Aziz took the badge, and Piper said, “Thanks, Dick,” as he and the prince started down the hallway.
As Aziz clipped the badge to his lapel, he noticed his hands felt almost weightless. His whole body felt light. He was finally going through the real steps of something that he had played over and over in his mind countless times. This was it, and it all seemed so easy. As they continued down the hallway, Aziz reached down and pressed a button on his watch once. After doing so, he glanced over his shoulder and looked at the guards by the door.
Washington, D.C.
ONE BLOCK EAST of the White House a slight man in a white jacket and black pants was vacuuming the hallway on the top floor of the Washington Hotel. The man paused for a moment and looked out the French doors that led to the rooftop patio. Across the street he could see the roof of the Treasury Department and then just beyond that the White House. From this elevated position he could clearly see the guard standing watch on the roof of the Executive Mansion, less than two hundred yards away. The guard was wearing blue coveralls and a matching baseball cap. A pair of binoculars were slung around his neck, and from time to time he used them to scan different areas. On the far side of the roof was a small white guard booth.
Salim Rusan had looked out these doors five days a week for almost three months and watched the movements of the Secret Service. The guard on the roof would be easy to take care of. The young Palestinian shifted his eyes to the far end of the South Lawn, where the Rose Garden ran up to the edge of the Colonnade, just outside the Oval Office. A Secret Service agent was on post, not one of the uniformed officers. That meant the president was in the West Wing, where he was supposed to be. The agent by the Oval Office would be first, and the guard on the roof would be second. That had been Aziz’s decision. Aziz had decided everything. Every last detail.
The pager on the young Palestinian’s hip vibrated, and he jerked at the awkward feeling. Aziz was inside the White House. It was going to happen. Rusan started for the closet at the end of the hallway, licking his lips and noting the tightening sensation in his chest. It was time to get ready.
7
30,000 feet, Eastern Atlantic Ocean
THEY WERE AIRBORNE and sailing smoothly westward through clear skies. Rapp looked out the window at a blanket of cottony clouds that seemed to stretch forever. The young Virginian never tired of looking at the sight beneath him. It was always different; every cloud always had its own distinct pattern. Rapp had taken up flying a half decade earlier. It had not been his idea, but part of his continued training with Langley. He quickly found that nothing could clear his mind and relieve stress like flying. He would be asleep in minutes.
As Rapp settled into the comfortable chair, he heard a muffled scream from the rear of the plane. It was followed by what sounded like three long grunts. Rapp looked back at the small door to the bedroom and then leaned one ear against the bulkhead and covered the other with his hand. It did no good. He could still hear Harut’s screams of pain.
Rapp stood and began to pace up and down the short isle. A feeling of restlessness gnawed at him. Near the forward bulkhead he found the previous week’s issue of Newsweek and started flipping through the advertisement-laden front section until he found the Periscope page. As he scanned the columns, he sat on the couch where Harut had been tied during their journey from Saudi Arabia. There were more strange noises from the bedroom, and Rapp tried to drown them out by focusing on the magazine. He moved on to the comics and then flipped to the last page, hoping to find a column by George Will. Instead, it was Meg Greenfield’s week. Rapp read the first two paragraphs and lost interest. He began flipping through the magazine in reverse, reading various articles that grabbed his attention.
Suddenly the door to the bedroom opened, and Dr. Hornig appeared with a panicked look on her face. “Mitch, you’d better get in here!”
Washington, D.C., 8:58 A.M.
THE WHITE KNIGHT linen truck eased its way down the long cobblestone ramp and into the parking garage of the Treasury Building. The truck turned to the right and pulled into the loading area. Abu Hasan put the truck in park and let it idle. He looked out the front window and then checked the side mirrors. No one was in sight, but he knew from his previous visits that three security cameras monitored this area of the garage. Hasan fumbled with his clipboard and tried to look busy until the signal was given.
Hasan looked in his rearview mirror at a nondescript gray metal door. The door marked the entrance of the Treasury tunnel, which led into the basement of the White House. Hasan had learned on his late-night visit to the White House that the door was referred to as the Marilyn Monroe door. The name derived from a certain president that used it to sneak women in and out of the Executive Mansion.
Hasan had handled his part of the mission brilliantly. Besides getting a job at the linen company, he had befriended someone that worked inside the White House. Hasan had moved into the man’s neighborhood. He had followed the administration official closely, bumping into him at the grocery store, the athletic club, and the corner bar. Hasan had found out the man was a college basketball nut, so he became one. When the NCAA Final Four Tournament came around, Hasan was right there on the barstool, next to the man, cheering on the official’s alma mater to a sweet sixteen appearance. After that they started hitting the nightspots on a regular basis, working as a team trying to pick up women. Then one night several months ago Hasan convinced the man that a little late-night tour of the White House might be the best way to seal the deal with a couple of attractive women they had been working. Hasan had timed it perfectly. He knew the president was out of town and security would be lax. The White House official had run with the idea, and the rest was easy.
