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“Good.”
“May I sit?”
Aziz rubbed his eyes. “Yes.”
Bengazi set his AK-74 on the table and sat. Looking guardedly toward his leader, he asked, “What are your thoughts on tomorrow?”
Aziz unfolded his arms and checked his watch. “By nightfall we should have the president in our hands, and then”—Aziz’s lips parted and turned upward at the edges—“we will truly have the upper hand.”
“Will you tell them that we have him tonight, or will you wait until the morning?”
“I will tell them in the morning.” Aziz gestured to the TVs. “They have been reporting that the UN will meet our demands. Vice President Baxter will keep them at bay until he gets his next batch of hostages tomorrow.”
Bengazi was persistently guarded. “You do not think they will come tonight?”
Aziz shook his head, feeling so confident in his prediction that he didn’t need to give a verbal response.
“I wish I shared your optimism, but after what they tried to do this morning I can’t help but think they are preparing to attack.”
The comment caused Aziz to smile. “That is why you are so valuable, Muammar. You are so cautious. They will not do anything until they hear the next round of demands.” Aziz tapped the side of his head with his forefinger. “You need to understand the American mind. Especially the mind of the politician. Being decisive is not in their character. They will put off making a decision until they are forced to do so. Right now they have gained the release of a third of the hostages and they are playing under the assumption that they can continue to negotiate for the release of more.”
Bengazi frowned. “It makes no sense to me. Surely the military is advising to attack.”
“They probably are, but it makes no difference. As long as the politicians think they can free more hostages without firing a shot, they will do so.”
“Not when they find out what the next demands are.” Bengazi shook his bald forehead. “There is no way.”
“When we have our hands on the president, everything will change. Speaking of the president, how is our little thief proceeding?”
“He says he is still on schedule. Sometime around seven this evening.”
Aziz smiled with anticipation. “It will be a great moment.”
Bengazi nodded slowly, not sharing in his leader’s complete confidence. After looking down at the table for a while, he said, “I think we should announce that we have the president as soon as we get him out of the bunker.”
“Why?”
“It will deter the Americans from attacking.”
Shrugging, Aziz placed his hands behind his neck. “My plan will not change. When I make my final demand tomorrow, I will need the surprise of having the president standing beside me to shock the world into doing what is right.”
42
RIELLY STRETCHED OUT on the concrete floor, her legs before her forming a V. First the left leg, hold it for a twenty count, and then the right. The stretching felt good.
While she worked out the soreness in her legs and lower back, she thought about her career. Rielly was, after all, an insider. She had pulled back the curtain and had watched and participated in the Mighty and Powerful Oz’s show. The public was not allowed to peer behind that curtain, to see how stories were shaped, how careers were made or broken around those one-week periods known as Sweeps Week. The public never saw how producers and executives juiced up stories. Exaggerating some details and downplaying or ignoring others. How they went after something or someone, not based on how strong or important the story was, but what their ratings books told them.
Anna knew her story would be hot. It would be more than hot. It would be incredible. She would have to be cautious. NBC would try to suck the story from her on every possible outlet: the Today show, Dateline, CNBC, and MSNBC. They owned her; there were no illusions about that. She was on the clock, and her contract left no loopholes for appearing on other network news shows. To keep her happy, they would repay her with exposure, probably allow her to do some stories for Dateline. That was the way the game was played.
There would be a book deal, for sure, but she would have to be careful-about that. She wanted to write it herself, and take her time—no bigbucks, hire-a-ghostwriter, and have-it-on-the-shelves-in-two-months deal. The key would be to find the right agent. One who was willing to push for money and more time. The result would be a more authoritative story. She honestly felt that this was a story that needed to be told, but in the right way—dignified, worthy of the seriousness of the situation and of the people who had died.
She would work with Mitch Kruse. Rielly smiled pleasantly at the thought of the man who had saved her. He was all man and then some. Nothing pretty about him. Handsome and rugged. A real man. As to his real identity, the no-brainer answer was that he worked for the CIA, but one could never tell. He could be FBI. They weren’t exactly forthright with information either—at least when dealing with journalists. Rielly could hardly blame them, though. She’d seen her father and his fellow law enforcement brethren get burned countless times by dishonest journalists. Rielly had vivid memories of her father’s scathing criticism of reporters, especially newspaper reporters. Barely a week passed when he wouldn’t throw the paper down in disgust and explain to her mother how the reporter had his or her facts all screwed up. Seeing how lax reporting affected her father served as motivation for Rielly to get things right. That’s what she would do with the book.
Rielly smiled as the ideas fell into place. The very thing that would make the story all the more appealing, and at the same time honor Kruse’s request, would be to keep him as he was—a very lethal, dark, rugged, and anonymous individual. She would be protecting her source, just like a good reporter, and it would only add to the intrigue of the book.
Rielly heard something on the other side of the door. Her heart leapt into her throat, but before she could scurry for cover, the door opened. Rapp and Adams quickly entered the room. Rielly placed her right hand on her chest and felt her pounding heart.
From her spot on the floor, she said, “You guys scared the hell out of me.”
