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She gave a fake smile. “Thanks.”
“Well”—Rapp stood—“it shouldn’t be very hard for you to do.” Turning to Adams, he said, “Milt, come here.” Adams walked over, and Rapp affixed a small object to the side of his headset. The camera was about three inches long and an inch in diameter, with a lens at the front and a cord at the back that was hooked up to a transmitter. Rapp tucked the transmitter into a pocket on the back of Adams’s combat vest, then arranged another camera on his own headset.
Rapp adjusted his lip mike and said, “Iron Man to control. You should have two more feeds from the head-mounted cameras. Can you confirm?”
The reply came over their headsets a second later. “That’s affirmative, Iron Man. We are receiving both feeds.”
With his baseball cap on backward, Rapp swung the arm of his headset-up above his forehead and grabbed one of the fanny packs. After strapping it around Adams’s waist, he said, “There are ten of the surveillance units in here. We’ll decide where to put them when we get over there. Are you ready?”
He nodded.
“All right.” Turning back to Rielly, he said, “You should be safe here until we get back.”
“What if someone shows up?”
Rapp put a hand on his hip and thought about it. There was a chance he and Adams might not make it back. Grabbing for his thigh holster, he drew his silenced 9-mm Beretta. “You told me your dad taught you how to shoot?”
“Yep.”
Rapp checked to make sure the weapon was on safety and then handed it to Rielly. He pointed to a spot on the far wall almost thirty feet away. “You see that scuff mark just above the shelf?”
Rielly nodded.
“She’s locked and loaded. One in the chamber and fifteen more in the magazine. Take her off safety, and squeeze one off at the scuff mark.” Rapp always felt that you could learn a lot about someone by watching how they handled a firearm.
Rielly held the weapon in both hands confidently. Keeping it pointed down range, she turned it slightly, and with the thumb of her right hand, she flicked off the safety. She stood with her feet a shoulder width apart and took aim. The silencer made the gun nose heavy, forcing her to adjust for the weight. When she had the scuff mark lined up in the sights, she squeezed the trigger.
There was a spitting noise from the end of the gun, and a split second later the louder noise of the bullet hitting the smooth concrete wall. A chunk the size of a quarter broke free and fell to the floor. Rielly’s shot missed the mark by about twelve inches, low and right.
She put the gun back on safety and said, “The silencer makes it heavy.”
“But nice and quiet,” replied Rapp.
“Yeah.” Rielly looked at the smooth black weapon.
“That’s not a bad shot. My advice is for you to sit right over there.” Rapp pointed toward the door that led into the hallway. “If anyone comes in that door dressed in green fatigues and carrying an AK-74, you put a bullet in his head and ask questions later.”
Rielly licked her lips and nodded.
Rapp started back toward the door that led to the tunnel. “Whatever you do, Anna, don’t come looking for us. If we’re not back within an hour, that means something has gone wrong. You’re better off waiting right here until someone from our side comes and gets you.”
Rapp turned to Adams, who had the outer door open, and said, “Let’s go.”
Adams punched the code into the reinforced tunnel door and pushed it in. Rapp followed him into the tunnel and turned to give Rielly a smile and a nod. Then they were gone, the door closed, on their way to the West Wing.
47
AZIZ LOOKED UP at the digital clocks on the wall to his left. The clock closest to him gave him the East Coast time. It was 6:29 P.M. He took the remote control and turned the main TV from CNN to NBC. The nightly national news was about to start, and he wanted to feel the force of America’s number one news network announcing another victory for him and his jihad.
When the overly dramatic music announced the start of the program, Aziz grinned with anticipation as the logo flashed across the screen, followed quickly by the words “White House Crisis—Day Three.”
Tom Brokaw came on and, after a brief lead-in, he cut to the United Nations in New York. The network’s correspondent clutched her microphone and passionately retold the late-breaking news. The UN Security Council had unanimously voted to lift all economic sanctions against Iraq except those involving military imports and technology. The reporter went on to tell how Israel was the only UN member to protest the vote, but since they were not a permanent member of the Security Council, they could do nothing to prevent the lifting of sanctions.
Aziz stood and smiled triumphantly. He had won again. Now all he needed was the president and he would have complete victory. Aziz grabbed his radio and barked the name of his little thief. “Mustafa!” Aziz repeated himself two more times, and then one of his other men answered.
“Rafique, it is Ragib.” The man was standing watch in the basement by the door to the boiler room. “I don’t think he can hear you because of the drills. Do you want me to get him?”
“Yes.”