In the back of the truck the air had grown musty and warm. Bengazi and his men were already sweating through their fatigues. Two men sat astride each of the three ATVs, none of them daring to move other than to wipe the rivulets of sweat that ran down their faces. All nine of them were dressed in dark green fatigues and tactical assault vests. Each man carried an AKSU-74 with eight high-capacity magazines and a half dozen hand grenades. The AKSU was the shortened version of the AK-74, Kalashnikov’s replacement for the venerable AK-47.
The thickly bearded Bengazi sat atop the forklift and checked his watch. He looked around the cramped confines of the cargo area and decided it was time. He nodded to the only two men who were standing, and they went to work. Moving slowly, so as to not shake the truck, they shifted the boxes and laundry baskets to the side and created a path for the forklift and the ATVs.
When they were done, Bengazi turned and nodded to one of his men sitting on the back of an ATV. The man carefully popped the clasps on the trunk to his left and swung open the lid. From a foam cutout he extracted two rocket-propelled grenade launchers, or RPGs, and passed them forward. He then removed the first layer of foam and revealed four oblong armor-piercing grenades. One by one, he passed the grenades forward and then closed the trunk.
Bengazi felt his pager vibrate and looked down. He turned to his men and snapped his fingers twice. There was no quickening of the pulse for Bengazi. He was too battle hardened to get excited. Now well into his forties, he was unflappable. The rest of the men in the truck were half his age, still filled with optimism and grand dreams. Bengazi was a realist, and despite everything that Aziz had told him, he did not expect to see his beloved Beirut again. It was time for one final blow against the foreigners who had destroyed the peaceful and beautiful city of his youth.
Bengazi reached for the gas mask that was clipped to his web belt and secured it to the top of his head, leaving it perched above his thick single eyebrow until the final signal was given. The two men carrying the RPGs moved softly to the tailgate and waited.
30,000 Feet, Eastern Atlantic Ocean
MITCH RAPP STOOD over Harut, his eyes widening, not quite sure he was hearing what he was hearing or, if he really was, if he could believe it. Dr. Hornig asked the same question, worded in a sli
ghtly different way. Harut, his eyes glassed over, mumbled the same answer—an answer that seemed to stop time. Rapp was absolutely shocked, frozen with indecision as his mind tried to absorb the unbelievable.
He finally turned to Hornig and asked the only question he could think of, “Is he telling the truth?”
Hornig motioned to an array of equipment that one of her assistants was monitoring. “I’m pretty sure. All of his baselines match up. I have asked him the same question a half dozen ways”—Hornig looked down at her notes—“thirty-two times. He’s telling the truth. The only way this information could be wrong would be if Aziz had lied to him with the forethought that he might be interrogated, and”—Hornig began shaking her head—“the odds of that would be astronomical.”
“Fuck.” Rapp ran a hand through his hair. “When is this thing planned? Do they have a specific date?”
Hornig brought her hands up, motioning for caution. “I haven’t been able to pursue that specific line of questioning as far as I would like, but as of right now, it looks like it is planned for today.”
Rapp lowered his chin. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
“I’m afraid not.”
Rapp started for the main cabin and then stopped abruptly. “What type of an attack are we talking about?”
“All he keeps saying is, ‘An assault.’”
Rapp cursed again and banged his fist against the doorframe while he tried to decide what to do. Incomplete information or not, he knew he had to make the call. Rapp left the bedroom and grabbed his backpack. Turning it upside down he dumped all of the contents on the couch. After throwing some clothes and papers to the side, he found his SATCOM unit and pressed the power button. Clutching the black object with both hands, he stared at the small screen and cursed the signal indicator. In frustration, Rapp squeezed the object tighter in an effort to speed up its link with the nearest U.S. satellite.
Langley,Virginia—CIA Headquarters
DIRECTOR STANSFIELD’S OFFICE was located on the seventh floor of the main building. The office itself was conservatively decorated. Stansfield was not one to display his awards and achievements, so his paneled walls were sparsely decorated with photographs of his deceased wife, their daughters, and his grandchildren. His desk was so organized that even the Post-it notes had their own place. Six of them were lined up symmetrically in the left-hand corner.
Stansfield sat in his chair with his elbows on the armrest and his hands folded under his chin. Irene Kennedy sat across from him in one of two chairs and wrapped up a summation of her breakfast meeting with President Hayes. Stansfield listened intently and nodded from time to time. He would wait until Kennedy was finished before he asked any questions.
After another five minutes, Kennedy closed the file on her lap and said, “The president stressed that he wanted compete cooperation by all agencies, and a full disclosure of information.”
In response to the statement, Stansfield raised an eyebrow. “Hmm.”
“How do you want me to handle it?”
Stansfield lowered his hands and thought about it. “Use your best judgment. I’m all for sharing information, as long as our sources and operations aren’t compromised in the process.”
“And, of course, as long as we get something in return.” Kennedy smiled.
The right side of Stansfield’s mouth turned ever so slightly upward. “Yes.”
Kennedy nodded and handed her boss a red plastic folder. The white label on the cover was adorned with the requisite letters, or as Agency insiders liked to say, “alphabet soup.” This particular string of letters told the director that the file contained signal intelligence and Keyhole, or satellite, imagery. The TS and SCI notations also told him the file was top secret and compartmentalized.
