I don't care how much it costs, or what they do with the money, if we can free a third of the hostages, I say we do it."
Baxter nodded as King eased away and back into his seat.
King was right. They were boxed in, and there were only two ways out. As far as Baxter was concerned, one of them wasn't even an option. The vice president looked at FBI Director Roach and said, "Brian, would you start the wheels in motion for transferring the rest of the money into the account? It is my decision that we will wait until he releases one third of the hostages, and then we will proceed from there. Any questions?"
Baxter looked around the room and everyone shook their heads. Baxter then looked back to the head of the FBI. "Let me know if you run into any problems, and make sure it's done within the hour. We don't need to see any more hostages gunned down."
Roach nodded, and he and Mcmahon left the room.
The aged director of central intelligence sat in his chair and observed.
He hadn't had a lot efface time with the vice president prior to the crisis and was still trying to get a good read on him. Baxter seemed to despise the fact that he had been put in this situation. That worried Thomas Stansfield. Great leaders rose to the occasion. They almost thrived when confronted with a crisis. This man seemed to shrink from it.
Turning in his chair, Stansfield got back to the business at hand.
"Mr. Vice President, we need to make some contingency plans."
Baxter nodded.
"I know… I know, but let's just take it one step at a time. Let's get some of the hostages released, and then we'll deal with the next demand."
"I'm afraid we don't have that luxury, sir." Stansfield paused.
"What if his next demand is untenable?" Stansfield had decided to wait until he had a full report from Dr. Hornig before he briefed the vice president on what they knew from Harut.
"I really don't want to think about that right now."
General Flood leaned forward, miffed at Baxters reply.
"We have no choice but to think about it. We have to be ready to move if this thing gets out of control." Baxter squirmed. All eyes in the room were on him, and he desperately wanted to avoid making a decision. Why would he have to be the butcher? Finally, reluctantly, he let out the difficult words, though they didn't exactly ring with confidence.
"Get everything in place, and if the time comes, I'll be ready to give the order" The large warrior turned to Stansfield, and the two men exchanged knowing glances. Baxter did not have what it would take. He was in over his head and would blow in the wind until the last possible second.
The vice president placed his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes.
Without looking up, he said, "Let's take a break and meet back here in thirty minutes. I need some time alone… to think."
Everyone, with the exception of King, rose and started for the door.
Baxter looked at his chief of staff and said, "You too, Dallas. Go check on Marge, and see how she's doing." King nodded and left with the others.
IT HAD BEEN an absolute bear to get from Langley to Capitol Hill.
Traffic was horrendous due to the street closures and the large crowds around the White House. Rapp turned his black Volvo from Second Street on to Pennsylvania Avenue and gunned it to get around a cabbie who was driving like he had his head shoved up his ass. The farther Rapp traveled away from the Capitol, the worse the neighborhood got. The mix of homes went from nicely restored to run-down and dilapidated eyesores.
Several blocks later, Rapp took a left and found the home he had been looking for, an immaculate turn-of-the century Victorian with fresh paint and ornate woodwork. The home was sandwiched in between two rotting houses of similar architecture that were in dire need of repair.
Rapp parked his car in front of the nice Victorian and looked at his dashboard clock: 9:16. Events at the White House would be under way. He reached for his digital phone, but decided against it. Irene would have enough going on. She didn't need a call from him, and besides, he wasn't in the mood for bad news. Rapp got out of the car, his holstered Beretta bulging underneath the right armpit of his suit coat. He pulled his sunglasses down a notch on his nose and started up the sidewalk.
Standing on the porch was Milt Adams, all five feet five inches of him.
His head was shaved and his dark black skin glistened in the sunlight. Despite his slight stature, he gave one the impression of a much larger individual.
As Rapp reached the steps, a rather large German shepherd was coming down from the porch straight for him. Rapp tensed at his natural urge to pull out his gun and shoot the dog.
He hated dogs—strike that—he didn't hate dogs per se just the guard-dog variety. They were an occupational hazard that he was none too fond of. Knowing that to show fear was suicidal, Rapp stood as stiff as a board with his hands at his sides. Sure enough, the dog came right up and stuck its snout in his crotch, Rapp's immediate reaction was to take a step back, but it did no good, the dog simply followed, sniffing loudly.
From the porch, Milt Adams shouted in a deep drill instructor voice,
"Rufus heel! "The dog immediately wheeled and headed up the steps, heeding the command and taking up a post at his owner's side. Adams reached down and scratched the dog under the neck.
"Good boy, Rufus. Good boy."
Rapp stared up at Adams, awed that such a deep, booming voice had just come from such a little body. Adams could not have weighed more than one hundred fifty pounds, and the voice Rapp had just heard could have given James Earl Jones, Isaac Hayes, and Barry White all a run for their money.
"Are you Mr. Kruse?" asked Adams. "Yes." Rapp walked up the first two steps and stuck out his hand.
"You must be Milt Adams."
"That's correct. It's nice to meet you."
"Likewise."
Adams motioned for Rapp.
"Follow me, I've got everything set up inside."
