Hours earlier, in the predawn darkness, Mcmahon had been attempting to steal some sleep on the couch in his office at the Hoover Building when one of his agents came in to inform him that a federal judge had intervened on behalf of the networks. Now, as Mcmahon looked down at Lafayette Square, the media circus was omnipresent. On the north end of the park, a mere hundred yards from the White House, the three networks and CNN were all broadcasting live from atop elevated platforms, and FOX was scrambling to join the group.
They were all there with their morning shows as if it were a goddamn state fair. Good Morning America, Today, CBS This Morning—all of them.
For the last two hours, Mcmahon had been fighting the urge to pick up the phone and start chewing ass about the judge's ruling. He had instead decided it was a better use of his time and energy to wait until all of the big shots were together.
Mcmahon looked down at his watch. It was 8:34, and they should be arriving any minute.
SHE HAD MADE it through the first twenty-four hours without getting hit.
Anna Rielly felt pretty good, considering what she had been through. Her back was a little stiff from sleeping on the floor or, at least, trying to sleep on the floor.
The terrorists had made sleep next to impossible by waking them at least once an hour from sundown to sunup. And to make matters worse, they also pulled people from the group and beat them in front of everyone.
For the women, there was something else to be afraid of.
Sometime after midnight, a young blond woman had been yanked from the group by the terrorist that had followed Rielly into the bathroom.
Rielly could not say for sure how long the young woman had been gone—the terrorists had taken everyone's watch in an effort to further disorient them-but it seemed to be at least several hours. When the woman finally returned, her clothes were partially torn and she had a look in her eyes… a look Rielly had once seen in her own eyes.
Rielly glanced down at Stone Alexander, who was lying crunched up in a fetal position, his jacket neatly folded under his head for a pillow.
She was grateful that he had stopped crying.
The less attention drawn to them the better.
Brushing a wisp of hair back behind her ear, she looked around the room, careful to keep her head down. Two guards were by the door talking to each other. Rielly knew she wasn't the only one who had to go to the bathroom, but no one dared ask after what had happened the night before.
Folding her legs Indian style, she glanced over her shoulder and then quickly turned her head back. The terrorist, the one with all of the jewelry and slicked-back hair, was staring at her with a cigarette hanging from his mouth—the same man who had plucked the young blonde from the group the night before.
Anna Rielly had been through that nightmare before, and she had sworn to herself that she would rather die than let it happen again. Four years earlier, Rielly had taken the Loop from the TV station in downtown Chicago to her apartment in Lincoln Park. It was late when she stepped off the train.
When she reached the street, two men jumped her from the shadows and dragged her into an alley and raped her. That harrowing event had left her bruised and battered, but her physical wounds were easy to overcome compared to the deeper mental scars. Even these were starting to heal, though, thanks in no small part to Coreen Allen, Rielly's therapist.
Rielly had been going to Allen twice a week for almost four years.
Before the rape she had been a fun-loving, outgoing young woman who very much enjoyed male companionship.
The rape had given her a hard edge and an understandable distrust of men with the help of Allen she had again grown to enjoy the company of men who were interested in her, but the physical boundary still had not been crossed. When she took her new job in Washington, Rielly thought it was the perfect chance for a fresh start.
One of the only benefits of the personal disaster was her hyper awareness Rielly had already had street smarts, but the rape had raised her awareness to an almost paranormal level. It was hard to imagine how her current situation could get any worse, but Rielly sensed that when nightfall came, it would.
IRENE KENNEDY WAS almost run over as she attempted to enter the FBI's command post. Two stocky men in SWAT uniforms came barreling out the doorway. The first almost butted Kennedy in the forehead with the brim of his blue baseball cap, but stopped just shy, grabbing her by the shoulders. He apologized without realizing whom he had almost knocked down, and then recognized Kennedy.
"Oh, Irene, I'm sorry." Sid Slater, aka the Jewish Terror, was still holding her by the shoulders.
"Sid," said Kennedy, also surprised, not used to seeing the commander of the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team in full SWAT gear. Slater had the physique of a bricklayer. Several inches shy of six feet and in his mid-forties, he had a barrel chest and strong, thick hands attached to Popeye-like forearms. Slater wasn't built to run marathons, rather, he was more suited to run through bolted doors.
