmire. The security perimeter around the White House had been expanded from two to three blocks to the north, east, and west. To the south, Constitution Avenue had been blocked off, and the section of the National Mall between Seventeenth and Fourteenth was also closed. The normally congested downtown was unbearable.

  The driver of the ambulance inched forward on Pennsylvania Avenue. In his side mirror he could see the large dome of the Capitol, and in front of him, a sea of cars locked in gridlock trying to make their way into the heart of the business district and around the White House. Salim Rusan was surprisingly calm. Part of this was due to his faith in Aziz’s plan, and part of it was due to the fact that he would much rather be stuck in traffic than stuck in the White House.

  The ambulance was the last car to make it through the stoplight at Ninth Street. The monolithic Hoover Building appeared on his right—the famed FBI headquarters. Rusan did not smile. It was not in his personality. He was more like Bengazi than Aziz. He was a worrier, and that was why Aziz had chosen him for this crucial mission. Rusan was both the backup plan and the surprise. Depending on how things went, he was to do one of three things. The first was easy and harmless, and despite what Aziz had told the men, Ru
san seriously doubted that option would ever present itself. It would be either the second or the third plan that would have to be executed, and both of those would lead to death. Rusan was sure of it. Not just the death of his comrades, but the hostages, the American FBI agents, and hopefully hundreds of others. Rusan’s only hope was that in the chaos that would erupt when the Americans tried to retake their White House, he could further add to the confusion and buy some of his friends the time to get away. Rusan thought he had a chance to survive. The plan for his escape was good, well thought out, and just might work.

  It was unnerving, nonetheless, to be heading back into the center of the crisis, to the spot where, just three days earlier, he had fired from the roof of the Washington Hotel and killed a dozen-plus Americans. The boldness of the plan was what gave success a chance. Practically every law enforcement officer in the world was looking for him. The old him, he corrected himself. They would never make the connection between Salim Rusan, the dark-haired Islamic militant terrorist, and Steve Hernandez, the openly gay paramedic from Miami. No, he would continue to inch his way toward the White House, taking his time. When he reached the first roadblock, he would hit the lights on the roof, roll down the window, and tell the D.C. police that he had been told to come down in case they needed him. Aziz had told him it was standard procedure for this type of crisis. He would be one of dozens of ambulances waiting to rush people to the hospital if the need arose.

  Rusan had time. The American assassins did not show their faces when the sun was out. They would wait until it was dark, and if Aziz’s timetable was right, they would come either tonight or tomorrow. As long as he had everything in position within an hour or two after the sunset, he would be fine.

  33

  DEEP IN THOUGHT, Anna Rielly sat, feet pulled close, arms wrapped around her shins, and her chin resting in the valley between her knees. Her shoulder-length brown hair was pulled back in its ponytail again. The long sleeves of President Hayes’s black sweatshirt were rolled up several times. She was comfortable, warm, and had a little bit of food in her stomach along with two Tylenol 3s, which helped dull her aching jaw and ribs. All things considered, she was doing pretty darn well.

  How strange life could be, she thought to herself. One week ago she was in Chicago working at the station, living in her apartment in Lincoln Park. She was ready for a change, in both her career and her personal life. Since the rape, things had been jumbled. There had been the boyfriend who couldn’t handle what she had been through. He was a pharmaceutical rep, and when offered a promotion and transfer to Phoenix, he jumped at the chance and told Anna he couldn’t love someone who couldn’t love him back. She’d blamed herself for that one until she was healthy enough to realize that if he had really loved her, he would have given her more than seven months to recover.

  It had actually turned out to be a blessing. Spending the last several years alone had allowed her to grow in strength. Independence and selfreliance were great things. The best part about them was that the only person who could let you down was yourself. The downside, which she was now experiencing, was that you woke up one day and realized you had either pushed everybody away or not allowed anyone to get close enough. Either way, you were left with a lonely existence.

  Rielly thought fate had to figure into the equation somewhere. It always did for those large and defining moments in life. What kind of twisted fate had led her to this strange moment, this crossroad? If she hadn’t gotten the job as the new White House correspondent, if she had missed her flight to D.C., if her alarm had failed to wake her up three days ago, if she had been released with that first group of hostages, if that pig hadn’t dragged her up to the president’s bedroom? Rielly’s eyes got big. If Mitch Kruse, or whatever his real name was, hadn’t stepped in when he did? Wow, Rielly thought as a shiver ran up her spine. The thought of Kruse not showing up when he did was horrifying. She owed him a lot. More than she could probably ever express.

  Rielly stared blankly at the wall opposite her. Her thoughts settled in on the man named Kruse, and on the odds of him appearing exactly when he did and all of the possible outcomes in between. It was staggering. Call it fate, call it a guardian angel, call it what you like, but someone or something had stepped in and put him there at that exact moment in time. A smile fell across Rielly’s face, and she looked upward to say a little prayer of thanks.

