Transfer of Power Page 8

  Warch continued to squeeze his forehead. “Today. You think it’s planned for today?”

  “Yes.”

  Warch looked at his watch. It was almost nine A.M. “I’ve got to get moving.” He grabbed his digital phone from the desk. “If you hear anything more, call me on my mobile.” He gave Kennedy the number and then hung up. Warch, who was more entrusted with the president’s life than any other person in the Secret Service, took every warning, no matter how small, very seriously. And a warning from the CIA’s lead official on terrorism ranked about as serious as it could get. Leaving his office in a hurry, he walked quickly down the hallway and started to run through a mental list of options.

  As Warch moved toward the exit, his mind fixed on the question of what type of assault could be planned. The Secret Service made it a priority to practice defending against different attacks on the president. They spent millions of dollars running their agents through their training center in Beltsville, Maryland, on a monthly basis. They practiced motorcade tactics, rope-line tactics, Air Force One and Marine One evacuations—almost every scenario one could think of. The analysis was in on truck bombs. With the barriers that were set up around the grounds, it would be impossible for a truck to get close enough. There would be a lot of broken glass, but the president would be safe. A plane, Warch thought. In every scenario they covered, an attack by a plane loaded with explosives represented the most lethal threat to the president.

  As Warch walked out the door and onto West Executive Drive, he raised his hand mike to his mouth and said, “Horsepower, from Warch. Tell Hercules to look sharp, and tell them I want the stingers out and ready.” Hercules was the call sign for the part of the detail that handled the rooftop. Warch hesitated for a second. He was tempted to put the entire White House detail on full alert but decided he should consult the president first. Hayes didn’t like surprises, and despite Kennedy’s intensity, this would not be the first time the Secret Service had been given a false alarm.

  8

  The White House

  ANNA RIELLY POKED her head into her new basement office. The windowless room was smaller than the kitchen of her not very roomy one-bedroom apartment back in Lincoln Park. There were three desks against three of the walls and barely enough room for all of the chairs in the middle. A handsome man in his early forties, whom Rielly recognized from TV, stood to greet her.

  “You must be Anna Rielly.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Stone Alexander, ABC’s White House correspondent. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Rielly shook his hand and looked dejectedly at her new office.

  Alexander read the disappointment on her face and said, “It’s not quite what you expected, is it?”

  “No. I mean I didn’t expect the Taj Mahal, but this is ridiculous.”

  “Don’t worry. Look at the fringe benefits.” Alexander grinned and held his arms out.

  Rielly eyed his sculpted hair, handsome face, and waxed eyebrows. “And what would those be?”

  Alexander smiled, showing a perfect set of bleached white teeth. “You get to work with me.”

  “Really?” said Rielly.

  “Yeah, really.” Alexander placed his hand on her shoulder and turned her out into the hall. “I was just on my way to get some coffee before you got here. Let’s go get a couple of cups, and I’ll show you around and introduce you to everyone.” As they walked toward the White House mess, Alexander continued his small talk. “So, how long have you been in town?”

  “Just got in yesterday.”

  “Has anyone shown you around yet?”

  “No. I haven’t even unpacked.”

  Alexander put his hand on her back and ushered her into the mess first. Rielly noticed that he let his hand linger on her back for an inappropriate amount of time. She looked around the cafeteria and was once again shocked by how small it was. There were probably twenty people sitting at the rectangular tables drinking coffee, eating, talking, and reading various newspapers.

  “So are you married?” asked Alexander.

  Rielly hesitated for a second and figured lying would do no good.

  “No.”

  Alexander grinned with optimism. “Maybe I could show you around tonight. I know a great new restaurant in Adams-Morgan.”

  “Thanks, but I have a lot of unpacking to do.”

  “A person has to eat,” he said persistently.

  Rielly realized Mr. Hormone would need to be dealt with a little more firmly and said, “Thanks, but I have a rule about dating reporters.”

  “And what would that be?” asked Alexander, his smile still plastered across his face.