"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" asked Kennedy.
"I'm trying to get some last-minute intel before they start talking."
Slater pointed with his thumb over his shoulder and shook his head.
"And I sure as hell don't want to be in there when the shit hits the fan."
Kennedy looked into the room.
"What's going on?"
"I don't have time to talk about it; Skip can fill you in. Are you gonna be at the planning meeting this afternoon?"
Kennedy nodded.
"I'll be there."
"Good… We can talk then. I have a lot of questions for you." With that, the Jewish Terror headed off down the hallway.
As Slater and the other man marched away, Kennedy watched them for a second, the bright yellow letters on their backs and their dark SWAT uniforms announcing to all that they were on the front line, that they would be the ones to storm the White House. Kennedy considered all the explosives Aziz had brought along and felt overwhelming dread as Slater moved off.
Kennedy entered the FBI's command post, which was buzzing with the activity of radios, phones, faxes, and people.
She had just left the conference room on the other side of the building where Vice President Baxter was gathered with select members of the cabinet and the intelligence and federal-lawenforcement communities.
From there that group would monitor the conversation between Aziz and the FBI negotiator and make any decisions if needed. At Mcmahon's request, Kennedy was to stay with him in the FBI's command post to offer any insight.
Across the room, by the windows that overlooked the West Wing, Skip Mcmahon was talking to a seated Attorney General Tutwiler and motioning to a group of phones. Kennedy walked across the room and stopped several feet away so as to not interrupt. She listened to what Skip was saying and quickly grew alarmed. Kennedy began to look around the room, and she did not like what she saw, or didn't see. It was getting close to nine, and she did not see anyone who appeared to be the FBI negotiator.
A short while later Mcmahon finished explaining to Tutwiler how the different phones worked and then turned to face Kennedy. With his back to the attorney general he rolled his eyes in frustration.
"Morning, Irene."
"Good morning." Kennedy nodded to Tutwiler and then looked back at Mcmahon.
"Where is your negotiator?"
Before Mcmahon had a chance to answer, Tutwiler said, "I'll be handling the negotiations."
In as passive a tone as Kennedy could muster, she replied, "No offense.
Madam Attorney General, but I don't think that is the most prudent course."
"And why is that?" asked Tutwiler aggressively.
"Because Rafique Aziz will take it as an insult that we have chosen a woman to negotiate with him."
"I am here, Ms. Kennedy, because I am the top-ranking law-enforcement officer in the land. I am here"—Tutwiler stressed the word and pointed at the ground—"to send a clear message to these terrorists that we are extremely serious about this situation."
Kennedy's thoughts drifted back to Mitch Rapp's words at the Pentagon the day before. They gave her the strength to state her opinion a bit more firmly.
"And I am here to advise you as the director of the Cia's Counterterrorism Center, you are making a grave mistake. I respect your accomplishments, Madam Attorney General, but Rafique Aziz will not. He will make you pay for what he will see as a blatant insult to his manhood." Tutwiler defiantly crossed her arms.
"I have encountered chauvinists all my life, and I have found that there is only one way to deal with them… head-on."
"Again, I respect your accomplishments, but you couldn't be more wrong.
You have absolutely no idea who you're dealing with." Seeing that Tutwiler was not going to budge, Kennedy left the room and started down the hallway to explain the new development to Stansfield. Midway down the hall she heard Mcmahon call her name.
A second later Mcmahon pulled up alongside her and placed his hand on her shoulder. "Irene, it's not worth it. I already went all the way to the top. For now, she gets her way."
Kennedy stopped, her cheeks slightly flushed. Murmuring more to herself than Mcmahon she said, "Now I know why Mitch got so mad yesterday."
Mcmahon didn't quite get Kennedy's comment and decided to ignore it.
"The way I figure it, Irene, is that Tutwiler's ass is hangin' out pretty far on this one. After she screws up this morning, she'll be out of our hair." Mcmahon studied Kennedy's tense face, not used to such a reaction from the almost always unflappable protegee of Thomas Stansfield.
