filters.”
Rapp thought he saw where Adams was going and asked, “Where does the system get its air?”
“The system has two sets of intake and exhaust ducts. The first is located on the roof of the White House, and the second is located here.”
Adams pointed to an area on the South Lawn.
“The duct is hidden under a clump of fake bushes not more than fifteen yards from the fence on the east side, just south of Jackie Kennedy’s rose garden. The duct drops thirty feet straight down and then runs for a little over two hundred feet, where it connects with the main system in the engineering room of the third basement.” Rapp looked at the drawing.
“What kind of cover is there around this duct? Could you get to it without someone from the roof seeing you?”
“There’s plenty of cover. Come over here, and I’ll show you on the model.” Adams walked over to the middle of the room and proudly pulled two white sheets off the large table.
Lying before them on the table was a detailed model of the White House and its grounds.
“This is what retirement does to you, Mitch. I started this project almost twenty years ago with one of my nephews. It took me almost all of that time to get half of it finished, and then I retired and finished the rest of it in six months.”
Rapp stared at the model and searched for the duct in question. Reading his mind, Adams reached down and moved a small bush.
“Here’s your way in.” Adams’s skinny black hand pointed at a green metal shaft that came out of the ground and then looped back down in an inverted U with the open end pointing at the ground.
Rapp studied the trees and bushes between the vent and the White House.
“You’re sure someone on the roof wouldn’t see me approaching the duct?”
“I don’t think so. Your problem, as. I see it, is whether or not they are in control of the Secret Service’s surveillance and alarm system. This entire area”-Adams pointed at the fence-“is loaded with sensors. If they have our system, they’ll know you’re there the second you step over the fence.”
Rapp folded his arms and grabbed his chin. Looking down at the model, he studied the large horseshoe- shaped fence that ringed the South Lawn and nodded.
“We can overcome that, though.” Adams dismissed the problem with a wave of his hand.
“Through a diversion or something… Your real problem is going to be finding your way around once you get inside the building. There are secret doors, elevators, stairs, passageways-you name it… and you won’t find any of them on a blueprint or a model. Hell, half the agents on the presidential detail don’t know where all of the stuff is. You are going to need someone with you who knows their way around that place…”
Adams paused for a second.
“Or you’re going to have to tell me what you have in mind, so I can help you plan it.”
Rapp looked up from the model and studied Milt Adams.
A decision had to be made. Adams had to be either brought onboard or kept in the dark, and Rapp didn’t have the patience to debate the pros and cons with Kennedy and Stansfield.
DALLAS KING WAS standing in a small office across the hall from the FBI’s command post. He had been there for five frustrating minutes while a paramedic worked on Tutwiler. King looked down at the attorney general and shook his head.
The paramedic that was checking her out finished taking her blood pressure and said, “I think she’s in shock.”
“Shit.” King paced back and forth. “So what are you telling me? Can she speak to the press or not?”
“No.” The female paramedic, who was still on one knee, frowned.
“She needs to get to a hospital.” Tutwiler was sitting frozen on a brown leather couch, her eyes staring blankly into space.
King placed his hands over his mouth and swore three times in rapid succession. Next, he grabbed at his hair and said, “I fucking knew it.”
Turning back toward the paramedic, he said, “Take her to Bethesda, and I don’t want anyone talking to her.” King yanked the door open and began marching down the hallway, his arms swinging wildly. When he reached the other side of the building, he ignored the gaggle of Secret Service agents standing outside the conference room and entered without knocking.
King slammed the door behind him and screamed an expletive.
Vice President Baxter, startled by the unexpected intrusion, spun around in his chair with a look of thorough irritation on his face.
“Dallas, I said I wanted to be alone.”
“The stupid bitch is in shock.”
“What?” asked a confused Baxter.
“Tutwiler… the bitch is in shock… she cracked.” An angry expression contorted King’s face.
“She can’t talk… She’s on her way to the hospital.”
Baxter closed his eyes and moaned, “oh great.”
King began pacing up and down next to the conference table, while Baxter buried his face in his cupped hands.
“It’s nothing we can’t handle,” insisted King, trying to find an angle, a way to spin the story. “It’sjust a temporary setback.”
King walked the length of the room twice and then said, “I’ll leak it through the right sources that the whole thing was Marge’s idea, and when it blew up in her face, she cracked… and then we’ll have Director Roach handle the press briefing.
We’ll be fine.”
With his face still in his hands, Baxter added, “For now.”
Then lifting his head up, he said, “This thing is only going to get worse. We are going to have to storm that place eventually, and from what everyone is telling me, we are going to lose a lot of hostages.
It’s just like I told you yesterday, Dallas; we are screwed.” Baxter growled the last word.
“Any way you slice it, I’m going to have the blood of a lot of people on my hands, and my name will forever be associated with this damn mess.”
King shook his head.
“Nothing’s over. If there’s a way out of this, I’ll find it.” Rubbing his hands together as if he were trying to warm them up, he said, “For now, we continue to walk this thin line. Marge is out of commission, so we’ll move Director Roach and the FBI to the forefront. If this sick bastard releases one-third of the hostages, we should probably have a photo op with you consoling them. It won’t hurt for you to take credit for that, but once it’s over and he starts making his next demands, you should keep a low profile.
This isn’t over yet, Sherman. Stay with me.”
SLEEP HAD BEEN out of the question. After Warch had discovered someone was trying to breach the bunker door, everyone was up for the night. Tensions were running high as the grinding noise grew a little louder with each passing hour.
Another foreboding sign was that the door was no longer cool to the touch. Areas of heat could be felt as one placed one’s hand in different spots.
In an effort to lower the tension and keep his people focused. Jack Warch had drawn up a duty schedule with Special Agent Ellen Morton, the day shift’s whip. The first order of business was to collect all of the radios and phones. With nine Secret Service agents in the bunker, that amounted to nine encrypted Motorola radios and nine digital phones. One of each would be kept on and monitored around the clock. Since the batteries on the phones were interchangeable, Warch’s phone was to be used and the batteries from the other phones were to be rotated through.
While one agent monitored the communications, another agent was to stand post by the bunker door and
