by Vince Flynn
The “boys at the Secret Service” that they were referring to were the men of the countersniper unit, widely regarded as the best professional shooters, from top to bottom, in the world. There wasn’t a single shot at the Secret Service that could match Wicker under combat conditions, but in a controlled urban environment, they were awesome.
Harris looked back at the White House. Snipers were a weird lot. Kind of like goaltenders in hockey or pitchers in baseball. They were loners, fiercely independent, and more than a little superstitious. “What do you need to make it happen?”
Wicker pulled several pieces of paper from his vest. Unfolding them, he held them up for his CO. “First thing we have to do is build a shooting platform. With the right men and equipment, I can have it ready by sundown.”
Harris looked at the drawings. “What about the noise?”
Wicker reached over and flipped to the second page. “We place a top over the platform and line it with acoustic foam. We leave a nice narrow slit at the front, and we’re set. Only about five percent of the report will make its way out of the slit, and that won’t travel more than a block, tops.”
Harris loved that Wicker was ahead of the game. Handing Wicker the drawing, he slapped him on the back and said, “Good job, Slick. I like it. Make it happen as fast and quiet as you can. Get out of your coveralls, and tell the rest of your boys to wear their civvies.” Looking at his watch, he added, “I want you operational by eighteen hundred.”
With that Harris started down the hatch, confident that Wicker would have everything in place by the appointed hour. Now came the hard part. He would have to convince the big boys that an exercise he had participated in eight years ago would work today. Harris already had the pitch formed. He would keep it as simple as possible and use SEAL Team Six as the tip of the spear. Delta and HRT would provide the overwhelming force when the time was right.
THE WORDS WEREN’T going to come easy. At least not at first. Anna Rielly was both a proud and a stubborn person, but she was not, as Rapp thought, an ingrate. Milt Adams had closed the door to the stash room, and Rielly was left facing the man who had saved her life.
As Rielly looked at him, she decided she liked him much better when he smiled. In his current serious mood, he looked dangerous. Not just his dark clothes and the various weapons strapped to his lean body, but his chiseled jawline and those dark eyes. The man had an intensity about him that Rielly hadn’t noticed before. His tanned weathered face had the strong lines acquired by a man who does not spend his days in an office. It was the eyes, though, that both drew her in and made her want to shiver. Dark pools of brown. So dark they were almost black. Framed on top by two thick eyebrows. This was the man who was capable of killing. The man who had plunged his knife into her assailant.
Rielly’s mouth must have been slightly open because it was suddenly void of moisture. She closed it and swallowed hard; then opening it slowly, she said, “I’m sorry for the way I handled that situation earlier. I don’t want to seem like I’m”—she paused, struggling to get the next word out—“ungrateful.”
Rielly had to look down. It was difficult to look into those dark eyes and make the apology. “I’m not crazy about signing anything. Especially something the government wants me to sign.” Rielly looked up and made a halfhearted effort at a smile, but the dark orbs on Rapp’s face turned her gaze back down.
“I realize this thing is a lot bigger than me, and if there is anything I can do to help save the rest of the hostages, I’m more than willing to do my part. As far as what happens when this is over . . . if you wish to remain anonymous, I will honor that. If you feel, or whoever you work for feels, that you need to edit my story before I tell it . . .” Rielly was forced to pause again, feeling very uncomfortable with this particular concession. Still looking at the ground, she said, “If you really feel the need to edit out material that you are absolutely sure is too sensitive to report . . . I’ll go along. I’ll probably do it kicking and screaming, but I’ll do it.”
Rapp was conflicted. His opinion of the young and attractive Ms. Rielly had already been etched into his mind and filed away. Now it appeared he might have been mistaken. She had been wrong, but now she was correcting that, taking a big step to humble herself and admit it. The ball was back in Rapp’s court.
37
HER ELBOWS RESTED heavily on the table. The hum of computers, faxes, scanners, and monitors droned in the background. The control room at Langley was in the midst of a lull. Kennedy’s hands cupped her chin, and her eyes were closed. Opening her eyes, she looked at the red digital clock on the wall. It was almost half past noon. She let out a yawn and stretched her arms above her head. Things were about to happen. She had felt it herself and seen it in the look Thomas Stansfield had given her.
The light on her phone blinked once and then began to ring. She grabbed the handset and answered, “Dr. Kennedy.”
“Irene, it’s Jane. I’ve been busy trying to get an answer to your question, but things have proved a little more difficult than I thought.”
“How so?”
“Well, the subject is not entirely with us.”
Kennedy frowned. “Will he be coming back?”
“No.” There was a substantial pause and then, “At least, I don’t think so.” Then in a slightly defensive tone Dr. Hornig added, “You must remember, this is all new, very cutting-edge stuff.”
“Did you get anything out if him?”
“From what little I could gather, Harut had no idea what this Yassin fellow’s talents were. But please keep in mind, he’s not all there.”
Irene didn’t want to hear excuses; she wanted answers. “Did you get anything out of him?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Okay. If you find anything out, please let me know.” Kennedy disconnected the call and dialed an international number. While the secure satellite technology at Langley started the process, Kennedy turned around and checked to see what her boss was doing.