"Take a deep breath, Irene; it's not going to do you any good to get upset right now."
Kennedy looked up at Mcmahon and bit down on the bottom corner of her lip.
"I'm usually the one giving you this lecture."
"What can I say; I'm a quick learner." Mcmahon gave her a fake smile and turned Kennedy back toward the command post.
"I need you with me during this call, all right?"
Kennedy nodded and went along reluctantly.
HIS FINGERS TAPPED the shiny surface of the conference table of the White House Situation Room and his eyes stayed transfixed on the computer screen. Rafique Aziz sat in the president's leather chair, rocking slightly. Aziz brought his wrist up and checked the time. The balance of the Swiss bank account hadn't changed in almost half an hour.
Two more minutes and the spectacle would start. Aziz's eyes lifted an inch above the top of the computer screen and looked at the bank of television screens that dominated the far wall.
The three major networks and CNN were all broadcasting live from the other side of Lafayette Park. NEC and CBS were interviewing family members of the hostages; ABC was talking to a psychiatrist who had written a book on hostages identifying with their captors, the so-called Stockholm syndrome; and CNN was talking to a retired FBI agent, whom Aziz thought to be typically smug.
A thin smile creased his lips as Aziz thought about just how predictable these Americans were. The smile widened even further. Aziz put his hands behind his neck and rocked back and forth in the chair. A mailbox icon appeared on the second laptop, and an electronic voice alerted him to an incoming E-mail. Aziz quickly tapped the proper keys, and a second later the message was up on the screen. As Aziz read the message, he moved closer to the screen, reading the first line over and over, unable to get past the shock of it. It couldn't be. How could they have gotten their hands on him? Why now?
The message read, "Fora Harut abducted in early morning commando raid yesterday. Croup suffered heavy casualties. Harut assumed taken alive.
Do not know who conducted operation, but assume either America, Britain, or Israel."
ACROSS THE STREET in the Executive Office Building, Vice President Baxter was holding court in a separate conference room down the hall from the FBI's command post. As always Dallas King was sitting next to Baxter, General Flood was on the vice president's left, and farther down the table FBI Director Roach, Cia Director Stansfield, and Secret Service Director Tracy had taken their seats. The secretaries of state and defense were also present, along with a dozen aides and several Secret Service agents from the vice president's detail. The door was closed, and each occupant stared expectantly at the black speaker placed in the center of the table. After twenty more seconds of silence the black box announced the ringing of the phone in the Situation Room.
AZIZ WAS STILL staring at the message when the phone started to ring. He was furious, outraged that such a thing could happen, and now of all times. His eyes burned a hole in the screen as his mind raced to calculate the potential damage this catastrophe could inflict on his mission. All the while Aziz tried to keep emotion out of it. Fara Harut was his mentor, the man who had wooed him from the classroom to the battlefield, the man who had shown him the evil of the Zionists.
Harut was the reason he was where he was today, and now, he was gone.
The phone continued its irritating noise, and Aziz had to catch himself from answering it—not now, not until he calmed down and put himself in the proper mind-set. There was the plan, and he had to stick with it.
After he had more time to think, he could deal with this calamity.
Laying his hands flat on the table, he forced all of the tension from his body and immersed himself in his role. Finally, after the phone had rung at least a dozen times, he reached out and slowly brought the receiver to his mouth.
"Yes."
"Mr. Aziz," stated a calm and confident female voice, "this is Attorney General Margaret Tutwiler. We are having some problems getting together all of the money. "There was a pause on the line and then, "So far we have managed to transfer—"
"One point three billion dollars." Aziz gave her the sum as he stood abruptly. Anger coursing through every inch of his body. This was too much. He had done his research on the Americans.
He knew who all of the players would be. He knew that with Hayes out of commission the transfer of power would take place, and with Vice President Baxter came an increased role for the already important attorney general. But to insult him in such a way was inconceivable. It was such a blatant affront that there was no way it could be anything other than intentional.
A slightly surprised Tutwiler said, "Yes, one point three billion."
She stammered for a second.
"It's going to take some time to gather all of the money… It would be a big help, as far as expediting the transfer of the remainder of the money, if you could show us a sign of your good faith."
