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The phone continued its irritating noise, and Aziz had to catch himself-from answering it—not now, not until he calmed down and put himself-in the proper mind-set. There was the plan, and he had to stick with it. After he had more time to think, he could deal with this calamity. Laying his hands flat on the table, he forced all of the tension from his body and immersed himself in his role. Finally, after the phone had rung at least a dozen times, he reached out and slowly brought the receiver to his mouth.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Aziz,” stated a calm and confident female voice, “this is Attorney General Margaret Tutwiler. We are having some problems getting together all of the money.” There was a pause on the line and then, “So far we have managed to transfer—”
“One point three billion dollars.” Aziz gave her the sum as he stood abruptly. Anger coursing through every inch of his body. This was too much. He had done his research on the Americans. He knew who all of the players would be. He knew that with Hayes out of commission the transfer of power would take place, and with Vice President Baxter came an increased role for the already important attorney general. But to insult him in such a way was inconceivable. It was such a blatant affront that there was no way it could be anything other than intentional.
A slightly surprised Tutwiler said, “Yes, one point three billion.” She stammered for a second. “It’s going to take some time to gather all of the money. . . . It would be a big help, as far as expediting the transfer of the remainder of the money, if you could show us a sign of your good faith.”
Aziz closed his eyelids tightly, commanding himself to continue forward with the plan. In a pained voice, he asked, “What would you propose?”
“The release of several hostages would go a long way in showing us you are sincere.”
This was beyond belief. In a voice that was near breaking, Aziz asked, “How many would you like me to release—ten, twenty . . . maybe thirty of them?”
Tutwiler, unsure of how genuine the offer was, tentatively replied, “Um . . . thirty would be great . . . and after they are released, we can work on getting more of the money transferred.”
Aziz stood looking down the length of the table, staring at everything and nothing at the same time, his instincts sharp, his anger funneling into a direct beam of energy. Plan or no plan, this had moved into the realm of the personal. They were trying to insult him by sending this woman to talk with him. They were testing him to see how far he would go. Was it a trap? He thought not. It was too early for an attack, it was broad daylight, and the media was right across the street. If they wanted to test his resolve, he would show them just how strong and determined it was.
It was all too much. First the news that Fara Harut had been taken, and now this stupid woman insulting him. Finally, unable to hold it in anymore, he yelled, “What did I tell you yesterday? I said all of the money by nine! I didn’t say part of it; I said all of it! Don’t insult me by talking to me of the difficulty of transferring the money! Your Treasury Department could transfer ten times the money I asked for in one hour if they wanted to! I think it is time to teach you stupid Americans a lesson! Look out your windows, and I will show you what happens when you play your idiotic games with me!”
ANNA RIELLY SAT on the floor uncomfortably, her stomach growling. She seriously wondered if she’d be able to make it another hour without wetting her pants. Several of the other hostages had already done so, and the room was beginning to reek of urine. Rielly heard the sound of heavy boots approaching, and then the head terrorist entered the room. The entire group cowered at the sight of the obviously enraged man.
Aziz walked right up to the edge of the hostages and pointed to a man. “You! Stand up right now!” Whoever he was yelling at didn’t respond fast enough, and Aziz yelled even louder, “Now!”
As the hostage stood, Rielly immediately recognized him. It was Bill Schwartz, the president’s national security adviser. The terrorist screamed at the woman who was clutching Schwartz’s leg and said, “You too! Come!”
The woman also did not move fast enough, and Aziz reached down and grabbed her by her hair, yanking her to her feet like a rag doll. With the help of another terrorist he led them out of the room.
Aziz pushed the two hostages in front of him up the stairs to the first level of the West Wing. Then, before stepping out underneath the small portico on the north side of the building, Aziz pulled a mesh hood down over his face. He took a small remote control from his drab green combat vest and punched in a code, disarming the explosive device that was attached to the door.
Aziz kicked open the double doors and marched outside. All alone in the morning sunlight, he crossed the narrow driveway and stepped back onto another sidewalk near the edge of the small portico. Aziz defiantly looked around at the dozens of guns that were trained on him. The long barrels of sniper rifles could be seen bristling from every rooftop in sight. He knew they wouldn’t shoot, they couldn’t shoot, not in America. That command had to come down through layers of bureaucrats, and it was far too early for that. Aziz raised his AK-74 in the air and unleashed a loud eight-round burst. Defiantly, he cradled his weapon across his chest and stood his ground, showing the Americans that he was not afraid. After he had made his presence felt, he marched back into the building and looked at his watch. He had decided he would give the media thirty seconds to get their cameras focused on the entrance.
Aziz was following his script precisely, with one exception. The rage. It had been his plan from the start to kill the national security adviser. But now, he decided to deviate slightly from his plan and allow himself some personal satisfaction in retaliation for Harut. In an almost spastic flurry, Aziz wheeled and slapped Schwartz across the face.
His face within inches of Schwartz’s, he yelled, “How does is feel to be terrified, you dog?”
The national security adviser’s eyes welled up with tears, and the woman standing next to him began to sob. Schwartz wrapped his arms around his secretary. He knew what was happening, he knew it was the end, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Aziz continued to scream and taunt him with questions.
“How many times have you ordered the death of my Arab brothers? How many times?” Aziz’s eyes were maniacal with rage. Schwartz gave no answer, and Aziz slapped him again; then, grabbing him by the collar, Aziz forced the national security adviser toward the door with his secretary’s arms still wrapped tightly around her boss’s waist. As they reached the door, Aziz placed his boot on the woman’s butt and shoved.
Schwartz and the woman tumbled out into the light and fell to the pavement. Aziz stood in the doorway and yelled through his mesh hood for them to get up. The woman was crying harder now, and Schwartz’s tears were flowing freely down his cheeks. The presidential adviser
stood and pulled his secretary to her feet. Aziz screamed at them to start walking, and after several seconds they began to do so, though slowly.
Standing in the doorway, Aziz watched the two hostages walk toward the north gate. When they reached the halfway point, when they were within clear view of the news cameras, Aziz raised his rifle and took aim.
“Stop!” he yelled. When the president’s national security adviser turned to look over his shoulder, Aziz had Schwartz’s face in the center of his sights. He squeezed the trigger once, the powerful rifle bucked, and he brought it right back to level, the woman’s head now framed in the cold black sights. A quick squeeze of the trigger and the second body was tumbling to the pavement just behind the first. As the woman came to rest on top of Schwartz, Aziz zeroed in and unloaded another dozen rounds. The loud clacking of the Kalashnikov rifle reverberated across the pristine north grounds of the White House.
When Aziz was satisfied, he closed the door, the smoking muzzle of his AK-74 hanging at his side. Before starting back for the basement, he rearmed the booby-trapped doorway and then started down the hall, his eyes full of hate, his breaths deep, and his pace quick. When he reached the staircase, he ran down the steps, through the hallway, and into the empty Situation Room. Grabbing the phone, he yelled, “Are you still there?”
* * *
SKIP MCMAHON HELD the phone to his ear and looked down at the two bodies lying in the driveway. The man he recognized. He then turned to Marge Tutwiler, who sat motionless at the table, staring out the window. McMahon then looked at Irene Kennedy, who sadly shook her head.
“I’m here,” answered McMahon.
“Who is this?” shouted Aziz.