Thomas Stansfield sat comfortably in his chair while Jonathan Brown, the deputy director of central intelligence, relayed a slew of congressional complaints and inquiries. From what little Kennedy heard, she gathered that the congressman and senators on the Hill were demanding to know what in the hell happened last night.
The familiar voice of Colonel Fine answered on the other end, and Kennedy turned around. “Ben, it’s Irene. Have you found anything out on Yassin?”
“Nothing firm. Some rumblings and rumors here and there, but we haven’t been able to nail him down.”
“Which one are we talking about? The Iraqi or the Palestinian?”
“I have heard nothing back about the Iraqi, but I have several sources who are claiming they have seen the eighteen-year-old Palestinian within the last four days.”
“Hmm,” pondered Kennedy.
“Let me caution you, though. We have not been able to track him down.”
“I know, but we are definitely leaning closer to one than the other.”
“My contacts in Iraq are not as deep, Irene. The man could be there, but I need more time to track him down.”
Kennedy looked back at Stansfield and let him know that she needed to talk to him. Into the phone, she said, “Ben, I have to run. Thank you for the info, and please let me know the second you find out anything else.”
“Before you go,” said Fine loudly, “I have something I wish to discuss.” Fine paused and then continued. “There are people in my government who are threatening to tear apart the entire peace accord if your country persists with this position of negotiation. We have a very good idea what Aziz’s last demand will be, and we are prepared to occupy the territories with troops if it comes to that.”
Kennedy stopped everything she was doing. She dissected the colonel’s words carefully. Israel was prepared to go to war. “Has your ambassador been informed of this?”
“I do not know.”
“Has your prime minister informed our vice president?”<
br />
“I do not know.”
Kennedy paused momentarily. “Ben, Director Stansfield has the interests of Israel very high on his list, but he is only one man. Now is not a time to play games through back channels. I would suggest that certain people in your government start banging the drum and bang it loudly. They know who to talk to.” Kennedy stopped for a moment and added, “Don’t worry about your support from Langley. We have never wavered on this issue, and are not about to.”
There was a moment of silence and then, “Good. I will pass that along.”
“And I appreciate the information, Ben. Please let me know the second you find anything more.”
Kennedy hung up the phone and swiveled her chair around. Brown was still talking to Stansfield. Kennedy was not sure about the new deputy director. It wasn’t due to a lack of confidence in his skills. He was intelligent and professional. Her issue with Brown lay more in where his bread was buttered. Brown was not an insider at Langley. He had been with the Agency for less than a year. In his early fifties, he was a former federal prosecutor and judge who, after leaving the bench, went to work for one of Washington’s poshest law firms, making close to a million dollars a year. After pressing the flesh with all of the bigwigs in Congress for a half dozen years, he had obtained a nomination for the deputy director slot and was confirmed.
It was a safe bet that his allegiance was more with the senators who had confirmed him than with the man he was now talking to. It was that simple fact that kept Kennedy from speaking in front of the man. She waited for several minutes until Brown left, then rose and approached the elevated desk behind her.
Stansfield leaned forward and asked, “What is it?”
General Flood also leaned forward, sensing that Kennedy might have obtained a valuable piece of information.
“I just spoke to Colonel Fine. He’s gotten nowhere in terms of the Yassin from Iraq, and with the young Palestinian, they have several contacts who have claimed to have seen him in the last four days.”
Flood shook his head and said, “That’s it, Thomas. We have to tell him.”
Stansfield’s face remained passive, and Flood persisted. “It’s our duty. Iron Man hasn’t come up with anything definitive, but it sure does look like something is going on down in that basement. Aziz doesn’t have enough men to tie up one of them down there.”
“What about the ventilation duct?” asked Kennedy. “Maybe he’s afraid we’ll try and use it again.”
“Bullshit,” grumbled Flood. “All he has to do is booby-trap the only stairwell that leads up from the basement, and he has us boxed in.”
Kennedy agreed.
Flood leaned toward Stansfield and said, “We have to tell him, Thomas. We should have told him this morning.”
Stansfield looked at the large general. He knew Flood was right but also knew how Vice President Baxter would react. He would wiggle. He would question the validity of their conclusion. He would put off making any decision until he absolutely had to. Despite all of that, Flood was right. They had to tell him.
DALLAS KING SAT across from his boss and watched him talk on the phone. The afternoon sun spilled through the windows of the vice president’s study at the Naval Observatory. King was still obsessing over his roll in aiding the terrorists. He had decided only one thing thus far, that he would keep his mouth shut. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that he would volunteer what he had done to the FBI. It would do no good. They couldn’t turn back the clocks. What he had to do right now was damage control. Who else knew about the late-night excursion? There were the two women of course, but they were bombed. There was Joe, the Secret Service officer who had let them in. King thought about checking up on Joe, but that might make things look worse if the story came out. No. For now, he would sit and do nothing and hope that no one would ever link him to the terrorist.