  BEFORE PICKING UP the phone, Stansfield told Kennedy to listen in on a second phone located on the other side of the room. He then asked Generals Flood and Campbell to stay silent. Stansfield’s hand reached down and picked up the handset. At the same time, he sank into his chair and brought the phone to his ear.

  “This is Director Stansfield.”

  At first there was only breathing, heavy breathing, and then the words hissed forth. “I know all about you. Who you are, what you’ve done, and all of the people you’ve sent your minions to kill.”

  Stansfield looked down again at the readout on his phone. The black letters said, “WH Sit Room.” The hostile voice he recognized as that of Rafique Aziz, and it didn’t even come close to riling the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Instead, Stansfield leaned back and asked, “What can I do for you, Mr. Aziz?”

  “Do for me,” spat an obviously agitated Aziz. “You can tell me what you have done with Fara Harut!”

  It was a statement made with confidence; Stansfield was sure of that. The director stayed cool and replied, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Don’t insult me,” screamed Aziz. “I know what you have done, and I want to know where Fara Harut is immediately, or you are going to have more dead hostages on your hands!”

  Aziz was screaming so loud that Flood and Campbell could hear him from where they were standing. The two men stepped forward while Stansfield replied, “It is not my intention to insult you. I sincerely have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You are a snake,” screamed Aziz. “I should have known better than to have thought for a second that you would give me the truth! I swear I will make you pay for what you have done!”

  Aziz was now yelling so loud Stansfield pulled the phone away from his ear and listened to Aziz ramble from a more comfortable distance of six inches.

  The voice squawked from the earpiece. “You give me the truth right now, or I will walk down the hall and put a bullet in the head of one of the hostages, and when I come back, if you do not have an answer for me, I will go back and kill another, and I will keep doing it until you tell me what you have done with Fara Harut!”

  “Mr. Aziz,” replied an unflinching Stansfield, “I have no idea what you are talking about. If you would tell me what has got you so angry, I will do my best to find out where Fara Harut is.”

  “Don’t toy with me! I know who you are, and what you do! You are a liar and a murderer of innocent women and children!”

  Stansfield sat calmly in the chair, the phone still held several inches away from his ear. He had to think quickly, and he had to get Aziz to back down.

  “Well, Mr. Aziz, if that’s the way you feel about me, we must have a lot in common.” Without giving Aziz a chance to reply to the shot, Stansfield continued, “By the way, I must commend you for your speech this morning. It really played well with the politicians. I tried to advise them that you were not serious. That you were performing. To and for what, I have not yet figured out, but I have my ideas.”

  “Silence!” screamed Aziz. “I want to know where Fara Harut is immediately, or someone dies!”

  “Mr. Aziz, you don’t want to do that, and this is why.” Stansfield glanced up at the two generals for a second and then said, “Right now you’ve done a very good job making certain people in my government think that you have turned over a new leaf and that you are a man who will actually keep his word. Myself and several others know this is all a sham. If you kill another hostage, I will take a tape of this conversation to the vice president and I will leak it to the media so every
one can hear that you are truly not the man you tried to portray yourself as this morning. And then . . . well . . . you know our rules of engagement. You were lucky we didn’t storm the place after you killed National Security Adviser Schwartz and his secretary. If you start killing hostages again, we will be left no alternative other than to retake the building . . . and that of course means you will die.”

  “Your men will die!” screamed Aziz. “You are a bigger fool than I thought. I will blow this whole building sky high and all of the hostages with it.”

  “And you will die also, which just happens to suit my needs perfectly. Things will be much easier if you cease to exist.” Stansfield leaned back in his chair. “You are threatening the wrong man, Mr. Aziz, and you know it.” Now came the time to lie, to really make Aziz think that he was everything Aziz thought he was and then some. “I could not care less what happens to the hostages. I just want to make sure that you and your wretched comrades are dead when this whole thing is over. If we have to lose forty or fifty hostages to mount your head on the wall . . . it’s a small price to pay.”

  “I am not afraid to die! Even if I die, I will have won!”

  “I don’t think so,” replied Stansfield in his calm analytical voice. “You see, after you have killed yourself, we will pluck President Hayes, and quite a few others, out of the rubble, and you will have ceased to be a problem. We will rebuild the White House in six months, and everything will return to normal.”

  Aziz was enraged, but he knew that Stansfield had him boxed in. For now at least, but, oh, the surprise they would be in for when their president wasn’t so safe. Now was not the time to push things; no matter how much Fara Harut meant, Aziz could not do anything to precipitate an attack by the Americans until he had the president in his hands. Aziz would have to swallow his pride and make a tactical retreat. His ego, however, was far too large to do so without taking a parting shot.