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General Flood withdrew his hand and sat back. Looking around the room, he asked, “Now, does anybody have any ideas on how we’re going to get him in?”
After a while Stansfield said, “No, but I have a good idea where to start.”
THE SUN WAS setting as Vice President Baxter left the Pentagon. Attorney General Tutwiler had gone back to the Hoover Building with FBI Director Roach and Special Agent McMahon. Baxter sat alone with Dallas King in the backseat of the armor-plated limousine. The vice president looked languidly out the window as Dallas King babbled on about what should be covered when Baxter addressed the nation—a move they had decided was both necessary and an opportunity that couldn’t be missed. Baxter would be guaranteed the largest audience in the history of presidential addresses. The only question for King right now was whether they should do a scripted address, with Baxter reading from a teleprompter, or hold a more natural and impromptu press conference.
Baxter was only half listening to his subordinate. King was rambling on about focus groups and polling data while the vice president’s mind kept drifting back to the dark-featured gentleman from the CIA. The terrorism specialist, Baxter reminded himself.
Baxter held his hand up and motioned for King to be silent. The vice president let his well-manicured fingers fall to his knee while he struggled to pin down what exactly it was that was bothering him. After a moment he pursed his lips and said, “Call our contacts over at the National Security Agency and see what you can find out about that Mr. Kruse fellow.”
“I’m already on it,” replied King as he typed a note into his palm-top computer.
“Find out what he really does for the CIA.” Baxter looked out the window again. “If he’s right, and we have to take the building back by force . . .” Baxter shook his head.
King looked up from his computer and said, “We will lose hostages, and the American people will never vote for a trigger-happy presidential candidate that ordered the death of seventy-six Americans.”
Baxter added an eye roll to his head shaking. “This no longer appears to be the opportunity that you originally thought.”
King closed his palm-top and placed it in the breast pocket of his suit coat. “I never said it was going to be easy. With this much on the line, it’s never easy. The trick, as always, will be to navigate our way through the minefield.”
“There may not be a path through this particular one,” Baxter sighed.
“I haven’t come across a minefield yet that I couldn’t get through.” King flashed his confident grin. “Your job is to sit back and let everybody else look for the mines. Tomorrow, for instance, we let Marge take the lead on this negotiation angle. If it works, we’re all one big happy family. If it doesn’t, she takes the fall all on her own.”
“What if we have to storm the place and we lose thirty . . . forty . . . hell, maybe all of the hostages?” Baxter pointed at himself. “I’m the only one who can order that. You said it yourself. The American people will never vote for a president who has the slaughter of that many hostages hanging around his neck.” Baxter shook his head. “Shit, I just thought of something else. What if I order the assault and it doesn’t work? What if the nation sits down for dinner and they’re treated to footage of FBI agents getting killed while trying to storm the White House? My career would be over, and yours too.” Baxter’s defeatist head-shaking continued, and with gritted teeth, he added, “We’re screwed almost any way you look at this thing.”
“Not true,” replied King. “If we pull this off, you’ll be a hero.” King pointed at his boss. “You’ll be the next president of the United States of America. We just need to play our cards very carefully, and we need to start with Director Tracy. We miscalculated how he would handle your public reprimand. We can’t have him holding a press conference tomorrow. If he reads the comments you made when you were campaigning, it would make us look like shit. I think I should go see him. Offer him the olive branch and tell him we want him to stay in charge of the Secret Service and help the FBI. I’ll tell him it was Tutwiler’s idea to can him, and you went along with it because you were so upset about the attack. I’ll tell him you weren’t thinking clearly, and that you’re grateful for the service he has given this country . . . yada . . . yada . . . yada. You know the gig. I’ll stroke him.”
Baxter thought about it for a second and with a tired sigh said, “Go ahead. Do whatever it takes to keep him quiet.”
13
THE WHITE HOUSE was silent as the clock approached midnight. Aziz left the Situation Room and walked down the hall to Horsepower. The door was open, and Aziz entered without knocking. Sitting in a swivel chair, Bengazi was keeping an eye on a bank of black-and-white security monitors. The monitors showed different areas of the grounds around the White House and shots of all the main entrances. Normally the system also kept an eye on areas within the White House, but Bengazi had disabled the cameras for fear that the FBI might find some way to pirate the images and spy on them.
Aziz placed his hand on the back of the chair and asked, “How does everything look?”
“Nice and quiet.”
“Good. Have you been getting sleep?”
“Yes.”
“How about the men?”
“They are doing fine.”
“And the hostages?”
“Asleep.”
As Aziz looked at the monitors, the walkie-talkie on his hip squawked and his name barked forth.
Bringing it to his mouth, he said, “Yes.”
“Rafique, I have made progress. I think you should come see.”
“I’ll be right down.” Aziz had been not-so-patiently waiting for this update. Having succeeded beyond all of his people’s wildest dreams, he was still not content, and would not be until he wrestled the cowardly president from his bunker. He held the White House hostage and the e
ntire government of the United States had come to a grinding halt, but that wasn’t enough.
