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Harris knew the exact exercise Wicker was referring to. It had been on his mind since the onset of this entire cluster fuck. Slowly, Harris began to nod. And then with a smile of his own, he looked to Wicker and said, “Don’t ever tell anybody that. The boys at the Secret Service might not understand your professional curiosity.”
“Oh, they understand.” Wicker nodded.“We’ve talked about this shot a hundred times.”
The “boys at the Secret Service” that they were referring to were the men of the countersniper unit, widely regarded as the best professional shooters, from top to bottom, in the world. There wasn’t a single shot at the Secret Service that could match Wicker under combat conditions, but in a controlled urban environment, they were awesome.
Harris looked back at the White House. Snipers were a weird lot. Kind of like goaltenders in hockey or pitchers in baseball. They were loners, fiercely independent, and more than a little superstitious. “What do you need to make it happen?”
Wicker pulled several pieces of paper from his vest. Unfolding them, he held them up for his CO. “First thing we have to do is build a shooting platform. With the right men and equipment, I can have it ready by sundown.”
Harris looked at the drawings. “What about the noise?”
Wicker reached over and flipped to the second page. “We place a top over the platform and line it with acoustic foam. We leave a nice narrow slit at the front, and we’re set. Only about five percent of the report will make its way out of the slit, and that won’t travel more than a block, tops.”
Harris loved that Wicker was ahead of the game. Handing Wicker the drawing, he slapped him on the back and said, “Good job, Slick. I like it. Make it happen as fast and quiet as you can. Get out of your coveralls, and tell the rest of your boys to wear their civvies.” Looking at his watch, he added, “I want you operational by eighteen hundred.”
With that Harris started down the hatch, confident that Wicker would have everything in place by the appointed hour. Now came the hard part. He would have to convince the big boys that an exercise he had participated in eight years ago would work today. Harris already had the pitch formed. He would keep it as simple as possible and use SEAL Team Six as the tip of the spear. Delta and HRT would provide the overwhelming force when the time was right.
THE WORDS WEREN’T going to come easy. At least not at first. Anna Rielly was both a proud and a stubborn person, but she was not, as Rapp thought, an ingrate. Milt Adams had closed the door to the stash room, and Rielly was left facing the man who had saved her life.
As Rielly looked at him, she decided she liked him much better when he smiled. In his current serious mood, he looked dangerous. Not just his dark clothes and the various weapons strapped to his lean body, but his chiseled jawline and those dark eyes. The man had an intensity about him that Rielly hadn’t noticed before. His tanned weathered face had the strong lines acquired by a man who does not spend his days in an office. It was the eyes, though, that both drew her in and made her want to shiver. Dark pools of brown. So dark they were almost black. Framed on top by two thick eyebrows. This was the man who was capable of killing. The man who had plunged his knife into her assailant.
Rielly’s mouth must have been slightly open because it was suddenly void of moisture. She closed it and swallowed hard; then opening it slowly, she said, “I’m sorry for the way I handled that situation earlier. I don’t want to seem like I’m”—she paused, struggling to get the next word out—“ungrateful.”
Rielly had to look down. It was difficult to look into those dark eyes and make the apology. “I’m not crazy about signing anything. Especially something the government wants me to sign.” Rielly looked up and made a halfhearted effort at a smile, but the dark orbs on Rapp’s face turned her gaze back down.
“I realize this thing is a lot bigger than me, and if there is anything I can do to help save the rest of the hostages, I’m more than willing to do my part. As far as what happens when this is over . . . if you wish to remain anonymous, I will honor that. If you feel, or whoever you work for feels, that you need to edit my story before I tell it . . .” Rielly was forced to pause again, feeling very uncomfortable with this particular concession. Still looking at the ground, she said, “If you really feel the need to edit out material that you are absolutely sure is too sensitive to report . . . I’ll go along. I’ll probably do it kicking and screaming, but I’ll do it.”
Rapp was conflicted. His opinion of the young and attractive Ms. Rielly had already been etched into his mind and filed away. Now it appeared he might have been mistaken. She had been wrong, but now she was correcting that, taking a big step to humble herself and admit it. The ball was back in Rapp’s court.
37
HER ELBOWS RESTED heavily on the table. The hum of computers, faxes, scanners, and monitors droned in the background. The control room at Langley was in the midst of a lull. Kennedy’s hands cupped her chin, and her eyes were closed. Opening her eyes, she looked at the red digital clock on the wall. It was almost half past noon. She let out a yawn and stretched her arms above her head. Things were about to happen. She had felt it herself and seen it in the look Thomas Stansfield had given her.
The light on her phone blinked once and then began to ring. She grabbed the handset and answered, “Dr. Kennedy.”
“Irene, it’s Jane. I’ve been busy trying to get an answer to your question, but things have proved a little more difficult than I thought.”
“How so?”
“Well, the subject is not entirely with us.”
Kennedy frowned. “Will he be coming back?”
“No.” There was a substantial pause and then, “At least, I don’t think so.” Then in a slightly defensive tone Dr. Hornig added, “You must remember, this is all new, very cutting-edge stuff.”
“Did you get anything out if him?”
“From what little I could gather, Harut had no idea what this Yassin fellow’s talents were. But please keep in mind, he’s not all there.”
Irene didn’t want to hear excuses; she wanted answers. “Did you get anything out of him?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Okay. If you find anything out, please let me know.” Kennedy disconnected the call and dialed an international number. While the secure satellite technology at Langley started the process, Kennedy turned around and checked to see what her boss was doing.
Thomas Stansfield sat comfortably in his chair while Jonathan Brown, the deputy director of central intelligence, relayed a slew of congressional complaints and inquiries. From what little Kennedy heard, she gathered that the congressman and senators on the Hill were demanding to know what in the hell happened last night.
The familiar voice of Colonel Fine answered on the other end, and Kennedy turned around. “Ben, it’s Irene. Have you found anything out on Yassin?”
