enabled us to alert the Secret Service to a potential attack just minutes before the actual attack took place. That source has also provided us with information pertaining to the demands Mr. Aziz will put forth and the men and equipment he brought with him.”
Mcmahon looked up at Stansfield, who had worked his way back to his seat.
“That’s how you knew about all of the plastique explosives?”
“Yes.”
“What about the demands?”
“That I am willing to share with you, but”-Stansfield again glanced over at Dallas King-“it is extremely confidential information that is not to be passed on to anyone.” Looking back to Mcmahon and Roach, he added, “I trust both of you, so I assume you will keep this confidential.”
Both of the FBI men nodded, and Stansfield said, “Aziz’s next demand will be to ask that the UN vote to lift all economic sanctions against Iraq. He is going to make a slight concession, in an effort to sound reasonable, and state that all san cons regarding weapons of mass destruction may remain in place.”
“The UN,” started Mcmahon, “can they move that fast?”
“If we want them to, they will,” answered General Flood.
“There is one last demand.” Stansfield stopped and looked around the room, wanting to hedge his bet just a touch.
“But unfortunately we are still trying to find out what it is.”
Mcmahon looked at Stansfield. In all the years that he had been working for the FBI, he had never come across an individual as cool and analytical as Thomas Stansfield-on either his side of the law or the other. The man was impossible to read. Mcmahon turned away from Stansfield and looked immediately to his right to see if he could get anything from Kennedy. He studied her face for even the slightest clue to whether Stansfield was being forthright about the family jewels or if he was still holding out. She stared back at him blankly, just like her boss, giving nothing away.
After several seconds of silence, Mcmahon looked across the table at Vice President Baxter and Dallas King. Before entering this meeting, Kennedy had told him that Baxter had authorized the insertion of the SEALS, but just minutes ago, General Flood had taken the blame for the whole mess. Either Kennedy was lying or General Flood was covering for the vice president. Mcmahon decided to play along until he could get Kennedy alone, and then, he would get to the bottom of the whole thing.
Dallas King took his forefinger and as nonchalantly as possible wiped the bead of sweat that had formed on his upper lip.
He felt as if he were standing in downtown Phoenix at high noon in the middle of July. Every time someone looked at him, he wondered if they knew. Since seeing the photo of his beer-drinking buddy on CNN this morning. King had been an absolute basket case. At first he tried to convince himself that it wasn’t the same man. The guy that he drank beers with was named Mike, and he was a student. Mike didn’t wear his hair slicked back like the man on the news. King tried to convince himself that it wasn’t the same person, but it was futile. As he recollected his relationship with the mysterious Mike, there were too many strange coincidences. For several weeks straight he had run into Mike everywhere he went. Mike had conveniently known all about the Stanford basketball team. King’s alma mater.
King closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he remembered the evening they took the late- night tour of the White House. King remembered how Mike had claimed he had an uncle who used to work for the Secret Service under Kennedy. He convinced King to show him the Treasury tunnel, saying that it was originally designed as a bunker during World War II. Mike told King that during the Kennedy administration, the staffers used to sneak women down into bunk rooms off the tunnel and have sex.
And that’s exactly what they had done that night. President Hayes was out of town, and King had no problem gaining access for his newfound friend and a couple of hot young ladies. King couldn’t believe how unlucky he was. Of the hundreds of people who worked at the White House, this crazy terrorist had to pick him. Squeezing his nose even tighter, he said to himself. How could you have fucked up so bad? The pressure was unbelievable. He needed time to think, time to maneuver.
MITCH RAPP WOKE up to the sound of Milt Adams snoring and a brown ponytail in his face. His left arm was pinned under Rielly’s neck, and his right arm was draped across her chest. Rapp lifted his head up and tried to retrieve his right arm. This only spurred Rielly to clutch his arm tighter.
How they had ended up sleeping in this embrace might have seemed a little strange, but the stash room was not particularly spacious. After the debacle earlier in the evening, Rapp had stayed on the radio with Langley until almost four A.M. At that time the FBI was screaming to find out what was going on, and the entire operation was put in a holding pattern.
Kennedy had ordered Rapp to get some sleep, and they would call him with orders in the morning.
Rapp, in turn, had let Langley know how he felt, telling them that if they had allowed him to act when he wanted to, Aziz and the other two terrorists would be dead and one Navy SEAL would still be alive. It was no surprise to Rapp that Langley signed off without responding to his statement. Rapp then forced himself to bring it back down. He had done enough clandestine insertions to know that when you are given the opportunity to grab a couple of hours of sleep, you should take it. Rapp found comfort knowing that the next time he came across Aziz, he would shoot first and ask questions later. There would be no more checking in with Langley for the green light.
Rielly had surprised Rapp by taking his arms and wrapping them around her as they lay down to go to sleep. As he drifted off, Rielly had kissed Rapp’s hand and whispered something he didn’t quite catch. He was more than a little surprised by the warm feeling the little kiss had given him.
Now, craning his neck away from Rielly, Rapp looked at the secure field radio that was sitting between him and Adams. The overhead light was still on, and he could see just enough of the control panel to know that the radio was still on. Rapp had absolutely no idea how long he had been sleeping. He didn’t want to wake Rielly but saw no other choice. Taking his left hand he reached up from under Rielly’s neck and pried her hands loose. His digital watch told him it was 7:41 a.m. He’d had at least two hours, maybe two and a half. Rapp figured that was more than enough for now. This was hardly the time or the place to be sleeping in. If Langley wasn’t going to call him, he would have to call them and get things moving.
RAFIQUE AZIZ WAS showered, shaved, and back in the expensive suit he had worn for his historic visit to the White House. All of his men were still at their posts except one. That man was standing behind a television camera in the White House pressroom. The morning sun spilled in from the windows running along the side of the narrow room. Aziz stood behind the familiar podium at the front of the room and checked his watch. It was nearing eight. Behind him, mounted on a blue curtain, was the White House logo.
Aziz watched his man move from the camera to a control panel at the rear of the room. The man looked up from his position and yelled, “I started the two-minute countdown. All of the networks should be receiving the feed.”
Aziz grinned, taking satisfaction that he was about to put into play another part of his ingenious plan. He was going to go over the heads of the military and the FBI once again. Like everything else, this had been planned. He was about to appeal to the American people and thus the politicians only new touch was that he would be able to incorporate the repelling of the early morning raid into his speech. That had got him excited. It had been very close. The hostages and the building were wired to blow, and Aziz had no doubt that any attempt by the Americans to free the hostages would result in a blood bath.
That was a price he was willing to pay. He did not want it to come to that, in the interest of self- preservation, but if it did, he wouldn’t hesitate for a second to annihilate everybody, including himself. The speech that he was about to give would serve to make sure that a raid by the FBI would never happen. Aziz had followed American polices closely and watched how the leaders handled conflicts, especially those with his new benefactor.
Aziz had admiringly watched Saddam Hussein mimic the actions and rhetoric of Adolf Hitler. Just like Hitler in the days prior to World War II, Saddam knew how to push, pound, cajole, lie, cheat, and basically do whatever he
