Hornig looked down at her notes. "I apologize for the lack of summaries and transcripts, but I was working on Mr. Harut right up until I left for this meeting."
"No explanation needed, Dr. Hornig," stated Stansfield.
"To start with"—Hornig grabbed a piece of paper—"I have the names of the other ten terrorists who are with Mr. Aziz at the White House. It was very difficult to get this information out of him." Hornig handed Stansfield the sheet.
The DCI looked at the yellow piece of paper for no more than five seconds and then handed the sheet to Irene Kennedy, who studied it with Mitch Rapp looking over her shoulder.
Stansfield gave them about ten seconds and asked, "Irene?"
Kennedy looked up and brushed a strand of brown hair back behind her ear.
"This will be a big help. Off the top of my head, I know about half of them. I can run the rest through our data banks, and any of the ones that we don't get a profile on, we can ask Mi-Six or Mossad."
"Good. I want full traces and profiles prepared on each and every one of them as soon as possible." Stansfield turned back to Hornig.
"Now, what do we know about the demands?" Hornig looked down at her notes and flipped through several pages.
"Mr. Harut knew in detail about the first demand, involving the return of the frozen assets to Iran. We can infer, since Mitch took him before those demands were made public, that he has intimate knowledge of what Mr. Aziz is going to ask for—up to a point, that is."
Rapp ignored the first part of Hornig's comment—the part involving the rookie detective work—and asked, "What does 'up to a point' mean?"
"I'll get to that in a minute," replied Homig.
"His second demand involves the lifting of all UN sanctions against Iraq."
Homig looked at her audience to gauge any reaction, and then continued.
"The third demand involves the U.S. recognizing a free and sovereign Palestinian state." With a furrowed brow, Rapp asked, "Where?"
Hornig cleared her throat and said, "The West Bank and the Gaza Strip."
Rapp set his coffee down.
"The Israelis are going to shit their pants."
"I would concur." Stansfield looked to Hornig.
"What else?"
"There's one more demand… one final demand, but Mr. Harut doesn't know what it is."
Rapp tilted his head skeptically.
"Come again?"
"I really don't think he knows," replied Hornig a touch defensively. "I spent almost two full hours delving into this specific subject. I pushed as hard as I felt I could."
"Maybe you need to push harder," stated Rapp.
Hornig leaned back slightly and folded her arms.
"I plan on it. Just as soon as Mr. Harut gets some rest."
"As soon as you both get some rest," interjected Stansfield.
"I don't want you burned out. Dr. Hornig." Hornig was slightly frustrated by all of the unsolicited advice. She didn't tell them how to do their jobs, and she'd appreciate it if they would return the courtesy.
Stansfield, oblivious to Hornig's issues, turned his attention to Kennedy.
"Any thoughts on what the final demand might be?"
Kennedy stared off into space for a moment and then said, "A few, but I'd like to do a little research before I come to any conclusions."
Looking at one of his most trusted advisers, Stansfield thought of pressing for more information and then decided it was better to let Kennedy develop her theories in time. With some of his people he had to engage them in a game of mental gymnastics to get the best out of them; with Kennedy she was best left alone. Stansfield turned his chair back toward Hornig, who was once again shuffling through her notes.
"What else do you have for us. Dr. Hornig?"
Hornig began reading down a long list of information that would be sifted through by Agency analysts for months, possibly years, to come.
Rapp listened intently, gathering more and more insight into how Aziz had put his master plan together.
Hornig covered the selection of the men Aziz had brought and where they were trained. She discussed how several of them were sent to America almost a year earlier to start their cover and avoid drawing the attention of the FBI or the Secret Service.
She even provided the name of the South American clinic and doctor who had given Aziz his new face. Rapp made a mental note to talk to Kennedy and Stansfield about paying the plastic surgeon a little visit at a later date. The man would live as long as he agreed to cooperate and inform for the Agency. A plastic surgeon who kept company with men like Rafique Aziz could be a very valuable informant, if Aziz hadn't already killed him. Hornig was providing a bevy of facts that on their own held no great significance, but as they were pieced together, they would hopefully provide a very valuable map of aziz's final intent. Hornig shared her information for almost a full thirty minutes. Rapp and Kennedy took notes while Stansfield sat back and listened. As the clock neared eight, Hornig moved on to something she had discovered just before leaving the safe house.
