Vince Flynn - Transfer of Power

“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 ofwarch’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 of Burkes 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 the 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 clay like 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.

Hasan yanked open the remnants of the Marilyn Monroe door. A cloud of cordite filled the air, and Bengazi and his men pulled their gas masks all the way down. The forklift lurched forward, the two men carrying the RPGS clinging to the sides, as Bengazi gunned the powerful engine. The heavy yellow machine thundered into the concrete tunnel as the agile ATVS raced down the ramp one by one, their knobby rubber tires squealing as they turned hard for the tunnel.

The Washington Hotel

ON THE TOP floor of the Washington Hotel, in the cluttered janitor’s closet, Salim Rusan was waiting patiently. Laid out before him on a clean white towel was a Russian-made SVD sniper rifle. The SVD fired a powerful 7.62-mmx54 rimmed cartridge and could achieve accurate kills at ranges of up to a thousand yards in the right hands. Rusan did not plan to use even a quarter of the rifle’s range. On top of the long rifle, almost fifty inches from shoulder butt to muzzle, was a PSO 1x4 scope. A ten-round magazine was inserted in the rifle, and a second magazine was in Rusan’s pocket. That was all the ammunition Aziz had allowed him to take. Aziz had been adamant that Rusan was to stay for no longer than two minutes and then leave the hotel. There were other things that he would be needed for later.