The White House
ANNA RIELLY POKED her head into her new basement office. The windowless room was smaller than the kitchen of her not very roomy one-bedroom apartment back in Lincoln Park. There were three desks against three of the walk and barely enough room for all of the chairs in the middle. A handsome man in his early forties, whom Rielly recognized from TV, stood to greet her.
"You must be Anna Rielly." The man extended his hand.
"I'm Stone Alexander, ABC's White House correspondent.
We've been expecting you."
Rielly shook his hand and looked dejectedly at her new office.
Alexander read the disappointment on her face and said, "It's not quite what you expected, is it?"
"No. I mean I didn't expect the Taj Mahal, but this is ridiculous."
"Don't worry. Look at the fringe benefits." Alexander grinned and held his arms out.
Rielly eyed his sculpted hair, handsome face, and waxed eyebrows.
"And what would those be?"
Alexander smiled, showing a perfect set of bleached white teeth.
"You get to work with me."
"Really?" said Rielly.
"Yeah, really."
Alexander placed his hand on her shoulder and turned her out into the hall. "I was just on my way to get some coffee before you got here.
Let's go get a couple of cups, and I'll show you around and introduce you to everyone." As they walked toward the White House mess, Alexander continued his small talk.
"So, how long have you been in town?"
"Just got in yesterday."
"Has anyone shown you around yet?"
"No. I haven't even unpacked."
Alexander put his hand on her back and ushered her into the mess first.
Rielly noticed that he let his hand linger on her back for an inappropriate amount of time. She looked around the cafeteria and was once again shocked by how small it was.
There were probably twenty people sitting at the rectangular tables drinking coffee, eating, talking, and reading various newspapers.
"So are you married?" asked Alexander.
Rielly hesitated for a second and figured lying would do no good.
"No."
Alexander grinned with optimism.
"Maybe I could show you around tonight. I know a great new restaurant in Adams Morgan."
"Thanks, but I have a lot of unpacking to do."
"A person has to eat," he said persistently.
Rielly realized Mr. Hormone would need to be dealt with a little more firmly and said, "Thanks, but I have a rule about dating reporters."
"And what would that be?" asked Alexander, his smile still plastered across his face.
"I don't," Rielly said as she continued to look around the room.
"And why is that?"
Rielly turned around and, with a sarcastic grin, replied, "I don't trust them." Alexander laughed.
"Are there any other rules I need to know about?"
"Yeah. I don't like to date men who are prettier than I am."
"THIS IS THE Roosevelt Room. It is called that because of the two portraits that hang on its walls." Piper stepped into the room and motioned to the two paintings. Aziz strained to remain calm as Piper stopped at every painting, statue, and room on the way to the Oval Office. Acting his part as a West Wing tour guide, Piper babbled on about the history of the building, and Aziz nodded politely.
"You'll notice that the portrait of Franklin Delano Roosevelt hangs above the fireplace mantel and the portrait of Teddy Roosevelt hangs over here to our right. It has become a tradition at the White House that whenever the sitting president is a Republican, Teddy's portrait hangs over the fireplace, and when a Democrat is in office, the portraits are switched and FDR's portrait hangs in the position of honor." Piper folded his hands in front of his robust midsection and smiled at the rendering of his party's icon.
While Aziz feigned interest in the artwork and historical rooms, he had marked and counted the exact position of every Secret Service officer and agent they had passed. It all seemed so easy as he casually walked among them. He was a welcomed and honored guest in a place he did not belong. All of the fences, high-tech security, and heavily armed Secret Service agents were there to stop him, and not a single one of them had the slightest clue that within their midst walked their greatest fear.
Piper rubbed a hand along the long shiny surface of the Roosevelt Room's conference table.
"A lot of our guests get this room confused with the Cabinet Room. That, however, is across the hall and on our way to the pressroom. I'll show you those when we're done meeting with the president." Piper walked to the fireplace and stopped. "I almost forgot." Gesturing to a small bronze sculpture on the mantel, he said, "This is something we are very proud of. Our previous First Lady, also a Democrat I might add"—Piper beamed with pride—"had this bust of Eleanor Roosevelt added to the room. She felt that the room was too much of a boys' club and felt that a woman needed to be added to the mix."
