Font Size:  

“I’m trying to get some last-minute intel before they start talking.” Slater pointed with his thumb over his shoulder and shook his head. “And I sure as hell don’t want to be in there when the shit hits the fan.”

Kennedy looked into the room. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t have time to talk about it; Skip can fill you in. Are you gonna be at the planning meeting this afternoon?”

Kennedy nodded. “I’ll be there.”

“Good. . . . We can talk then. I have a lot of questions for you.” With that, the Jewish Terror headed off down the hallway.

As Slater and the other man marched away, Kennedy watched them for a second, the bright yellow letters on their backs and their dark SWAT uniforms announcing to all that they were on the front line, that they would be the ones to storm the White House. Kennedy considered all the explosives Aziz had brought along and felt overwhelming dread as Slater moved off.

Kennedy entered the FBI’s command post, which was buzzing with the activity of radios, phones, faxes, and people. She had just left the conference room on the other side of the building where Vice President Baxter was gathered with select members of the cabinet and the intelligence and federal-law enforcement communities. From there that group would monitor the conversation between Aziz and the FBI negotiator and make any decisions if needed. At McMahon’s request, Kennedy was to stay with him in the FBI’s command post to offer any insight.

Across the room, by the windows that overlooked the West Wing, Skip McMahon was talking to a seated Attorney General Tutwiler and motioning to a group of phones. Kennedy walked across the room and stopped several feet away so as to not interrupt. She listened to what Skip was saying and quickly grew alarmed. Kennedy began to look around the room, and she did not like what she saw, or didn’t see. It was getting close to nine, and she did not see anyone who appeared to be the FBI negotiator.

A short while later McMahon finished explaining to Tutwiler how the different phones worked and then turned to face Kennedy. With his back to the attorney general he rolled his eyes in frustration. “Morning, Irene.”

“Good morning.” Kennedy nodded to Tutwiler and then looked back at McMahon. “Where is your negotiator?”

Before McMahon had a chance to answer, Tutwiler said, “I’ll be handling the negotiations.”

In as passive a tone as Kennedy could muster, she replied, “No offense, Madam Attorney General, but I don’t think that is the most prudent course.”

“And why is that?” asked Tutwiler aggressively.

“Because Rafique Aziz will take it as an insult that we have chosen a woman to negotiate with him.”

“I am here, Ms. Kennedy, because I am the top-ranking law enforcement officer in the land. I am here ”—Tutwiler stressed the word and pointed at the ground—“to send a clear message to these terrorists that we are extremely serious about this situation.”

Kennedy’s thoughts drifted back to Mitch Rapp’s words at the Pentagon-the day before. They gave her the strength to state her opinion a bit more firmly. “And I am here to advise you as the director of the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center, you are making a grave mistake. I respect your accomplishments, Madam Attorney General, but Rafique Aziz will not. He will make you pay for what he will see as a blatant insult to his manhood.”

Tutwiler defiantly crossed her arms. “I have encountered chauvinists all my life, and I have found that there is only one way to deal with them . . . head-on.”

“Again, I respect your accomplishments, but you couldn’t be more wrong. You have absolutely no idea who you’re dealing with.” Seeing that Tutwiler was not going to budge, Kennedy left the room and started down the hallway to explain the new development to Stansfield. Midway down the hall she heard McMahon call her name.

A second later McMahon pulled up alongside her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Irene, it’s not worth it. I already went all the way to the top. For now, she gets her way.”

Kennedy stopped, her cheeks slightly flushed. Murmuring more to herself than McMahon she said, “Now I know why Mitch got so mad yesterday.”

McMahon didn’t quite get Kennedy’s comment and decided to ignore it. “The way I figure it, Irene, is that Tutwiler’s ass is hangin’ out pretty far on this one. After she screws up this morning, she’ll be out of our hair.” McMahon studied Kennedy’s tense face, not used to such a reaction from the almost always unflappable protégé of Thomas Stansfield. “Take a deep breath, Irene; it’s not going to do you any good to get upset right now.”

Kennedy looked up at McMahon and bit down on the bottom corner of her lip. “I’m usually the one giving you this lecture.”

“What can I say; I’m a quick learner.” McMahon gave her a fake smile and turned Kennedy back toward the command post. “I need you with me during this call, all right?”

Kennedy nodded and went along reluctantly.

HIS FINGERS TAPPED the shiny surface of the conference table of the White House Situation Room and his eyes stayed transfixed on the computer screen. Rafique Aziz sat in the president’s leather chair, rocking slightly. Aziz brought his wrist up and checked the time. The balance of the Swiss bank account hadn’t changed in almost half an hour. Two more minutes and the spectacle would start. Aziz’s eyes lifted an inch above the top of the computer screen and looked at the bank of television screens that dominated the far wall.

The three major networks and CNN were all broadcasting live from the other side of Lafayette Park. NBC and CBS were interviewing family members of the hostages; ABC was talking to a psychiatrist who had written a book on hostages identifying with their captors, the so-called Stockholm syndrome; and CNN was talking to a retired FBI agent, whom Aziz thought to be typically smug.

A thin smile creased his lips as Aziz thought about just how predictable these Americans were. The smile widened even further. Aziz put his hands behind his neck and rocked back and forth in the chair. A mailbox icon appeared on the second laptop, and an electronic voice alerted him to an incoming E-mail. Aziz quickly tapped the proper keys, and a second later the message was up on the screen. As Aziz read the message, he moved closer to the screen, reading the first line over and over, unable to get past the shock of it. It couldn’t be. How could they have gotten their hands on him? Why now?

The message read, “Fara Harut abducted in early morning commando raid yesterday. Group suffered heavy casualties. Harut assumed taken alive. Do not know who conducted operation, but assume either America, Britain, or Israel. ”

ACROSS THE STREET in the Executive Office Building, Vice President Baxter was holding court in a separate conference room down the hall from the FBI’s command post. As always Dallas King was sitting next to Baxter, General Flood was on the vice president’s left, and farther down the table FBI Director Roach, CIA Director Stansfield, and Secret Service Director Tracy had taken their seats. The secretaries of state and defense were also present, along with a dozen aides and several Secret Service agents from the vice president’s detail. The door was closed, and each occupant stared expectantly at the black speaker placed in the center of the table. After twenty more seconds of silence the black box announced the ringing of the phone in the Situation Room.

AZIZ WAS STILL staring at the message when the phone started to ring. He was furious, outraged that such a thing could happen, and now of all times. His eyes burned a hole in the screen as his mind raced to calculate the potential damage this catastrophe could inflict on his mission. All the while Aziz tried to keep emotion out of it. Fara Harut was his mentor, the man who had wooed him from the classroom to the battlefield, the man who had shown him the evil of the Zionists. Harut was the reason he was where he was today, and now, he was gone.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
Articles you may like