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“Special Agent Skip McMahon of the FBI.”
“Good! Don’t ever insult me by putting that woman on the phone again. My demands are unchanged! I will kill one hostage every hour until all of the money is placed in the account I have given you! When you do that, I will release one-third of the hostages! One hostage every hour! Am I understood?”
“I understand you very clearly, but one hour might be pushing it.”
Now was the time to shift gear. “Listen to me, McMahon.” Aziz now spoke calmly, in an almost professional tone. “I know your rules of engagement. I just killed two hostages, so now you must send in your Hostage Rescue Team.” Aziz stopped and then added in a grave tone, “That will be a big mistake, and I will tell you why. If you attempt such a stunt, I will blow this great building of yours to kingdom come and all of the hostages with it. My men and I will gladly become martyrs for our cause, and you know it.” Aziz paused for a moment. “It does not need to come to that, however. The only reason why I killed those two hostages was because of the stupidity of your attorney general. If you and I play by the rules, no one needs to die. You hand over all of the money in one hour, and I release a third of the hostages. It is as simple as that. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes.”
“Good. From now on, McMahon, I talk to you and only you. Now I will await the rest of the money.” Aziz calmly placed the phone back in its cradle. He knew exactly how to play them.
16
THE VICE PRESIDENT and the others sat in silence around the conference table. There was a knock on the door followed by a slight pause. Then the door opened cautiously and McMahon and Irene Kennedy entered. The men sitting around the table were sullen. FBI Director Roach looked up and asked, “Who did they kill?”
Irene Kennedy answered. “We don’t know who the woman was, but the man was Bill Schwartz.”
Every person in the room lowered his or her head. They had all worked with Schwartz at one time or another, and he was well liked. After a long period of silence, Vice President Baxter asked, “If we give him the money, will he release a third of the hostages?”
The question was greeted with shrugs and uncertainty by all of the men sitting at the table. Eventually all eyes turned to Kennedy. She was the expert. Slowly, she nodded her head and then said, “I think he will keep his word.”
The vice president took in the analysis with pursed lips. It was what he wanted to hear. Dallas King leaned over and cupped his hand over his boss’s ear. Whispering, he said, “If he starts killing a hostage every hour, we are in some serious trouble. I don’t care how much it costs, or what they do with the money, if we can free a third of the hostages, I say we do it.”
Baxter nodded as King eased away and back into his seat. King was right. They were boxed in, and there were only two ways out. As far as Baxter was concerned, one of them wasn’t even an option. The vice president looked at FBI Director Roach and said, “Brian, would you start the wheels in motion for transferring the rest of the money into the account? It is my decision that we will wait until he releases one third of the hostages, and then we will proceed from there. Any questions?” Baxter looked around the room and everyone shook their heads. Baxter then looked back to the head of the FBI. “Let me know if you run into any problems, and make sure it’s done within the hour. We don’t need to see any more hostages gunned down.”
Roach nodded, and he and McMahon left the room.
The aged director of central intelligence sat in his chair and observed. He hadn’t had a lot of face time with the vice president prior to the crisis and was still trying to get a good read on him. Baxter seemed to despise the fact that he had been put in this situation. That worried Thomas Stansfield. Great leaders rose to the occasion. They almost thrived when confronted with a crisis. This man seemed to shrink from it.
Turning in his chair, Stansfield got back to the business at hand. “Mr. Vice President, we need to make some contingency plans.”
Baxter nodded. “I know . . . I know, but let’s just take it one step at a time. Let’s get some of the hostages released, and then we’ll deal with the next demand.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have that luxury, sir.” Stansfield paused. “What if his next demand is untenable?” Stansfield had decided to wait until he had a full report from Dr. Hornig before he briefed the vice president on what they knew from Harut.
“I really don’t want to think about that right now.”
General Flood leaned forward, miffed at Baxter’s reply. “We have no choice but to think about it. We have to be ready to move if this thing gets out of control.”
Baxter squirmed. All eyes in the room were on him, and he desperately wanted to avoid making a decision. Why would he have to be the butcher? Finally, reluctantly, he let out the difficult words, though they didn’t exactly ring with confidence. “Get everything in place, and if the time comes, I’ll be ready to give the order.”
The large warrior turned to Stansfield, and the two men exchanged knowing glances. Baxter did not have what it would take. He was in over his head and would blow in the wind until the last possible second.
The vice president placed his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes. Without looking up, he said, “Let’s take a break and meet back here in thirty minutes. I need some time alone . . . to think.”
Everyone, with the exception of King, rose and started for the door. Baxter looked at his chief of staff and said, “You too, Dallas. Go check on Marge, and see how she’s doing.” King nodded and left with the others.
IT HAD BEEN an absolute bear to get from Langley to Capitol Hill. Traffic was horrendous due to the street closures and the large crowds around the White House. Rapp turned his black Volvo from Second Street on to Pennsylvania Avenue and gunned it to get around a cabbie who was driving like he had his head shoved up his ass. The farther Rapp traveled away from the Capitol, the worse the neighborhood got. The mix of homes went from nicely restored to run-down and dilapidated eyesores. Several blocks later, Rapp took a left and found the home he had been looking for, an immaculate turn-of-the-century Victorian with fresh paint and ornate woodwork. The home was sandwiched in between two rotting houses of similar architecture that were in dire need of repair.
Rapp parked his car in front of the nice Victorian and
looked at his dashboard clock: 9:16. Events at the White House would be under way. He reached for his digital phone, but decided against it. Irene would have enough going on. She didn’t need a call from him, and besides, he wasn’t in the mood for bad news. Rapp got out of the car, his holstered Beretta bulging underneath the right armpit of his suit coat. He pulled his sunglasses down a notch on his nose and started up the sidewalk.
Standing on the porch was Milt Adams, all five feet five inches of him. His head was shaved and his dark black skin glistened in the sunlight. Despite his slight stature, he gave one the impression of a much larger individual.
As Rapp reached the steps, a rather large German shepherd was coming-down from the porch straight for him. Rapp tensed at his natural urge to pull out his gun and shoot the dog. He hated dogs—strike that—he didn’t hate dogs per se, just the guard-dog variety. They were an occupational hazard that he was none too fond of. Knowing that to show fear was suicidal, Rapp stood as stiff as a board with his hands at his side. Sure enough, the dog came right up and stuck its snout in his crotch. Rapp’s immediate reaction was to take a step back, but it did no good, the dog simply followed, sniffing loudly.
From the porch, Milt Adams shouted in a deep drill-instructor voice, “Rufus, heel!” The dog immediately wheeled and headed up the steps, heeding the command and taking up a post at his owner’s side. Adams reached down and scratched the dog under the neck. “Good boy, Rufus. Good boy.”
