Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

“Yes,” Rashid said quietly.

Haddad looked at the other men. “And if Rashid should suffer a failure of strength, or if others should prevent him from achieving his goal, who among you will step forward in his place?”

“I will!” the others said in unison.

Haddad smiled. His work here was done.

Bidding them all assalamu alaikum, he went back into the tunnel and disappeared into the darkness.

“Okay, Jack, I’m finally in and I’ve got visuals,” Dave Karras said. “This place is massive.”

No kidding, Jack thought. There was four thousand years’ worth of art stored inside the Legion of Honor and at least twenty-four huge rooms split between two floors dedicated to displaying it. A third floor below was the archive basement, where works that weren’t currently on display were stored. That left the subbasement, another elevator stop down.

After parting company, Jack and Tony had circulated through the building, moving room to room, each looking for a way to get down to the subbasement. But every stairwell that Jack encountered was being guarded, and the public elevators had been locked off to restrict travel to only the main two floors. Tony reported that he’d discovered the same thing.

The good news was the Secret Service seemed to be concentrating on the main courtyard, where the President would be making his appearance, leaving the museum security staff to handle the rest. Not that these men and women weren’t capable, but Jack felt more comfortable running up against a museum guard than he did a trained Secret Service agent.

That said, the place was still sewn up tight and the clock was counting down. The President would be arriving at any moment.

Jack needed to get down to that subbasement.

He was standing in the main foyer now, looking out toward the courtyard. “Tell me you’ve got something for me,” he said to Karras.

“The main concern of the video network is protection of the artwork,” Karras said. “Each exhibit room is equipped with a camera mounted high in the corner with a wide-angle lens. Unfortunately, it looks like nearly every corridor in the place has something on display, and even the stairwells themselves are equipped with video. You try to make a move, they’ll be on you like piranha.”

“Maybe you should just walk up to one of these guys and tell them there’s a bomb in the building,” Max suggested.

“You forget,” Jack told her, “we don’t know who we can and can’t trust. And how exactly am I supposed to convince them I’m not just some kind of wack-job?” He paused and said, “What about the basement, Dave? Any cameras in there?”

“Not a one, as far as I can tell. And-hold on. I think I may have a way to get you down there.”

“Tell me.”

“You have a problem with small spaces?”

“I live on a boat, remember?”

“I’m talking laundry-chute small.”

“Spit it out, Dave, or I’ll have Maxine smack you around a little.”

Karras paused, as if considering the benefits of hesitating, then said, “According to these blueprints, in the far right corner of the building on the terrace level there’s a small room near the cafe with a laundry chute. It’s probably where they dump all their soiled linen.”

“I can confirm that,” Tony piped in. “I saw one of the white coats pushing a cart in there just five minutes ago.”

“Right,” Karras said. “I’ve checked all the cameras and there’s none in the corridor that leads to that room. It’s a complete dead spot. Apparently wine-stained tablecloths aren’t a security priority.”

“So the laundry chute is our way in,” Jack said.

“That’s the long and short of it.”

Outside in the courtyard the string quartet suddenly stopped playing, then launched into a rousing rendition of “Hail to the Chief,” as a caravan of limousines pulled up to the palace entrance. The crowd of gawkers outside grew visibly excited and started migrating toward the cars as Secret Service men gestured them back.

“All right,” Jack said, checking his watch. “We don’t have much time. Tony, meet me in that corridor in three minutes.”

“Will do,” Tony acknowledged.

Jack turned to head back toward the rotunda. As he did, a voice sang out behind him.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the illustrious Mr. Hatfield.”

Jack turned to find Special Agent Carl Forsyth approaching him from the courtyard-the agent who had tried very hard to humiliate him at that FBI press conference several days ago.

Forsyth gestured to the courtyard behind him. “The President’s this way, Jack. Aren’t you headed in the wrong direction?”

Jack hesitated. “Bathroom break.”

Forsyth smiled. “Come on now, hotshot, we both know that isn’t true. You know what I think? I think you’re here to stir up trouble.”

Forsyth’s smile faded as two more special agents stepped up behind him, reaching into their jackets.

They didn’t look like they were there for the wine.

Even with the map it took Doc Matson a while to find the entry point.

Doc’s friend had only been able to give them a vague location and a couple of signposts. He’d told Doc that the real expert on the bunker was a woman named Tally Griffin, but she’d been out with a new boyfriend the last couple days and no one had seen or heard from her.

That didn’t sound good to Doc. A hunch told him the bad guys had found out about Tally, used her to get in, and didn’t want anyone to know.

So Doc did his best, using what little information he had, to lead Abernathy and Goldman down the cliff toward the water, and around an outcropping of rocks. The full moon helped, but finding the precise tree with the precise grouping of stones had not been easy, and Doc cursed the thought that this entire half-baked enterprise might be derailed by a tree that some piss-sniffing dog could find.

Now that he had time to think, he was probably crazy doing this in the first place. They all were. But Doc and Tony Antiniori went back a long way, and if you couldn’t count on your friends when your back was against the wall, who could you rely on? Besides, it had been a while since Doc had gotten an adrenaline shot like the last twenty-four hours, and a guy his age needed as much excitement as he could find.

They were a ragtag crew, the three of them, no question about it, and Doc kinda felt as if he were a refugee from some Sylvester Stallone movie. Only this was real life, and if they were right about what was going on in those tunnels they wouldn’t be facing Hollywood special effects but real, honest-to-God Muslim fanatics, with real, honest-to-God firepower.

But Doc had lived a long, fruitful life and had fought many wars in the defense of his country. If today was the day he finally gave his life for that cause, so be it. His only real family was Tony and these two guys, so he couldn’t think of better company to do it in.

After further exploration they found the tree with the three stones in front of it. The largest stone had already been moved, and there, under the beam of Doc’s Mini Maglite, was a crevice in the ground that left no doubt that they’d found what they were looking for.

Time to get to it.

They had decided to travel light for easy maneuverability, so they each carried only handguns-Abernathy with his SIG 9 mil, Goldman sporting a Smith amp; Wesson. 45, and Doc carrying his usual Beretta 92FS Semi-Auto 9mm.

Doc shimmied in through the crevice first, taking a short drop into the darkness and landing on a cement floor. He stood there for a moment, listening for any sounds, but the place was as silent as a tomb. Flashing his light toward the opening, he waited as Abernathy and Goldman shimmied through and dropped, then shone his beam toward the rebar ladder that led down a shaft to their right.