As director of the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center, Kennedy was responsible for keeping Stansfield informed on all of the various threats against the U.S. On this particular morning the subject was North Korea. She had barely made it through the first page of the briefing when Stansfield’s phone rang. Kennedy paused to see if he would answer it.
The director grabbed the handset and said, “Stansfield.”
“Director Stansfield, we have a flash-traffic-priority call from Iron Man, for you or Dr. Kennedy.”
“Patch him through.” Stansfield hit the speakerphone button and replaced the handset.
There were several clicks on the line, and then Stansfield said, “Hello.”
“Sir, we’ve got a big problem,” started an agitated Rapp. “Is Irene there?”
“Yes. She’s sitting right next to me.” Rapp’s frazzled tone did not go unnoticed by Stansfield and Kennedy.
“Aziz is in D.C.”
“Say again.”
Rapp repeated himself more deliberately. “Aziz is in D.C.”
“Are you sure?” asked Kennedy.
“Yes. Dr. Hornig is positive. She’s been working on Harut for close to thirty minutes and says there is no way he’s lying. And that’s only part of it.” There was a brief pause on the line. “Harut says Aziz’s target is the White House.”
There was a moment of shocked silence while Kennedy and Stansfield looked at each other. After several seconds, Rapp asked, “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes we heard you, Mitch,” answered Stansfield. “It’s just a little much. We need to be sure about this before we—”
Rapp cut him off. “Well, unfortunately we don’t have that luxury. According to Harut, the attack is supposed to take place today!”
Kennedy stood and placed both hands on the desk. “What are we talking-about here, Mitch? What kind of an attack?”
“All he keeps saying is an all-out assault. A raid.”
“How?” Kennedy asked.
“I don’t know. Dr. Hornig is trying to find out more.”
Stansfield stood and joined Kennedy in looking down at the phone. “Is there anything else, Mitch?”
“Not right now.”
“All right. We’d better get to work on this. We have to make some calls on this end. Call us back the second you find anything else out.”
“Roger.”
Stansfield punched the button and disconnected the call. He and Kennedy were face-to-face leaning over the desk. Stansfield looked out the window briefly and then back to Kennedy. “Call Jack Warch and tell him we have a strong reason to believe there is a terrorist attack planned against the White House, and tell him we think it’s planned for today.”
“What about the president?”
“Call Warch first. I need to think about a couple of things before we tell the president.”
“And the FBI?” asked Kennedy.
“I’ll call Director Roach.” Stansfield pointed to his credenza, where a second phone was located. “Get Warch on the line fast, but stress that he take reasonable precautions. We don’t want this to rattle too many cages until we’re absolutely positive.”
Executive Office Building
JACK WARCH, THE special agent in charge of the presidential detail, sat behind his desk located in room number ten of the Executive Office Building, directly across the street from the West Wing. Warch had served under four presidents and had been with the Secret Service for over twenty years.
The special agent in charge had that runner’s look about him. In his early forties, he still jogged four to five times a week and expected the men and women who worked under his command to do the same. The presidential detail was the most visible aspect of the Secret Service, and posts in it were in very high demand. Over the previous decade, Warch had watched fitness take a backseat to an insidious wave of political correctness and an older, equally insidious, old-boys’ network. When Warch took over the detail, he put everyone on notice by spreading the word that he didn’t care who your dad was, what color your skin was, what sex you were, or who your patron was; if you couldn’t pass your fitness tests, you weren’t going to work on his detail.
Reaching out with his left han
d, Warch took a sip of hot coffee and looked over the day’s schedule. Things looked light, just the way he liked it. No visitors and no trips off premises. If every day was like this, he would be a bored but happy man. Warch’s phone rang, and without taking his eyes off the schedule, he reached out and grabbed it. “Special Agent Warch speaking.”
“Jack, it’s Irene Kennedy.”
Warch had sat in on dozens of briefings with Kennedy over the years and knew her well enough to know from the tone of her voice that she had something serious to say. “Hello, Irene. What’s the problem?”
“I’ve got some bad news,” started Kennedy. “We’ve just learned that there is a possibility that the White House will be the target of a terrorist attack.” Kennedy paused to give Warch a second to digest the information before she dropped the other shoe. “And . . . we think the attack is supposed to take place today.”
Warch closed his eyes and squeezed his forehead with his free hand. “Say again.”
Kennedy repeated herself and then added, “Jack, we don’t want you to overreact, but we’ve received this information from a very reliable source.”
“What are we talking about, a car bomb, a plane . . . what?”
Kennedy cleared her throat.“We were told an assault. That’s all the information we have, and we are trying to get more.”
Warch pushed his chair away from his desk and stood. “What?” he asked incredulously. “An assault. That’s impossible. They’d need a tank if they wanted to breach our outer perimeter.”
“Jack, I don’t know how they plan on doing whatever it is that they are going to do,” started Kennedy in a calming voice, “and I’m sorry I can’t give you anything else at this point. But the bottom line is we are taking this very seriously. For obvious reasons Director Stansfield wanted me to call you first. We suggest that you tighten things up over there without alerting the press, and as soon as we find more out, we will let you know.”