Aziz looked at the small statue and said, "In my country such an idea would be ludicrous." He turned and walked to the open doorway to his right. As he looked across the hall, Aziz felt both a wave of elation and tension rising up from within.
He knew from studying the floor plans of the White House that the door in front of him was one of four doors that led to the Oval Office. It was open, and from where he was standing, he could clearly see the rich blue carpet and furniture arranged in front of the fireplace. He was so close.
Standing next to the door was a very large and serious looking Secret Service agent. The agent's sandy brown hair was cut short around his ears, and his neck bulged underneath his white shirt and de. Aziz did a quick inventory as his eyes met the agent's and slid downward. Before turning back to Piper, Aziz noted that the agent was left-handed. The bulge on the agent's left hip was caused by his Secret Service standard issue SIG-Sauer handgun.
Piper joined Aziz in the doorway and said, "Are you ready to meet the president?"
Aziz nodded and willed himself forward at Pipers side, his legs feeling rubbery as the adrenaline began to pump through his veins. Aziz stepped into the hallway, and for a split second he wondered if it could be a trap, if they might know who he really was. But before he could worry any further, they were at the door, and Piper was knocking on the frame.
Piper stepped into the executive office first, and Aziz followed. The chairman of the DNC stopped abruptly just inside the room and looked at the president, who was on the phone.
President Hayes placed a hand over the mouthpiece and said, "Take a seat. I'll be with you in a minute."
Aziz stood teetering on the balls of his feet, caught in complete indecision. He swallowed once to try to quench his quickly drying throat and then looked to Piper, who was whispering something to him. Slowly, Aziz took his focus off the president.
Piper motioned to one of the couches by the fireplace and in a hushed voice said, "Let's have a seat over here. He'll be with us in a minute."
Aziz followed Piper to the couch and calculated his chances of rushing the president. The door they had just come through was still open, and he knew that there were agents posted outside two of the room's other three doors. Aziz had also guessed that the president had security measures in and around his desk. With only a small composite knife as a weapon, he couldn't risk alerting the agents posted outside the office until the president was within reach. But he was so close.
Aziz calculated that he could cover the twenty feet to the desk in two seconds at the most. It would take the agents almost that long to draw their weapons. Think fast, he told himself as a film of sweat began to form on his skin.
Piper plopped down on the couch and patted the seat next to him. Aziz nodded and stepped past Piper. It was time to sit or move. Aziz looked across the room at the president, who had just swiveled in his chair and turned his back to them. Hayes was looking out the window while he talked on the phone; his head was all that could be seen above the back of his black leather chair. In that split second Aziz decided to move.
He checked the underside of his belt to make sure the knife was there and then brought his left hand up toward his chest. Aziz looked down at the watch and selected the correct button that would send out the signal to the men waiting in the truck. He was about to make history, about to strike a blow for all of Islam. Piper said something from behind him, but aziz did not hear the words. His attention was elsewhere.
Slowly, he brought his other hand up to the watch. Aziz brought his gaze down to his wrist to make sure he pressed the right button. His heart was pumping so fast he felt his temples begin to throb. A layer of sweat on his skin glistened, and his hands were clammy. So moist were his palms that he stopped short of pressing the button and decided to wipe the sweat from his palms one last time. He ran his opened hands up and down the thighs of his pants twice, reminding himself while he did it how difficult it was to hold the small knife. When his palms were as dry as he could get them, he brought the watch back up and went to press the button.
His right index finger poised over the button, Aziz sensed movement and stopped everything. He looked up. From the door to the right of the president's desk, a woman in a bright yellow blouse came walking quickly forward. She continued around the nearest side chair to where the president was sitting and deposited a stack of papers on his desk.
Aziz exhaled a deep breath, his body trembling in a release of energy as he did so. Piper said something again, and Aziz turned around to face him.
"Sit down, Prince Kalib."
Aziz looked back toward the president and the woman, and then sat. A bead of nervous sweat ran down his forehead, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.
"Are you feeling all right?" asked Piper. '"You look a little warm."
Aziz turned and smiled.
"It is a little warm in here, but nothing compared to my country."
"That's a good point."
Slowly, Aziz began to regain his composure. He reminded himself of how far he had come, and of how close he was to obtaining everything he had struggled for. He needed the president to come to him. He needed to be patient. Aziz had waited this long; another minute would be nothing.
When the president went to shake his hand, it would begin.
