The problem, however, lay in the fact that Rapp knew the hunt was destroying him. He was increasingly losing touch with that segment of society that was labeled normal. His friends from college were all married and having children, and for him there wasn’t the hope of either on the horizon. He knew that to have a normal life he would have to finish what he had set out to do. He could not have a family and continue to work for the CIA. The two would not mix.
Rapp thought back to how nice his life had been just ten years earlier and to the weird twist of fate that had led him to this point in life, to this dreary military base in Germany. “No one ever said life would be easy,” his father used to say. Rapp laughed at the thought of his father telling him to “Suck it up,” as he had done countless times throughout Rapp’s youth. It had gotten to the point where Rapp’s father would say the three short words with a smile on his face. The short phrase had grown from words of criticism into words of encouragement.
The roar of a jet sounded in the distance, and Rapp stepped away from the plane to search it out. Looking down the long runway, he saw a lone F-16 racing in the opposite direction, its single engine on afterburner, glowing bright orange. The agile jet lifted into the air, above the mirage of dancing runway heat and instantly retracted its landing gear. As the plane climbed, Rapp watched it gain speed. He followed it for a minute or more until it was a speck in the expansive gray morning sky. A second jet pulled onto the runway and screamed into the air, chasing after the first.
Rapp gazed at the second jet and knew he was a possessed man. He would pursue Rafique Aziz wherever he went, even if it led to his own destruction. The trick would be to catch Aziz before he himself reached the point of no return, and Rapp could sense that point nearing, hovering just over the horizon.
Rapp watched the airman detach the fuel hose and climb into the truck. As the tanker pulled away from the Learjet, the plane’s twin engines began turning. Rapp took one last look at the dreary scenery and climbed into the jet. As he pulled the door up and secured it, he smiled and whispered to himself his father’s words of encouragement.
6
Washington, D.C., 8:05 A.M.
THE TAN, WELL-KEPT man was shown into the oak-paneled office of the chairman of the Democratic National Committee. The rotund and jovial Russ Piper stood from behind his desk and walked over to greet his wealthy visitor. Extending his hand, Piper said, “Prince Kalib, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Rafique Aziz extended his hand with the proper amount of aloofness and took Piper’s hand in a light grip.
“How was your flight?” asked Piper.
Aziz looked around the room, gazing at the framed photos hanging on the paneled walls. “Fine.” Aziz planned to keep conversation to a minimum. The real Prince Kalib was a recluse, and the characteristic fit his needs perfectly.
“I understand you’re en route to the Mayo Clinic to visit your father.”
“That is correct.” Aziz nodded.
“How is the sultan doing?”
“He is fine.” Aziz extracted a gold cigarette case from his jacket pocket. “The doctors at the Mayo Clinic are the best in the world.” Aziz lit the cigarette with a matching gold lighter, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and walked over to the window.
Piper watched his guest light up with his mouth slightly agape, words of admonishment ready to spill forth. The chairman almost informed his royal guest that smoking was not allowed in the building, but after a brief moment he thought better of it. Piper ran his hand down his tie and checked to make sure it was straight. “Yes, we’ve treated many of our own presidents there,” added Piper, getting back to the conversation.
Aziz continued to look out the window at the large rotunda of the Capitol. Then turning slowly, he said, “I assume you had no difficulty in arranging our meeting?”
“No difficulty whatsoever,” Piper said proudly. “The president and I are very close.”
“Good.” While holding his cigarette with one hand, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a long blue check. “As per your instructions, I had this written to your party through one of my American corporations.”
Piper grabbed the check with both hands and looked at the allimportant box on the right side. The chairman of the Democratic National Committee smiled at the large number. “This is greatly appreciated, Your Highness.”
Aziz nodded benevolently.
“I can promise you that I will do everything within my power to help your country obtain the proper defensive weapons that you seek.”
“Kingdom,” corrected Aziz.
“Yes, kingdom.” Piper nervously rubbed his hands together. “My apologies.” Looking at his watch, he said, “Well, we should probably get going. I have a limousine waiting downstairs to take us to the White House. We don’t want to be late to see the president.”
“No, we don’t.” Aziz grinned. “I’ve been looking forward to this day for a long time.”
The White House
PRESIDENT HAYES SAT behind his desk in the Oval Office. His suit coat was draped over the back of his high-backed leather chair, and in front of him was a photocopy of his daily schedule. The schedule was typed, but his nine A.M. meeting had been crossed out and his chief of staff had written something in the margin. The president squinted at the handwriting and tried to make out the small cursive letters. Hayes picked up the paper and decided it wasn’t his eyes that needed help; it was his chief of staff ’s handwriting.
Without knocking, Valerie Jones entered the Oval Office through the main hallway. She had a stack of folders under her left arm and a leather day-timer in her right hand. “Good morning, Robert.” Jones continued across the room and set the folders on the left side of the president’s desk.
Hayes held up the schedule for her to see. “What’s this you wrote here in the margin?”
Without having to look, Jones said, “Last-minute change. Prince Kalib from Oman is on his way through town to see his father at the Mayo Clinic.”