  “I don’t,” Rielly said as she continued to look around the room.

  “And why is that?”

  Rielly turned around and, with a sarcastic grin, replied, “I don’t trust them.”

  Alexander laughed. “Are there any other rules I need to know about?”

  “Yeah . . . I don’t like to date men who are prettier than I am.”

  “THIS IS THE Roosevelt Room. It is called that because of the two portraits that hang on its walls.” Piper stepped into the room and motioned to the two paintings. Aziz strained to remain calm as Piper stopped at every painting, statue, and room on the way to the Oval Office. Acting his part as a West Wing tour guide, Piper babbled on about the history of the building, and Aziz nodded politely.

  “You’ll notice that the portrait of Franklin Delano Roosevelt hangs above the fireplace mantel and the portrait of Teddy Roosevelt hangs over here to our right. It has become a tradition at the White House that whenever the sitting president is a Republican, Teddy’s portrait hangs over the fireplace, and when a Democrat is in office, the portraits are switched and FDR’s portrait hangs in the position of honor.” Piper folded his hands in front of his robust midsection and smiled at the rendering of his party’s icon.

  While Aziz feigned interest in the artwork and historical rooms, he had marked and counted the exact position of every Secret Service officer and agent they had passed. It all seemed so easy as he casually walked among them. He was a welcomed and honored guest in a place he did not belong. All of the fences, high-tech security, and heavily armed Secret Service agents were there to stop him, and not a single one of them had the slightest clue that within their midst walked their greatest fear.

  Piper rubbed a hand along the long shiny surface of the Roosevelt Room’s conference table. “A lot of our guests get this room confused with the Cabinet Room. That however, is across the hall and on our way to the pressroom. I’ll show you those when we’re done meeting with the president.” Piper walked to the fireplace and stopped. “I almost forgot.” Gesturing to a small bronze sculpture on the mantel, he said, “This is something we are very proud of. Our previous First Lady, also a Democrat I might add”—Piper beamed with pride—“had this bust of Eleanor Roosevelt added to the room. She felt that the room was too much of a boys’ club and felt that a woman needed to be added to the mix.”

  Aziz looked at the small statue and said, “In my country such an idea would be ludicrous.” He turned and walked to the open doorway to his right. As he looked across the hall, Aziz felt both a wave of elation and tension rising up from within. He knew from studying the floor plans of the White House that the door in front of him was one of four doors that led to the Oval Office. It was open, and from where he was standing, he could clearly see the rich blue carpet and furniture arranged in front of the fireplace. He was so close.

  Standing next to the door was a very large and serious-looking Secret Service agent. The agent’s sandy brown hair was cut short around his ears, and his neck bulged underneath his white shirt and tie. Aziz did a quick inventory as his eyes met the agent’s and slid downward. Before turning back to Piper, Aziz noted that the agent was left-handed. The bulge on the agent’s left hip was caused by his Secret Service standard issue SIG-Sauer handgun.

  Piper joined Aziz in the doorway and said, “Are you ready to meet the presi
dent?”

  Aziz nodded and willed himself forward at Piper’s side, his legs feeling rubbery as the adrenaline began to pump through his veins. Aziz stepped into the hallway, and for a split second he wondered if it could be a trap, if they might know who he really was. But before he could worry any further, they were at the door, and Piper was knocking on the frame.

  Piper stepped into the executive office first, and Aziz followed. The chairman of the DNC stopped abruptly just inside the room and looked at the president, who was on the phone.

  President Hayes placed a hand over the mouthpiece and said, “Take a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Aziz stood teetering on the balls of his feet, caught in complete indecision. He swallowed once to try to quench his quickly drying throat and then looked to Piper, who was whispering something to him. Slowly, Aziz took his focus off the president.

  Piper motioned to one of the couches by the fireplace and in a hushed voice said, “Let’s have a seat over here. He’ll be with us in a minute.”