SECRET SERVICE AGENT Warch walked into the president's secretary's office, which was sandwiched in between the Cabinet Room and the Oval Office.
"Sally, I need to see him ASAP" Sally Burke finished writing something and looked up, smiling.
"Good morning. Jack." The president's secretary could tell by the tone ofwarch's voice that he was in a hurry, but he could take a number with all of the other people who daily streamed into her office in an attempt to get some face time with America's highest elected official.
"He's in with someone right now. It'll probably be twenty minutes to a half an hour."
Warch shook his head. "It can't wait that long. I have to see him right away."
Burke had had many dealings with Warch over the last five months, but she had never seen him look quite so concerned.
"I don't know what you want me to do' Jack He's meeting with a foreign dignitary. We can hardly go bursting in."
"He's meeting with what?" asked an angered Warch.
"I didn't see anything on his schedule."
Burke sat up a little straighter, somewhat surprised by the agent's tone.
"It was a last-minute change."
"Who is he meeting with?"
"russ Piper and ah—" Burke looked down at her desk.
"Prince Kalib."
Warch's forehead creased.
"I don't remember seeing a Prince Kalib on the WHAVS list." WHAVS, pronounced "waves," stood for White House Access Visitor System. The uniformed division used the system to screen guests for any criminal and/or mental history that could be threatening to the president.
Burke looked up sheepishly. "I don't know what to say. The DNC added him to the list late last night."
"Goddamnit," cursed Warch through clenched teeth.
"How many times do I have to tell you people that no one gets in to see him unless we've done a complete check?" Warch backed away from the desk and thought about his options. If he barged in on a meeting with a foreign dignitary and everything turned out to be a false alarm, Hayes would have his ass.
Warch looked back to the president's secretary.
"Where is Prince Kalib from?"
"Oman, I think." Burke nervously checked her planner.
Warch was acting very out of character.
"Yes, he's from Oman."
Warch's suspicion doubled at the mention of the tiny Persian Gulf state.
In a quick clipped voice, warch asked, "Has he ever been to the White House before?"
"No." Burke shook her head.
"Not that I know of."
Warch had to decide, and he had to decide fast. His mind quickly scrolled through a list of possibilities, and all the while his conversation with Irene Kennedy loomed larger and larger. Warch paced back and forth in front of Burkes desk, and then finally his instincts kicked in. He turned for the door that Special Agent Ellen Morton was standing next to, and his left hand snapped up to his mouth. He was about to make the best or the worst decision of his career. Into the hand mike, the special agent in charge of the president's detail barked out the command, "Warch to detail. Harden up on the Oval Office!"
PRESIDENT HAYES FINISHED writing a note to himself and said, "It was good talking to you. Harry. I appreciate your help on this. Thanks."
Hayes hung up the phone and stood.
From the back of his chair, he grabbed his suit coat and put it on. The president tugged at each sleeve once and then buttoned the top button of the dark coat. Smiling, he stepped out from behind his desk, and with Valerie Jones at his side, he said, "Prince Kalib, it is an honor to finally meet you."
Rafique Aziz rose from the couch and smiled his first honest smile all morning. Subtly, he crossed his hands in front of his waist, letting his right hand fall on the wrist of his left. Aziz felt for the button, not wanting to take his eyes off the president.
He had practiced it so many times and dreamt about it thousands of times more. This was how he had always thought it would be. The so-American gesture of shaking hands. It was the perfect opportunity to strike. He had been right to wait for the president to come to him. Aziz's smile broadened even further as his index finger circled the face of the watch once, searching for the proper button. He found it and pressed it twice.
Then his hand moved casually to his belt, a feeling of ecstasy washing over him as his hostage approached.
The Treasury Building IN THE CAB of the White Knight Linen truck Abu Hasan felt the vibration on his hip and tossed his clipboard onto the floor of the cab. While his left hand jerked open the driver's door, his right grabbed a small bundle. Hasan leapt from the cab in his green pants and white shirt. As he hit the concrete pavement of the parking garage floor, he heard a roar erupt from the cargo area of the truck as the forklift and ATVS were fired up. Hasan sprinted for the plain gray door and dropped to one knee, placing the small canvas bundle on the ground in front of him. He opened it and threw the thick sheets of cotton to the side, grabbed the preformed piece of plastique explosive, and attached it to the door. Hasan smacked the gray clay like material with the side of his fist twice to make sure it was secured and then stuck a blasting cap into the explosive material. Grabbing the reel of yellow Primacord, he ran along the same wall for twenty feet and hunched down. Hasan pressed the detonator, and a split second later there was a short, loud bang.