Hayes tapped his capped Waterman pen against his cheek while frowning. “And?”
“And . . .” Jones put her hands on her hips and smiled. “You don’t want to know. Just take my word for it. It’ll be a worthwhile meeting.”
President Hayes nodded slowly. Leaning back in his chair, he studied Jones’s outfit for a split second. She was wearing a yellow silk blouse that was almost dark enough to pass for gold. Hayes thought the bright blouse combined with the black skirt and scarf made her look like a bumblebee. Having a wife and two grown daughters of his own, he was smart enough to keep this opinion to himself. “What else do you have for me?”
“The First Lady left Andrews about fifteen minutes ago and will be on the ground in Columbus just before ten. Which reminds me . . .” Jones stepped to her left and placed both hands on the surface of the desk. “I still think you should go to Columbus. You can fly out tomorrow afternoon and make the party with no trouble at all.” The president’s fifth grandchild and his namesake, Robert Xavier Hayes, was celebrating his first birthday tomorrow.
Hayes shook his head. “I’m going to see little Robert in two weeks, and I’ll celebrate his birthday then.”
“I think you should go tomorrow,” persisted the chief of staff.
“I’m not going. It costs a lot of money to fly everybody over there just for the evening.”
“Fine.” At the insistence of the First Lady, Jones had given it one more try. The chief of staff grabbed one of the folders she had brought and opened it. “I need your signature on about thirty documents. Some of them you’ll want to glance over, and others you can just sign.”
With a sigh Hayes began working his way through the stack of papers.
Washington, D.C.
THE WHITE KNIGHT linen truck pulled up to the cobblestone entrance of the underground parking garage at the Treasury Building. A uniformed Secret Service agent stepped out from his guard booth and smiled at the driver saying, “How are ya, Vinney?”
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p; “Good, Tony.” The driver stepped down from the cab. “You staying awake this morning?”
“Just barely.” The officer handed him a clipboard and asked, “Did you watch the game last night?”
“Of course. I hate those stinking Yankees. I think I hate the Yankees more than the Red Sox.” Abu Hasan took the clipboard and signed his fake name, Vinney Vitelli. Hasan had been working for the White Knight Linen Service for almost eight months. White Knight was in the middle of its four-year contract with the Treasury Department. Getting a job with the company had been easy, and passing the FBI background check had proved even easier. The only hard part was getting rid of the previous driver. The old driver had come down with an incapacitating case of food poisoning the day after he had dined with Hasan about five months ago. Hasan had conveniently stepped in and covered the man’s route until he was better. Two weeks after that, when the man was killed in an attempted robbery near his apartment, Hasan was right there to step in and take over the dead man’s route.
Hasan handed the clipboard back to the Secret Service officer. “I have two extra tickets to the Indians-Orioles game on Saturday if you want them.”
The officer grabbed the clipboard. “That would be great. My kid would love it.”
Hasan smiled. “Good.” He had worked hard to get to know as many of the uniformed officers as he could. It was crucial to the mission. If they couldn’t get the truck into the garage without being inspected, the entire plan would fail. “Are you working tomorrow afternoon?” asked Hasan as he turned to go back to the truck.
“Yep.”
“Good, I’ll bring them by.”
“Thanks, Vinney. I appreciate it.” The guard tugged on the brim of his cap.
Hasan climbed back up into the cab and released the emergency brake. As the heavy steel gates opened, the terrorist looked to his left at the fence that separated the White House from the Treasury Department. He grinned and bit down hard on his tongue, fighting back the urge to smile as he looked beyond the gate at the most famous house in the world. Hasan put the truck in gear, drove through the gate and down the ramp.
Washington, D.C.
THE TAXICAB CONTINUED south down Pennsylvania Avenue and crossed the intersection at Seventeenth Street. The driver pulled in between two large, circular concrete planters, turned to the left, and stopped. Only a block away from the White House, the road ahead was closed to all motor traffic. Anna Rielly sat in the backseat and looked out at the barricades the Secret Service had constructed in the wake of the Oklahoma City bombing. A row of concrete planters extended from each curb and stopped, leaving just enough room for a guard booth and a huge steel barricade with the word “STOP” emblazoned in white against a red background. The steel barricade was hydraulic and could be lowered to allow authorized vehicles to proceed to the next checkpoint.
Rielly paid the driver and got out of the backseat. She had a large black bag over one shoulder and a smaller purse over the other. While she adjusted the large bag, she looked up at the gothic-looking Executive Office Building and frowned. Rielly tried to decide if she liked the building or not. She studied the ominous structure and brushed her shoulderlength dark brown hair back behind both ears. It was beautiful in its craftsmanship but seemed out of place among the rest of Washington’s architecture.
The young reporter was wearing pleated black dress pants and a matching jacket that were offset by a white silk blouse. Wanting to savor every moment of this achievement, she took in the whole scene. Her skin was aglow in the early morning sunlight, and Rielly beamed with pride as she approached the guard booth. “Hello, I’m the new White House correspondent for . . .”
The uniformed Secret Service officer behind the bulletproof glass pressed a button on his panel and said, “Ma’am, I only check motor traffic at this gate. You may proceed down another block to the northwest gate, where they can check you in to the White House.”