Aziz closed his eyelids tightly, commanding himself to continue forward with the plan. In a pained voice, he asked, "What would you propose?"
"The release of several hostages would go a long way in showing us you are sincere."
This was beyond belief. In a voice that was near breaking, Aziz asked,
"How many would you like me to release—ten, twenty… maybe thirty of them?"
Tutwiler, unsure of how genuine the offer was, tentatively replied, "Um… thirty would be great… and after they are released, we can work on getting more of the money transferred."
Aziz stood looking down the length of the table, staring at everything and nothing at the same time, his instincts sharp, his anger funneling into a direct beam of energy. Plan or no plan, this had moved into the realm of the personal. They were trying to insult him by sending this woman to talk with him. They were testing him to see how far he would go. Was it a trap? He thought not. It was too early for an attack, it was broad daylight, and the media was right across the street. If they wanted to test his resolve, he would show them just how strong and determined it was.
It was all too much. First the news that Fara Harut had been taken, and now this stupid woman insulting him. Finally, unable to hold it in anymore, he yelled, "What did I tell you yesterday? I said all of the money by nine! I didn't say part of it; I said all of it! Don't insult me by talking to me of the difficulty of transferring the money! Your Treasury Department could transfer ten times the money I asked for in one hour if they wanted to! I think it is time to teach you stupid Americans a lesson! Look out your windows, and I will show you what happens when you play your idiotic games with me!"
ANNA RIELLY sat on the floor uncomfortably, her stomach growling. She seriously wondered if she'd be able to make it another hour without wetting her pants. Several of the other hostages had already done so, and the room was beginning to reek of urine. Rielly heard the sound of heavy boots approaching, and then the head terrorist entered the room.
The entire group cowered at the sight of the obviously enraged man.
Aziz walked right up to the edge of the hostages and pointed to a man.
"You! Stand up right now!" Whoever he was yelling at didn't respond fast enough, and Aziz yelled even louder, "Now!"
As the hostage stood, Rielly immediately recognized him.
It was Bill Schwartz, the president's national security adviser.
The terrorist screamed at the woman who was clutching Schwartz's leg and said, "You too! Come!"
The woman also did not move fast enough, and Aziz reached down and grabbed her by her hair, yanking her to her feet like a rag doll. With the help of another terrorist he led them out of the room.
Aziz pushed the two hostages in front of him up the stairs to the first level of the West Wing. Then, before stepping out underneath the small portico on the north side of the building, Aziz pulled a mesh hood down over his face. He took a small remote control from his drab green combat vest and punched in a code, disarming the explosive device that was attached to the door.
Aziz kicked open the double doors and marched outside.
All alone in the morning sunlight, he crossed the narrow driveway and stepped back onto another sidewalk near the edge of the small portico.
Aziz defiantly looked around at the dozens of guns that were trained on him. The long barrels of sniper rifles could be seen bristling from every rooftop in sight. He knew they wouldn't shoot, they couldn't shoot, not in America. That command had to come down through layers of bureaucrats, and it was far too early for that. Aziz raised his AK-74 in the air and unleashed a loud eight-round burst. Defiantly, he cradled his weapon across his chest and stood his ground, showing the Americans that he was not afraid. After he had made his presence felt, he marched back into the building and looked at his watch. He had decided he would give the media thirty seconds to get their cameras focused on the entrance.
Aziz was following his script precisely, with one exception.
The rage. It had been his plan from the start to kill the national security adviser. But now, he decided to deviate slightly from his plan and allow himself some personal satisfaction in retaliation for Harut.
In an almost spastic flurry, Aziz wheeled and slapped Schwartz across the face.
His face within inches of Schwartz he yelled, "How does it feel to be terrified, you dog?" The national security advisers eyes welled up with tears, and the woman standing next to him began to sob. Schwartz wrapped his arms around his secretary. He knew what was happening, he knew it was the end, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Aziz continued to scream and taunt him with questions.
"How many times have you ordered the death of my Arab brothers? How many times?" Aziz's eyes were maniacal with rage. Schwartz gave no answer, and Aziz slapped him again; then, grabbing him by the collar. Aziz forced the national security adviser toward the door with his secretary's arms still wrapped tightly around her boss's waist. As they reached the door, Aziz placed his boot on the woman's butt and shoved.
