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GENERAL FLOOD WAS listening to Kennedy give the background briefing on Aziz when he heard the quiet ring of the phone next to him. Flood glanced down and looked to see where the call was coming from. The screen at the top of the phone read, “WH SIT ROOM.” Flood raised one hand to stop Kennedy from talking, and with th
e other, he snatched the handset from its cradle. “General Flood here.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting your meeting.”
Flood squeezed the phone and asked, “Who is this?”
“That is none of your concern. Put me on speakerphone so I can talk to the entire group. I do not want to have to repeat myself.”
Flood considered the demand for a moment, and then reluctantly gave in and pressed a button. He then placed the handset back in its cradle and folded his arms across his chest. “You are on speakerphone. Go ahead.”
Aziz’s voice came pouring down from the room’s overhead speaker system. “I have complete control of your White House. Any attempt to retake it will be futile. The United States currently holds fourteen point seven billion dollars in frozen assets that belong to the country of Iran. You illegally seized this money when the corrupt government of the Shah was overthrown by the people of Allah. If you return all of this money to Iran by nine tomorrow morning, I will release one-third of the seventy-six hostages I currently hold. This is non-negotiable. If this demand is not met precisely as I have stated, I will kill one hostage every hour until it is met. I will remind you one more time, any attempt by you to rescue the hostages will be futile. The FBI’s vaunted Hostage Rescue Team is no match for my men; just as your highly touted Secret Service was no match. In fifteen minutes I will place all of the wounded and dead outside of the West Entrance. Medical technicians in short-sleeve shirts and pants will be allowed to come in groups of two, one stretcher at a time, to pick up the bodies. No equipment or bags. Only two men at a time and a stretcher. Anything unusual and we will open fire.”
The voice paused for a second and then said more firmly, “The account numbers that the money is to be transferred to are as follows . . .”
IT TOOK AZIZ a little over a minute to give all of the numbers. Then, without giving them a chance to ask any questions, he repeated the demand one last time and hung up the phone. Aziz leaned back and took in the moment. Keep it short, keep them off balance, and most important, let them know who is running the show. Aziz knew what would happen at nine tomorrow as sure as if he had a crystal ball. He had read all of the books that had been written by former FBI agents on hostage negotiations and most important, he knew Vice President Baxter was in charge, and with Baxter came Attorney General Tutwiler.
Aziz had done his homework on Tutwiler. Via the Internet he had obtained copies of her speeches and lectures. She had been an outspoken critic of the FBI’s techniques at Ruby Ridge and Waco. In Tutwiler’s opinion the FBI should have worn the captors down over time and obtained the incremental release of hostages through negotiation and actually giving in to some of the group’s smaller demands.
What a fool she was to speak in public and give him the chance to study her, Aziz thought. These Americans were fat and lazy. He knew what her every move would be. He would break her within two days, and when Baxter finally realized he should listen to his generals, it would be too late. Aziz would have the president, and everything would be in position for his final demand.
PRESIDENT HAYES LOOKED at Valerie Jones and asked, “What in the hell happened?”
The two of them were sitting next to each other on the couch. Jones looked very uncomfortable. Hayes had finally got around to asking the obvious question, and his chief of staff didn’t know how to answer it.
Shaking her head and looking at the ground, she replied, “I don’t know.”
Hayes had met Jones years ago when she worked on his congressional staff. After that, the Ivy League—educated New Yorker had gone to work for CBS and risen through the ranks. Jones was bright, hardworking, and at times a little pushy. If she were a man, she’d be called a hard-ass, but because she wore skirts, she was referred to by some as a real bitch. Jones knew this and didn’t let it bother her. As gatekeeper to the president, it worked to her advantage. Every day she received dozens of requests for the president’s time. If she were patient and nice with everyone that called, those requests would double within a week. The very definition of her job required that she be blunt and firm. Not enough time. Not enough energy.
“Valerie, you have to have some idea who in the hell that was.” Hayes watched her for a response. He got none and expanded his questioning. “What did Russ tell you?” Hayes asked, referring to the chairman of the Democratic National Committee.
“He said the man was a wealthy Arab prince who wanted to make a donation to the DNC.”
“A foreigner making a donation to the DNC.” Hayes shook his head in anger.
“Russ said it would all be legit.”
Hayes frowned. “I thought I told all of you people, ‘No funny stuff.’ I want everything to be aboveboard.” Hayes kept his voice low, but it was obvious he was angry.
Without looking up, Jones replied, “It was a lot of money, and it was going to be legal.”
Hayes almost lost it. This was something he had been adamant about since the day he had decided to run for president. The expression on his face told his chief of staff that the amount of money would not make the transgression any easier to take.
Jones realized it had been the wrong thing to say.
“‘Sorry’ might not be good enough for this one.”
Jones looked up with a fair amount of fright. “What are you trying to say?”
“Exactly what I said. ‘Sorry’ might not be good enough. People have died, Val, and there are a lot of questions that are going to have to be answered.” President Hayes stared at her, making sure she truly understood the gravity of the situation.
Across the bunker, near the door, Special Agent Jack Warch was sitting on his bunk, sprawled against the cool concrete wall. The usually rigid Warch had removed his tie and jacket, both of which were neatly folded next to him on the hinged navy-style bunk. The thirty- by twenty-foot room had eighteen sturdy bunks. Two sets of four, one lower and one upper, were bolted along each of the long walls and two more on the wall by the door. The bunks were of the no-frills military style. One side of the bed was attached to the wall by two hinges, and the outer corners were each attached to a three-foot chain that was bolted to the wall. When not being used the bunks could be swung up and out of the way. The floor and the first four feet of the wall were covered by the same plain brown carpet that adorned the floor and walls of the evacuation tunnel. At the opposite end of the bunker there was a small bathroom and kitchenette. In the middle of the room was a square arrangement of two couches and two love seats, all four made of brown vinyl trying to disguise itself as leather. The seamless ceiling and walls were painted an off-white that helped to soften, just slightly, the room’s bleak appearance.
The special agent in charge of the presidential detail reached out and picked up his black Motorola encrypted radio. His flesh-toned earpiece and hand mike lay uselessly coiled on the bunk’s pillow. Not more than ten minutes after they made it into the bunker the expensive little radio had dropped code—the Secret Service’s euphemism for the radio not working. It was not just Warch’s radio. All ten agents had looked at each other at the exact same moment, knowing instantly that they were cut off. The terrorists had gotten to the digital encryption system and crashed it, taking all of the radios off-line. Warch had switched to his digital phone, and for five minutes he tried frantically to reestablished contact with the Secret Service’s joint operations command. The phone was working, but they weren’t answering. Then the line went dead.
They were completely cut off from the outside and could only assume the worst. If the Secret Service had fended off the attack, they would not still be siting in the bunker. With or without communications, his people knew the codes and could simply come and open the door. The worst had to be assumed. They had lost the White House. Warch looked across the bunker at a disheveled President Hayes and his chief of staff. They were sitting on one of the couches talking in whispers. It was time to tell him the truth.