The tailgate of the truck flew open immediately, and two men jumped to the ground. On the right-hand side, against the wall of the truck's cargo area, the ramp lay on its side. The men yanked it from the vehicle and secured it just as Bengazi moved the forklift to the edge. The heavy machine teetered forward until the majority of its weight was on the ramp. Then Bengazi released the brake and let the machine carry itself to the concrete floor. As soon as all four wheels were on solid ground, Bengazi stepped on the gas and roared for the blown-away door. The two men with the RPGS ran alongside and jumped onto the side steps.
Hasan yanked open the remnants of the Marilyn Monroe door. A cloud of cordite filled the air, and Bengazi and his men pulled their gas masks all the way down. The forklift lurched forward, the two men carrying the RPGS clinging to the sides, as Bengazi gunned the powerful engine. The heavy yellow machine thundered into the concrete tunnel as the agile ATVS raced down the ramp one by one, their knobby rubber tires squealing as they turned hard for the tunnel.
The Washington Hotel ON THE TOP floor of the Washington Hotel, in the cluttered janitor's closet, Salim Rusan was waiting patiently. Laid out before him on a clean white towel was a Russian-made SVD sniper rifle. The SVD fired a powerful 7.62-mmx54 rimmed cartridge and could achieve accurate kills at ranges of up to a thousand yards in the right hands. Rusan did not plan to use even a quarter of the rifle's range. On top of the long rifle, almost fifty inches from shoulder butt to muzzle, was a PSO 1x4 scope. A ten-round magazine was inserted in the rifle, and a second magazine was in Rusan's pocket. That was all the ammunition Aziz had allowed him to take. Aziz had been adamant that Rusan was to stay for no longer than two minutes and then leave the hotel. There were other things that he would be needed for later.
The pager began its vibration, announcing that after almost a year of planning it was time for action. Rusan reached down and turned the pager off with one hand while grabbing the light nine-pound rifle with the other. He burst from the closet into the empty hallway and walked quickly for the rooftop's patio doors. Rusan counted to himself slowly to help keep his heart rate low, a trick his Soviet trainers had taught him while he had stalked the burned-out buildings of Beirut as a teenager.
With his sniper's rifle clutched in one hand, he opened the door to the patio and dropped to his stomach. Quickly, he crawled the thirty feet to the edge and stuck the long black barrel through the railing. Hugging the rifle tightly against his shoulder and cheek, he looked through the scope and acquired the large South Portico of the White House. From there, Rusan followed the edge of the building to the Oval Office and prepared to fire. When he reached the door that was just outside the president's office, he found nothing.
Rusan searched the patio quickly and again found nothing. Not having time to waste, he moved on to his secondary target. The scope quickly found not one, but four Secret Service agents standing near the guard booth on the roof of the White House. Rusan picked the agent on the far left, centered the crosshairs on the man's head, and squeezed the trigger.
The White House
THERE ARE VERY few things, short of a gunshot, that can get a Secret Service agent's heart beating faster than the phrase "Harden up." Those two little words, heard so often during training exercises, are rarely uttered while on duty at the White House. Just outside the main door to the Oval Office, the two agents standing post drew their weapons without hesitation.
The shorter of the two also pulled out a set of keys and opened the door to a seemingly benign wooden credenza. A second later a third agent appeared from around the corner with a gun clutched in both hands. The agent who had opened the credenza quickly extracted three Uzi submachine guns, passing one to each of the other two agents and keeping the third for himself. The entire process took less than five seconds.
One floor below, in Horsepower, the details command post, the agent sitting at the security console rose and walked quickly across the room.
He bolted the door shut and returned to his seat without speaking. Two more agents, at the far end of the room, unlocked a metal cabinet, revealing a cache of weapons. Each man took an MP-5 submachine gun. They both chambered a round and walked to the room's other door, which led to a hidden staircase to the Oval Office. Upstairs Jack Warch entered the Oval Office with his suit coat open and thrown back over his right hip.