Aides shuffled in and out of the room on an almost continuous basis. The large dining room and living room of the mansion had been converted into offices for Baxter’s support staff and the dozen or so essential personnel who had been displaced when the Old Executive Office Building had been shut down by the Secret Service.
It was one of those essential aides who quietly entered the room and approached King. In a voice low enough to not distract the vice president, she said, “Director Stansfield and General Flood are on the line, and they wish to speak to the vice president immediately.”
King stood. “Which line?”
The young woman held up two fingers and began her retreat. King watched her leave. Out of habit he checked out her backside as she sauntered for the door. It was nice. He’d been eyeballing her for the better part of the new year, but knew it would be trouble. Office romances were a big no-no. Stick with the married women, King told himself.
King made his way over to a credenza on the other side of the large study. After running a hand through his hair and checking himself out in an ornate gilt-framed mirror, King grabbed the receiver from the phone and stabbed the blinking red button.
“Director Stansfield, General Flood, Dallas King here.”
It was General Flood who spoke first. “Dallas, where is the vice president?”
“He’s right here, but he’s on the line with the secretary general of the UN.”
“Well, tell him we need to speak with him.” Flood’s voice was even gruffer than normal.
King held the receiver to his left ear and with his right forefinger he smoothed out his eyebrows. Looking into the mirror to check on his grooming, he replied, “As I said, he’s on the line with the secretary general, and it’s rather important. Is there something I can help you with?”
Flood, the highest-ranking officer in the entire United States military, was used to people jumping to his requests. Add to this the tense situation and a lack of sleep, and the result was predictable.
“Goddamnit,” bellowed Flood. “You’ve got some things to learn about the chain of command, son. When the chairman of the Joint Chiefs calls and says he wants to talk to the vice president, you put him on the phone!”
King pulled the receiver away from his face and looked at it with a frown. Under his breath, he said, “Give me a break.” Then into the phone, he replied, “Let me see if he can take your call.” Without waiting to see if that was okay, King pressed the hold button and set the phone down. Looking into the mirror one more time, he straightened his tie and checked his perfect white teeth.
Walking across the spacious study, he approached the vice president’s desk and gave his boss the proper signal. Baxter looked up and when the moment was right, he said, “Excuse me, Mr. Secretary. Would you hold one moment please?” Baxter covered the phone. “What now?”
“General Flood and Director Stansfield are on line two and they want to talk to you immediately.”
“Immediately.” Baxter repeated the word in the same tone as King.
“Yep, General Flood has got his undies in a bind about something. He snapped at me when I told him you were busy.”
Baxter took his hand off the receiver and said, “Mr. Secretary, I want to continue this conversation, but I must take an urgent call. May I call you back in a few minutes?” Baxter nodded several times while he listened to the secretary general of UN and then said, “Thank you.”
King looked down at his boss and said, “I think I’d better listen in on this.” Baxter nodded his consent, and King quickly crossed the room and stood poised above the phone on the credenza. When his boss reached down to punch the proper line, King did the same.
Baxter said, “Hello, General Flood.”
“Mr. Vice President, I’m on the line with Director Stansfield. We’ve come across some troubling information that we must bring to your attention.” In less than a minute Flood brought Baxter up to speed on what was going on in regard to Mustafa Yassin and the information provided by the Israelis and CIA.
Dallas King watched his boss silently from across the room. He listened to Flood, and in some t
wisted way the news excited him. King knew it shouldn’t, but this was real high drama, and he was one of just a few who were privy to this jarring information. The president was not as safe as they had thought.
General Flood moved from stating the facts into stating his case, and he did so with two sentences. “Mr. Vice President, under no circumstances can we allow the president to fall into the hands of these terrorists. Delta Force and HRT are ready to retake the White House on your order.”
Vice President Baxter let out the moan of a man who could take no more bad news. And then after a moment or so of fidgeting, he asked, “How can we be sure? Aziz has said nothing about the president in any of his demands.”
“We can’t be sure,” answered Flood. “But we sure as hell can’t take the risk of letting the president become a hostage.”
“What if this information is wrong?” Baxter looked up at King. “We still have quite a few hostages in there, and from what you’ve told me, the odds of them surviving a takedown are not good.”
“Sir, at this point I see no other alternative. We cannot, under any circumstance, allow Rafique Aziz to get his hands on President Hayes.”
There was a long pause while Baxter looked up at King. Finally he sighed into the phone and asked, “What is it that you want from me, General Flood?”
“I want you to do what’s right. I want you to give me the green light to retake the White House.”
King was shaking his head vigorously at his boss. No one was going to commit to anything until he and the vice president had a chance to discuss it. Vice President Baxter looked up at King and nodded. Then into the phone, he said, “General, this information seems a little thin to me. As I’ve already said, you have full authority to move your people into position, and to collect intelligence, just so long as you don’t endanger the lives of the hostages. But I want to make myself clear on this once again. I am the only person who will authorize the takedown of the White House.” Baxter straightened up in his chair. “Am I clear on this?”