Rielly thanked the guard and walked in between two of the planters. As she continued down the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue, she noticed the Blair House on her left, the president’s unofficial residence when he could not stay at the White House because of construction or some other problem. Rielly continued walking, taking it all in. At the next block she stopped at another guard booth, identical to the first. Anna Rielly proudly presented her credentials to the man behind the blue-hued bulletproof glass. She had finally made it to the big leagues after serving as a reporter and weekend anchor for the NBC affiliate in Chicago for the last five years. NBC had picked her to be their new White House correspondent.
Rielly looked around while she waited for the guard to run her through his computer. On the other side of the fence she could see all of the tripods and equipment that the networks left on the White House lawn for their live shots. Some were sitting under tarps, and others were just laid out and covered with morning dew. Rielly couldn’t begin to count how many times she had imagined herself standing in that exact spot giving the nation the inside story on what had just happened at the White House. Since her first journalism class at the University of Michigan twelve years earlier, she had dreamed of this day, covering the White House, the center of politics—important issues that affected world events. No more boring chitchat about the weather, fronts coming off of Lake Michigan. Sports, weather, and murders were ninety-nine percent of the broadcast in Chicago. Rielly smiled briefly as she thought of her life there. She would miss her brothers and parents dearly, but flights to Chicago were cheap and frequent.
The uniformed Secret Service officer looked at Rielly through the glass and asked, “First day on the job?”
Rielly smiled, showing a set of dimples. “Yep.”
The agent placed her ID and a badge in the metal trough under the glass and slid them to her. Through the speaker, he said, “Please wear this badge at all times while in the compound. You may proceed down the street here”—the guard pointed—“to that white awning on the left. They’ll tell you where to go from there.”
Rielly thanked the man, and she was buzzed through the first gate and then a second. She continued down West Executive Drive to the awning. As she stepped onto the curb, a limousine pulled up. Its back door opened, and she heard a familiar voice call her name. Rielly turned and saw Russ Piper, the former mayor of Chicago, struggling to get out of the backseat of the limo.
Piper had one hand on the door and the other on the doorframe. The majority of his weight was in his belly, so he had to draw himself to the very edge of the seat before he had the leverage to stand.
Rielly, somewhat surprised, said, “Russ.” She stepped forward and met Piper’s hug.
Piper squeezed her tight and then stepped away, still holding her by the shoulders. “Dorothy just told me last night you were coming to town, but I had no idea it would be this fast.”
Rielly’s face twisted. “I didn’t even know I was coming until two days ago. How did your wife find out so fast?”
“My guess would be that your mother told her, which of course means half of Chicago knows by now that you’re the new White House correspondent for NBC.” Piper gave her a big hug again. “Congratulations, Anna. I know how hard you’ve worked for this, and I think it’s just fantastic.” He kissed her on the forehead. Rielly’s mother was very active in Chicago Democratic politics, and her parents had been close friends with the Pipers for as long as she could remember.
Piper released her again and with a frown asked, “When were you planning on calling us?”
“I just got in last night.”
“Where are you staying?” Piper’s brow furrowed. “I hope you’re not staying at a hotel. Dorothy will be really upset if you don’t stay with us.”
Anna tilted her head. “Russ, I’m not on spring break.” She looked away from Piper as a second man stepped from the limo. She noted that he was probably a foreigner, and one with a lot of money, judging by the clothes he was wearing.
Piper followed Rielly’s gaze to his guest and said, “Oh, I’
m sorry. Prince Kalib, I would like you to meet a very good friend of mine, Ms. Anna Rielly.”
Aziz looked at the stunning woman before him and was immediately drawn to her green eyes. Extending his hand, he took hers and bent forward, kissing the back of Rielly’s soft hand. Standing straight, he said, “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Rielly retracted her hand, feeling somewhat uncomfortable with the forward gesture. “Likewise.”
“Anna is the new White House correspondent for NBC.”
“Congratulations.” Aziz canted his chin, and while doing so, noted the two guards by the door.
“Thank you.”
Piper looked at his watch. “Anna, the president is squeezing us in, so I don’t want to be late. Do you have plans for dinner?”
“Ah . . .” Rielly shook her head while she thought about it. “No.” “Good. Call Dorothy and tell her we’re on.”
Rielly smiled. “I’ll call right away.”
“Good, we’ll see you tonight.”
Piper and Aziz walked under the awning and through the double doors that led to the ground floor of the West Wing. A uniformed Secret Service officer who was sitting behind a desk watched a monitor as they passed through the door. The monitor was connected to an X-ray machine and a metal detector that were built into the wood-framed doorway.
The officer rose to his feet. “Good morning, Chairman Piper.”
“Good morning, Dick. I have one guest, and I’ll vouch for him personally.”
The officer checked his list and saw that Piper’s office had called late the previous evening and scheduled a meeting with the president. “Is this Prince Kalib?”
“Yes,” replied Piper.
The agent handed Aziz a visitor’s badge and said, “Please wear this at all times while in the building, and when you’re done with your meeting, return to this desk and turn it in before leaving.”