"Early this morning, Mr. Harut kept mentioning a certain name. He was slipping in and out of consciousness and was often incoherent. Despite this state of mind he kept repeating the word "Nebuchadnezzar."
"As if on cue, Stansfield, Kennedy, and Rapp all leaned forward.
Hornig, looking surprised by the unified reaction, asked, "You all know what, or I should say, who Nebuchadnezzar was?"
"Was and is," answered Kennedy.
"Nebuchadnezzar was the king of Babylonia from 605 to 562 b.c. His great claim to fame in the Arab world is that he destroyed Jerusalem in 586 and then enslaved the Israelites. Saddam Hussein fancies himself the second coming of Nebuchadnezzar. He feels that it is his destiny to unite all of the Arab people and destroy Israel."
"He doesn't really believe it," added Rapp with a frown.
"He just uses it as a PR ploy to get all of the religious zealots whipped into a frenzy."
"And it works," added Kennedy while leaning forward.
"Tell me more about the context in which he mentioned the word."
"I was asking him about the financing for the operation.
And again he kept mumbling this word. I looked it up and found out who the historical Nebuchadnezzar was. I had no idea he could have been referring to Saddam Hussein."
"Where was Matt Shipley when all of this was being said?" Shipley was one of the two hundred plus employees who worked for the Counterterrorism Center. His specialty was Arabic languages, and Kennedy had sent him out to the safe house the previous evening to help with the interrogation of Harut. Kennedy didn't show it, but she was irritated that Shipley had missed such an obvious reference.
"I had sent everyone to bed around five this morning. We been working nonstop since the previous afternoon." Hornig shrugged her shoulders.
"We needed to give the subject some rest, and I needed to get my notes organized for this meeting.
This oversight was not Mr. Shipley's fault."
Kennedy accepted the explanation.
"How did you stumble across this reference if Harut was asleep?"
"I was in the room with him, organizing my notes. Someone has to keep an eye on his vitals, so I was sitting near him when he began to mumble about Nebuchadnezzar. It is not at all unusual for my subjects to continue to talk while they are sleeping."
"Was this recorded?" asked Kennedy.
"Of course the recording equipment is always running."
"Good." Kennedy jotted herself a note to call Shipley and tell him to review the tapes immediately.
"What," began Stansfield, "was the general context of his ramblings about Nebuchadnezzar?"
"Money—he kept talking about Nebuchadnezzar and money."
Kennedy finished her note.
"This corroborates what we heard from our other sources—that Saddam was funneling money into Hezbollah and Hamas." Looking at his watch, Stansfield said, "Dr. Hornig, do you have anything else for us?"
"No, but I should have more for you this afternoon."
Stansfield looked at Rapp and Kennedy.
"Any other questions?"
"Yeah," said Rapp.
"How does Aziz plan on getting out of here when it's all over?"
Hornig blinked her eyes as an expression of embarrassment spread across her face. "Ah… I haven't got around to that yet."
Rapp looked at her harshly.
"You might want to move that one up to the top of your list."
"Yes." Hornig jotted herself a note.
Stansfield again looked to Rapp and Kennedy.
"Anything else? "They both shook their heads, and then Stansfield looked to the other side of the table.
"Nice work so far. Dr. Hornig.
Now, if you'll excuse us, I need to discuss a few things with Irene and Mitch."
Hornig gathered her papers and stood. After she'd placed her notes in a tan canvas shopping bag, she left the room.
Rapp noticed the canvas bag and, after the door was closed, said, "I hope you have somebody baby-sitting her."
"I do. "The director nodded.
"But we might want to bring it up a notch." Stansfield looked to Kennedy.
"Irene, I think we need to get some more bodies out there to keep a close eye on things. Around the clock. I want someone from CTC in that room with Harut every second of the day. And I want them awake."
Kennedy shook her head and said, "I apologize. I already made a note to take care of it."
