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“That’s it?” asked Rapp surprised. “There’s only one tunnel?”
Adams nodded. “There’s only one tunnel. All the BS Hollywood puts out has most people thinking there’s a dozen secret tunnels heading in every different direction.” Adams shook his head. “Not true.”
Disappointed, Rapp said, “So there’s no other way in belowground.”
“I didn’t say that.” Adams held up a finger and smiled. He then stepped over to the other drafting table. “During the Reagan administration the Army Corps of Engineers installed a new heating, ventilation, and cooling system. This HVAC they installed was really impressive stuff . . . very high tech. Besides providing all of the basic heating and cooling requirements, the system is designed to keep the air pressure inside the White House higher than the air pressure outside.”
“Why?” asked Rapp.
“Maintaining a higher internal pressure ensures that all air flow, either through open doors, windows, or cracks, will always flow out instead of in. This way if anyone tries to introduce a biological or chemical weapon into the building’s environment, they couldn’t do it by simply releasing the toxin upwind from the building. They would have to get inside the building and release it, and even if they did, the system is equipped with alarms and filters.”
Rapp thought he saw where Adams was going and asked, “Where does the system get its air?”
“The system has two sets of intake and exhaust ducts. The first is located on the roof of the White House, and the second is located here.” Adams pointed to an area on the South Lawn. “The duct is hidden under a clump of fake bushes not more than fifteen yards from the fence on the east side, just south of Jackie Kennedy’s rose garden. The duct drops thirty feet straight down and then runs for a little over two hundred feet, where it connects with the main system in the engineering room of the third basement.”
Rapp looked at the drawing. “What kind of cover is there around this duct? Could you get to it without someone from the roof seeing you?”
“There’s plenty of cover. Come over here, and I’ll show you on the model.” Adams walked over to the middle of the room and proudly pulled two white sheets off the large table. Lying before them on the table was a detailed model of the White House and its grounds. “This is what retirement does to you, Mitch. I started this project almost twenty years ago with one of my nephews. It took me almost all of that time to get half of it finished, and then I retired and finished the rest of it in six months.”
Rapp stared at the model and searched for the duct in question. Readinghis mind, Adams reached down and moved a small bush. “Here’s your way in.” Adams’s skinny black hand pointed at a green metal shaft that came out of the ground and then looped back down in an inverted U with the open end pointing at the ground.
Rapp studied the trees and bushes between the vent and the White House. “You’re sure someone on the roof wouldn’t see me approaching the duct?”
“I don’t think so. Your problem, as I
see it, is whether or not they are in control of the Secret Service’s surveillance and alarm system. This entire area”—Adams pointed at the fence—“is loaded with sensors. If they have our system, they’ll know you’re there the second you step over the fence.”
Rapp folded his arms and grabbed his chin. Looking down at the model, he studied the large horseshoe-shaped fence that ringed the South Lawn and nodded.
“We can overcome that, though.” Adams dismissed the problem with a wave of his hand. “Through a diversion or something. . . . Your real problem is going to be finding your way around once you get inside the building. There are secret doors, elevators, stairs, passageways—you name it . . . and you won’t find any of them on a blueprint or a model. Hell, half the agents on the presidential detail don’t know where all of the stuff is. You are going to need someone with you who knows their way around that place. . . .” Adams paused for a second. “Or you’re going to have to tell me what you have in mind, so I can help you plan it.”
Rapp looked up from the model and studied Milt Adams. A decision had to be made. Adams had to be either brought onboard or kept in the dark, and Rapp didn’t have the patience to debate the pros and cons with Kennedy and Stansfield.
DALLAS KING WAS standing in a small office across the hall from the FBI’s command post. He had been there for five frustrating minutes while a paramedic worked on Tutwiler. King looked down at the attorney general and shook his head.
The paramedic that was checking her out finished taking her blood pressure and said, “I think she’s in shock.”
“Shit.” King paced back and forth. “So what are you telling me? Can she speak to the press or not?”
“No.” The female paramedic, who was still on one knee, frowned. “She needs to get to a hospital.” Tutwiler was sitting frozen on a brown leather couch, her eyes staring blankly into space.
King placed his hands over his mouth and swore three times in rapid succession. Next, he grabbed at his hair and said, “I fucking knew it.”
Turning back toward the paramedic, he said, “Take her to Bethesda, and I don’t want anyone talking to her.” King yanked the door open and began marching down the hallway, his arms swinging wildly. When he reached the other side of the building, he ignored the gaggle of Secret Service agents standing outside the conference room and entered without knocking.
King slammed the door behind him and screamed an expletive.
Vice President Baxter, startled by the unexpected intrusion, spun around in his chair with a look of thorough irritation on his face. “Dallas, I said I wanted to be alone.”
“The stupid bitch is in shock.”
“What?” asked a confused Baxter.
“Tutwiler . . . the bitch is in shock . . . she cracked.” An angry expression contorted King’s face. “She can’t talk . . . She’s on her way to the hospital.”
Baxter closed his eyes and moaned, “Oh, great.”
King began pacing up and down next to the conference table, while Baxter buried his face in his cupped hands.