His right hand was wrapped around the grip of his still holstered weapon.
Warch quickly approached the president's side, not taking his eyes off the dark-featured man standing by the fireplace.
"Excuse me for the intrusion, Mr. President, but I need to talk to you for a second." The president stopped in his tracks, alarmed by the forceful entrance. He looked to Warch and then his chief of staff.
There was a moment of uncertainty. As Warch eyed the president's visitor, he couldn't quite discern the intent of the well-dressed man he was staring down. Then he saw it, something in the other mans eyes.
Gripping his gun tighter, he pulled it up a half an inch out of the smooth leather holster.
The president was saying something, but Warch wasn't listening.
He was waiting for one more sign that this man standing in the Oval Office was not who he said he was.
Back downstairs in Horsepower, the young agent sitting at the security console looked intently at the array of surveillance monitors before him. His eyes searched for anything that could be even remotely construed as a threat. Midway through his sweep, his focus was broken by the beeping of his computer. The agent's eyes snapped from the monitors to his computer screen to find four capitalized words flashing.
Grabbing the arm of his headset the agent blurted out the words,
"HORSEPOWER TO DETAIL! WE HAVE A SECURITY BREACH IN THE TREASURY TUNNEL!
I REPEAT, WE HAVE A SECURITY BREACH IN THE TREASURY TUNNEL!"
Up in the Oval Office the stream of words blared into Warch's right ear like Klaxons. His gun was out of his holster and aimed at the president's guest in a split second. His left hand snapped to his lips, and he barked into his hand mike, "WARCH TO DETAIL. HARDEN UP ON WOODY IMMEDIATELY!"
Three of the four doors to the Oval Office burst open instantly, and four agents rushed to surround the president, their weapons drawn and ready. As the wall of agents closed around the commander in chief, the next sign of danger came blaring over their earpieces.
"AGENTS DOWN! AGENTS DOWN! HERCULES IS UNDER FIRE!"
With his SIG-Sauer aimed at Aziz's forehead, Warch screamed, "EVAC, EVAC!"
Ellen Morton was standing directly behind the president when the evacuation order was given, and in a tribute to her training, she didn't waste a second. Morton reached up and grabbed President Hayes by the back of his shirt collar and yanked him to the left. Two more agents rushed through the main door with their guns drawn and joined the crowd that was moving toward the president's private study. Morton kicked a chair out of the group's way as they moved in unison.
The president's chief of staff was caught up in the wave of bodies and was rushed out of the room with them. Jack Warch stood his ground and covered the evacuation, his eyes still locked in a stare with Aziz.
The Treasury Tunnel THE HEAVY FORKLIFT screamed down the smooth concrete tunnel, gaining speed as it went. The two men riding on the sides wrapped their inside arms around the cage and aimed their armor-piercing shells at the door in their path. Both men sighted in on the hinges and fired. There was a loud swooshing noise marked by a white trail of smoke as the warheads raced forward in unison and then slammed into the steel door. The ensuing explosion was deafening as debris, smoke, and fire erupted back down the throat of the narrow passageway.
Bengazi closed his eyes and kept the accelerator to the floor.
The forklift maintained its speed, passing through the bright showering debris and then into total darkness. There was a moment of silence, and then a foundation-cracking collision as the forklift thudded into the steel door, knocking it off its twisted hinges and lurching to a stop inside the basement of the White House.
The collision had jolted Bengazi forward, knocking his foot from the gas pedal and sending his two men flying from the vehicle. His ears were ringing from the explosion, and he couldn't see past the cage of the forklift due to the thick smoke and dust. By the time he had righted himself in the seat, his two men were back at his side and climbing back onto the vehicle. Bengazi pressed the gas pedal to the floor, the engine roared, and the forklift lurched forward.
The heavy machine continued through the thick smoke, finding its way down the main hallway of the White House's first basement. Without warning, the butted front end of the forklift slammed into what Bengazi knew to be the first set of double doors. The center bar and two doors peeled away from the frame as if they were tin. On the other side of the double doors, there was no smoke. Bengazi's men immediately opened up with their AK-74s on full automatic as three uniformed Secret Service officers, rushing to head off the security breach in the Treasury tunnel, were caught in the open. The bullets cut them to the ground instantly, and what little life may have been left in them was squeezed away as the forklift rolled over them.