Schwartz and the woman tumbled out into the light and fell to the pavement. Aziz stood in the doorway and yelled through his mesh hood for them to get up. The woman was crying harder now, and Schwartz's tears were flowing freely down his cheeks. The presidential adviser stood and pulled his secretary to her feet. Aziz screamed at them to start walking, and after several seconds they began to do so, though slowly.
Standing in the doorway, Aziz watched the two hostages walk toward the north gate. When they reached the halfway point, when they were within clear view of the news cameras, Aziz raised his rifle and took aim.
"Stop!" he yelled. When the presidents national security adviser turned to look over his shoulder, Aziz had Schwartz's face in the center of his sights. He squeezed the trigger once, the powerful rifle bucked, and he brought it right back to level, the woman's head now framed in the cold black sights. A quick squeeze of the trigger and the second body was tumbling to the pavement just behind the first. As the woman came to rest on top of Schwartz, Aziz zeroed in and unloaded another dozen rounds. The loud clacking of the Kalashnikov rifle reverberated across the pristine north grounds of the White House.
When Aziz was satisfied, he closed the door, the smoking muzzle of his AK-74 hanging at his side. Before starting back for the basement, he rearmed the booby-trapped doorway and then started down the hall, his eyes full of hate, his breaths deep, and his pace quick When he reached the staircase, he ran down the steps, through the hallway, and into the empty Situation Room. Grabbing the phone, he yelled, "Are you still there?"
SKIP MCMAHON HELD the phone to his ear and looked down at the two bodies lying in the driveway. The man he recognized.
He then turned to Marge Tutwiler, who sat motionless at the table, staring out the window. Mcmahon then looked at Irene Kennedy, who sadly shook her head.
"I'm here," answered Mcmahon.
"Who is this?" shouted Aziz.
"Special Agent Skip Mcmahon of the FBI."
"Good! Don't ever insult me by putting that woman on the phone again. My demands are unchanged! I will kill one hostage every hour until all of the money is placed in the account I have given you! When you do that, I will release one-third of the hostages! One hostage every hour! Am I understood?"
"I understand you very clearly, but one hour might be pushing it" Now was the time to shift gears.
"Listen to me, Mcmahon."
Aziz now spoke calmly, in an almost professional tone.
"I know your rules of engagement. I just killed two hostages, so now you must send in your Hostage Rescue Team." Aziz stopped and then added in a grave tone, "That will be a big mistake, and I will tell you why. If you attempt such a stunt, I will blow this great building of yours to kingdom come and all of the hostages with it. My men and I will gladly become martyrs for our cause, and you know it. "Aziz paused for a moment. "It does not need to come to that, however. The only reason I killed those two hostages was because of the stupidity of your attorney general. If you and I play by the rules, no one needs to die. You hand over all of the money in one hour, and I release a third of the hostages. It is as simple as that. Have I made myself clear?"
"Yes."
"Good. From now on, Mcmahon, I talk to you and only you. Now I will await the rest of the money." Aziz calmly placed the phone back in its cradle. He knew exactly how to play them. THE VICE PRESIDENT and the others sat in silence around the conference table. There was a knock on the door followed by a slight pause. Then the door opened cautiously and Mcmahon and Irene Kennedy entered. The men sitting around the table were sullen. FBI Director Roach looked up and asked, "Who did they kill?"
Irene Kennedy answered. "We don't know who the woman was, but the man was Bill Schwartz."
Every person in the room lowered his or her head. They had all worked with Schwartz at one time or another, and he was well liked. After a long period of silence. Vice President Baxter asked" If we give him the money, will he release a third of the hostages?"
The question was greeted with shrugs and uncertainty by all of the men sitting at the table. Eventually all eyes turned to Kennedy. She was the expert. Slowly, she nodded her head and then said, "I think he will keep his word."
The vice president took in the analysis with pursed lips. It was what he wanted to hear. Dallas King leaned over and cupped his hand over his boss's ear. Whispering, he said, "If he starts killing a hostage every hour, we are in some serious trouble.