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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.”