  Aziz followed Piper to the couch and calculated his chances of rushingthe president. The door they had just come through was still open, and he knew that there were agents posted outside two of the room’s other three doors. Aziz had also guessed that the president had security measures in and around his desk. With only a small composite knife as a weapon, he couldn’t risk alerting the agents posted outside the office until the president was within reach. But he was so close. Aziz calculated that he could cover the twenty feet to the desk in two seconds at the most. It would take the agents almost that long to draw their weapons. Think fast, he told himself as a film of sweat began to form on his skin.

  Piper plopped down on the couch and patted the seat next to him. Aziz nodded and stepped past Piper. It was time to sit or move. Aziz looked across the room at the president, who had just swiveled in his chair and turned his back to them. Hayes was looking out the window while he talked on the phone; his head was all that could be seen above the back of his black leather chair. In that split second Aziz decided to move.

  He checked the underside of his belt to make sure the knife was there and then brought his left hand up toward his chest. Aziz looked down at the watch and selected the correct button that would send out the signal to the men waiting in the truck. He was about to make history, about to strike a blow for all of Islam. Piper said something from behind him, but Aziz did not hear the words. His attention was elsewhere.

  Slowly, he brought his other hand up to the watch. Aziz brought his gaze down to his wrist to make sure he pressed the right button. His heart was pumping so fast he felt his temples begin to throb. A layer of sweat on his skin glistened, and his hands were clammy. So moist were his palms that he stopped short of pressing the button and decided to wipe the sweat from his palms one last time. He ran his opened hands up and down the thighs of his pants twice, reminding himself while he did it how difficult it was to hold the small knife. When his palms were as dry as he could get them, he brought the watch back up and went to press the button.

  His right index finger poised over the button, Aziz sensed movement and stopped everything. He looked up. From the door to the right of the president’s desk, a woman in a bright yellow blouse came walking quickly forward. She continued around the nearest side chair to where the president was sitting and deposited a stack of papers on his desk.

  Aziz exhaled a deep breath, his body trembling in a release of energy as he did so. Piper said something again, and Aziz turned around to face him.

  “Sit down, Prince Kalib.”

  Aziz looked back toward the president and the woman, and then sat. A bead of nervous sweat ran down his forehead, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Asked Piper. “You look a little warm.”

  Aziz turned and smiled. “It is a little warm in here, but nothing compared to my country.”

  “That’s a good point.”

  Slowly, Aziz began to regain his composure. He reminded himself of how far he had come, and of how close he was to obtaining everything he had struggled for. He needed the president to come to him. He needed to be patient. Aziz had waited this long; another minute would be nothing. When the president went to shake his hand, it would begin.

  SECRET SERVICE AGENT Warch walked into the president’s secretary’s office, which was sandwiched in between the Cabinet Room and the Oval Office.

  “Sally, I need to see him ASAP.”

  Sally Burke finished writing something and looked up, smiling. “Good morning, Jack.” The president’s secretary could tell by the tone of Warch’s voice that he was in a hurry, but he could take a number with all of the other people who daily streamed into her office in an attempt to get some face time with America’s highest elected official. “He’s in with someone right now. It’ll probably be twenty minutes to a half an hour.”

  Warch shook his head. “It can’t wait that long. I have to see him right away.”

  Burke had had many dealings with Warch over the last five months, but she had never seen him look quite so concerned.

  “I don’t know what you want me to do, Jack. He’s meeting with a foreign dignitary. We can hardly go bursting in.”

  “He’s meeting with what?” asked an angered Warch. “I didn’t see anything on his schedule.”

  Burke sat up a little straighter, somewhat surprised by the agent’s tone. “It was a last-minute change.”

  “Who is he meeting with?”

  “Russ Piper and ah—” Burke looked down at her desk. “Prince Kalib.”

  Warch’s forehead creased. “I don’t remember seeing a Prince Kalib on

  the WHAVS list.” WHAVS, pronounced “waves,” stood for White House Access Visitor System. The uniformed division used the system to screen guests for any criminal and/or mental history that could be threatening to the president.