The two men walked into the house, the dog following at Rapp's side.
Adams continued straight ahead, down a long hallway to the rear of the house and the kitchen. The hardwood floors had been recently redone with a shiny coat of polyurethane, and the kitchen floor was tiled in a classic black-and-white checkerboard pattern. The trim was all restored to its natural wood finish with a light stain.
Adams opened a glass-paned cupboard and grabbed two mugs.
"You look like the black type."
"That'd be great." The German shepherd parked his butt right next to Rapp and leaned his head against Rapp's thigh.
The proximity of the canine made Rapp increasingly uncomfortable.
Adams finished pouring the coffee and turned around. He took one look at Rapp's stiff posture and said, "You don't like dogs." It was more a statement than a question.
"Ah… not really."
Adams handed him a cup.
"What's the problem? You been bit before?"
"Several times." Rapp winced as he thought of one time in particular.
Adams surveyed his guest; the longer hair and facial scar made him begin to wonder if this man really worked for the Secret Service.
"Don't worry," Adams offered.
"As long as you don't hurt me, Rufus won't hurt you." The owner of the house started across the room.
"Let's go down to the basement. That's where I have everything." Rapp watched Adams cross the kitchen and followed. The damn dog would not leave his side. Rapp was impressed with Adams, who hustled down the steep steps like a man half his age.
When Rapp reached the basement, he stopped and looked around the large room. It was a retired man's wet dream. The floor was painted a spotless gray and looked clean enough to eat off. Tools of every kind hung from brown pegboard along one wall, and each spot was labeled to ensure optimal organization. Along the far wall, six metal storage cabinets were lined up, each of them again labeled with a laminated catalog of the items within. Two drafting tables and a computer dominated the wall to the right. In the center of the room several white sheets covered something roughly the size of a pool table.
Cocking his head sideways, Rapp tried to sneak a peek under the sheets, but couldn't see anything.
The wiry Adams stopped at the drafting table on the left and turned on a bright overhead lamp. He motioned down at the three-by-four-foot blueprint on the table.
"This is an overview of the White House and its grounds. Director Tracy tells me you're interested in finding a way to get into the mansion unnoticed." Rapp nodded. Adams looked up questioningly, as if studying Rapp. After a moment, he said, "Something tells me you're not Secret Service, Mr. Kruse."
"Please call me Mitch, and no, I don't work for the Secret Service."
"Okay, Mitch, who do you work for?"
"I'm an analyst for the CIA."
A wry smile creased Adams's lips. In his deep voice he replied, "Analyst my ass." Rolling up his left sleeve, Adams revealed a thick wormlike scar that sliced from his elbow almost down to his wrist. Holding it up for Rapp to see, he said, "Got this on Iwojima… bayoneted by some crazy Jap."
Adams pointed to Rapp's face. "You've got a nice thin scar there. Can't even see it unless you're looking at you from the side. You've had some nice plastic surgery done on it, but my guess is it used to be a big ugly thing like this one here on my arm." Adams studied him again.
"You didn't get it from analyzing satellite imagery, did you?"
Rapp played it cool, asking, "How'd you know I had plastic surgery?"
"My oldest daughter is a doctor over at GW I can see the work of a talented surgeon, so let's cut the shit. What do you really do for Langley?"
Rapp looked at Adams deliberately. He liked his cut-to-the heart-of-the-matter style and decided the old man was a little too wily to play games with. So Rapp decided to give it to him as straight as he could.
"I can't get into the details, but I'm more than a paper pusher."
"Is Kruse your real name?"
Rapp shook his head.
Adams eyed him suspiciously and then shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, I'll have to trust Director Tracy. If he says I should give you the information, I'll give it to you." Adams turned his attention back to the blueprint and ran his finger over it, tracing a line.
"There is one way to get into the White House below ground Adams flipped up the first blueprint and revealed another one.
"It's the most well-known… the tunnel that comes over from the Treasury Building." Adams stabbed his finger on the right side of the blueprint and drew a line showing Rapp where the tunnel was.
"This is the tunnel that the terrorists used."
"That's it?" asked Rapp, surprised.
"There's only one tunnel?"
Adams nodded. "There's only one tunnel. All the BS Hollywood puts out has most people thinking there's a dozen secret tunnels heading in every different direction." Adams shook his head.
"Not true."
Disappointed, Rapp said, "So there's no other way in below ground."
"I didn't say that." Adams held up a finger and smiled. He then stepped over to the other drafting table.
"During the Reagan administration the Army Corps of Engineers installed a new heating, ventilation, and cooling system. This HVAC they installed was really impressive stuff… very high tech. Besides providing all of the basic heating and cooling requirements, the system is designed to keep the air pressure inside the White House higher than the air pressure outside."
"Why?" asked Rapp.
"Maintaining a higher internal pressure ensures that all air flow, either through open doors, windows, or cracks, will always flow out instead of in. This way if anyone tries to introduce a biological or chemical weapon into the building's environment, they couldn't do it by simply releasing the toxin upwind from the building. They would have to get inside the building and release it, and even if they did, the system is equipped with alarms and 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.