"Now, Mitch." Stansfield turned his focus back to Rapp.
"Irene and I are heading downtown. Considering how the meeting went at the Pentagon yesterday, I think it would be best if you did not join us."
Rapp had expected this, and in truth, he really didn't want to be there to see his predictions come true. There were times when there was no joy in being right, and this would be one of them.
"What would you like me to do?" Retrieving a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, Stansfield unfolded it and slid it across the table.
"That is the address and phone number of miltadams the man we discussed with Director Tracy last night. He is expecting your call."
"How do you want me to handle it?"
Stansfield's eyes narrowed while he thought about the question. After several seconds, he said, "Go ahead and use your cover, and tell him you're with Langley. Mr. Adams is a very patriotic individual. We can trust him, but there's no need to tell him anything more than he needs to know."
Stansfield got up, and Kennedy and Rapp followed. As they walked back into the director's office, Stansfield said, "Mitch, it's impossible to overstate how important this is. If you find a way in. General Flood and I will do everything we can to make it happen. Just make sure you give it to me straight. I want realistic odds on whether or not it can be done. Am I understood?"
Hiding his excitement, Rapp replied with a simple, "Yes, sir."
RAFIQUE AZIZ LOOKED at the computer screen to his left and smiled. They are so predictable, he thought to himself.
The laptop computer to his left was hooked up to one of the Situation Room's secure modems. He was staring at the account balance of the Swiss bank that would receive the money before it was to be safely transferred to Iran. The account was at a little over a billion dollars and holding.
With about forty-five minutes to go, he doubted that they would transfer the remainder of the money.
The second laptop, to his right, was for a special purpose.
Every time Aziz looked at it he beamed with pride. It had been a stroke of genius. Aziz had no doubt that the Americans would come. If he got his hands on the president, his chances might improve, but in the meantime the second laptop was his failsafe.
Studying American counterterrorism tactics, he understood that above all they loved their technology. They would try to jam his ability to remotely detonate the bombs, and in the process they would start a countdown to destruction.
Each of the twenty-four bombs he had brought contained a digital pager that acted as both a receiver and a detonator.
Hooked up to the laptop was a digital phone. Every two minutes the computer would dial the group paging number for all twenty-four bombs and then send a five-digit number. If that code wasn't received every two minutes, the pagers would go into a sixty-second countdown mode. If the countdown reached zero, the bombs were ignited. Aziz also carried a pager and a digital phone as a backup measure. If the pager beeped and the countdown was started, it meant only one of two things. Either the Americans were attacking or the computer had malfunctioned. If the computer malfunctioned, he could abort the countdown with his own phone.
If that didn't work, it meant the Americans were coming.
THE CRITICAL INCIDENT Response Group's crisis management unit had set up their command post on the fourth floor of the Executive Office Building in a conference room that overlooked the West Wing of the White House.
The large wood conference table had been pushed against the inner wall and was covered with a half dozen phones, two radio-charger trays, and several laptops. The rest of the room's furniture had been removed with the exception of about half of the chairs.
Against the two side walls, portable tables had been set up and were cluttered with more laptops, phones, televisions, and fax machines. Many of the phones had masking tape on the handsets and were labeled with black felt-tipped marker. Almost half of the phones were dedicated to the FBI's Strategic Information Operations Center, or SIOCTHE SIOC, which fell under the purview of the Bureaus criminal investigative division, was charged with handling almost all of the Bureau's high-profile cases. Maps of the White House compound and blueprints of the inner structure were pasted to the walls, and men and women in blue FBI polo shirts were busy pecking away at computers and talking into phones. Two negotiators who were fluent in Arabic were on-site and ready to man the phones for as long as the siege lasted.
Special Agent Skip Mcmahon stood at the window and glared at the spectacle taking place in Lafayette Square, across the street from the White House. He was fuming; actually pissed was the word he had been using repeatedly since around five A.M. Within hours of the terrorist attack on the White House the media had moved in and set up shop smack dab in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue. They began broadcasting their live reports from right in front of the White House's north fence. When Mcmahon had arrived on the scene, one of his first orders was to have the media moved back, way back.