  Burke looked up sheepishly. “I don’t know what to say. The DNC added him to the list late last night.”

  “Goddamnit,” cursed Warch through clenched teeth. “How many times do I have to tell you people that no one gets in to see him unless we’ve done a complete check?” Warch backed away from the desk and thought about his options. If he barged in on a meeting with a foreign dignitary and everything turned out to be a false alarm, Hayes would have his ass. Warch looked back to the president’s secretary. “Where is Prince Kalib from?”

  “Oman, I think.” Burke nervously checked her planner. Warch was acting very out of character. “Yes, he’s from Oman.”

  Warch’s suspicion doubled at the mention of the tiny Persian Gulf state. In a quick clipped voice, Warch asked, “Has he ever been to the White House before?”

  “No.” Burke shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

  Warch had to decide, and he had to decide fast. His mind quickly scrolled through a list of possibilities, and all the while his conversation with Irene Kennedy loomed larger and larger. Warch paced back and forth in front Burke’s desk, and then finally his instincts kicked in. He turned for the door that Special Agent Ellen Morton was standing next to, and his left hand snapped up to his mouth. He was about to make the best or the worst decision of his career. Into the hand mike, the special agent in charge of the president’s detail barked out the command, “Warch to detail. Harden up on the Oval Office!”

  PRESIDENT HAYES FINISHED writing a note to himself and said, “It was good talking to you, Harry. I appreciate your help on this. Thanks.” Hayes hung up the phone and stood. From the back of his chair, he grabbed his suit coat and put it on. The president tugged at each sleeve once and then buttoned the top button of the dark coat. Smiling, he stepped out from behind his desk, and with Valerie Jones at his side, he said, “Prince Kalib, it is an honor to finally meet you.”

  Rafique Aziz rose from the couch and smiled his first honest smile all morning. Subtly, he crossed his hands in front of his waist, letting his right hand fall on the wrist of his left. Aziz felt for t
he button, not wanting to take his eyes off the president. He had practiced it so many times and dreamt about it thousands of times more. This was how he had always thought it would be. The so-American gesture of shaking hands. It was the perfect opportunity to strike. He had been right to wait for the president to come to him. Aziz’s smile broadened even further as his index finger circled the face of the watch once, searching for the proper button. He found it and pressed it twice. Then his hand moved casually to his belt, a feeling of ecstasy washing over him as his hostage approached.

  The Treasury Building

  IN THE CAB of the White Knight Linen truck Abu Hasan felt the vibration on his hip and tossed his clipboard onto the floor of the cab. While his left hand jerked open the driver’s door, his right grabbed a small bundle. Hasan leapt from the cab in his green pants and white shirt. As he hit the concrete pavement of the parking garage floor, he heard a roar erupt from the cargo area of the truck as the forklift and ATVs were fired up. Hasan sprinted for the plain gray door and dropped to one knee, placing the small canvas bundle on the ground in front of him. He opened it and threw the thick sheets of cotton to the side, grabbed the preformed piece of plastique explosive, and attached it to the door. Hasan smacked the gray claylike material with the side of his fist twice to make sure it was secured and then stuck a blasting cap into the explosive material. Grabbing the reel of yellow Primacord, he ran along the same wall for twenty feet and hunched down. Hasan pressed the detonator, and a split second later there was a short, loud bang.

  The tailgate of the truck flew open immediately, and two men jumped to the ground. On the right-hand side, against the wall of the truck’s cargo area, the ramp lay on its side. The men yanked it from the vehicle and secured it just as Bengazi moved the forklift to the edge. The heavy machine teetered forward until the majority of its weight was on the ramp. Then Bengazi released the brake and let the machine carry itself to the concrete floor. As soon as all four wheels were on solid ground, Bengazi stepped on the gas and roared for the blown-away door. The two men with the RPGs ran alongside and jumped onto the side steps.