Vince Flynn - Transfer of Power

“You know the routine. We want you there if the need arises. We would, of course, prefer it if you kept a low profile.”

Rapp took the wallet and set it on the desk next to his holstered 9-mm Beretta. He quickly stripped down to his boxers while Kennedy and Stansfield began to question Hornig. A small pinkish scar was visible just above his left hip, about the size of a quarter, the mark left by the bullet of an overzealous and confused FBI agent. On his tanned lower back was a scar left by the knife of the surgeon who had removed the bullet.

“Have you got an exact number out of him yet?” asked Kennedy of Jane Hornig. “Yes”-Hornig shrugged her shoulders-“at least we think so.

Remember that everything we get out of him is what he thinks to be the truth. As far as Harut knows, there are twelve of them, counting Aziz.”

Hornig folded her arms across her chest and assumed a wider stance.

“What type of weapons?”

“Besides your standard firearms”-Hornig looked to Rapp, who was pulling on his dress pants-“a lot of plastique explosives. Mitch?”

Rapp grabbed a white T-shirt and said, “More than enough to blow the whole place to kingdom come.” Stansfield shook his head and asked, “What about his demands?”

“I haven’t had the chance to get around to that yet, but I’ll start as soon as we get him moved.”

Stansfield nodded.

“We have arranged to transfer you to one of the safe houses in Virginia.

You are to talk to no one other than Irene, Mitch, and me. Very few people outside of our immediate circle know we have Harut, and we would like to keep it that way. I need you to focus your questioning in the area of demands. We need to know what Aziz is going to ask for, before he asks for it.”

Hornig accepted her orders with a nod and cautioned, “If he knows what the demands are, I will find out.”

“And,” started Kennedy, “it would help if we got as complete a list as possible of the men Aziz brought with him.”

Hornig made another mental note. She was prepared to extract every last piece of information from Harut, and if they had a shopping list, she was more than willing to oblige.

“Mitch, can you think of anything else?” asked Kennedy.

Rapp shoved the tails of his white dress shirt into his pants and buttoned them.

“Yeah. I’d like to know how long he plans on hanging around, and how in the hell he plans on getting out of there. If I know aziz, he has a timetable, and he’s planned this entire thing down to the last minute.”

Stansfield nodded in agreement and said to Hornig, “You know how to get ahold of us. We’ll try to stay out of your way, but I want to be updated the moment you find anything of consequence.”

“I’ll get to work immediately.” Dr. Hornig pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose and nodded.

“Good. Mitch, let’s go. You can finish in the helicopter.”

Stansfield started for the door with Kennedy and Hornig on his heels.

Rapp grabbed the garment bag and the rest of his stuff and followed. As he stepped out of the office, he saw a gurney being wheeled across the smooth floor toward an ambulance. Harut was strapped to the top under a gray blanket.

A small outer door to the hangar was opened, and a stream of bright sunshine shot across the floor. Rapp could now hear the spinning rotors of a helicopter waiting on the tarmac. He paused for a second and watched as the gurney was shoved into the ambulance. Jane Hornig and her two assistants climbed in, and the doors were closed. Rapp was now frozen in thought as he looked at the ambulance pulling away.

Irene Kennedy appeared in the small door with her sunglasses on and her hair blowing in the wind. “Come on, Mitch.

We’re going to be late.”

Rapp, his concentration broken, turned to his boss and blinked several times. Kennedy waved for him to hurry, and Rapp jogged to the door, still wondering what it was that he was missing.

VICE PRESIDENT SHERMAN Baxter had returned to Washington from a fund-raising trip to New York as fast as his entourage could pull up stakes and ship out. Air Force One had landed at Andrews about forty minutes before Rapp and Dr. Hornig had set down.

Baxter sat in the back of the tanklike presidential limousine with his chief of staff, Dallas King, and Attorney General Margaret Tutwiler. As the motorcade of Secret Service vehicles raced through DC.” Dallas King laid out their strategy. The Stanford Law grad and San Diego native ran a hand through his signature bleach-blond hair.

“This crisis presents us with a unique opportunity.” King paused for emphasis and then looked at Attorney General Tutwiler.

“Your job in this is going to be crucial. Marge. We need to let the FBI know that Shem is in charge. We can’t have them withholding information from us, and we definitely can’t have them trying any rescue operations without our approval.” The thirty-two-year-old rising star smashed his fist into the palm of his hand for emphasis.

“Nothing goes down without our approval. Am I clear on that?”

Marge Tutwiler was just starting to get used to Dallas King’s ambitious style. Vice President Baxter’s lap dog was a charmer. He had good looks, a sharp mind, and a good sense of humor. The only thing he lacked was a sense of his place in the pecking order. Marge Tutwiler-California political activist, self-anointed law enforcement critic, and former USE law professor-was not used to anyone speaking to her in such a tone, let alone someone not much older than her not-so former students.

With a tired expression. Tutwiler said, “Dallas, I was dealing with the FBI when you were still riding around your little San Diego neighborhood on a Big Wheel. Don’t worry; I can handle them.”

Dallas smiled and reached across the back of the limo, gently placing his hand on the attorney general’s knee.

“I’m sorry, Marge. I didn’t mean to imply you didn’t know how to handle the FBI.” The perpetually tanned chief of staff released her knee and held both hands up in a token form of surrender.

“I just meant we need to strategize together.” Dallas flashed his wily smile and thought to himself. This bitch’s ego is bigger than her ass.

Sherman Baxter the Third, former governor of California and current vice president of the United States, cleared his throat and interjected, “No matter what our tides are, we are outsiders in this town, and don’t forget it. Dallas is right, Marge, and it doesn’t hurt to remind us that we need to keep the FBI on a short leash.” Sherman Baxter, like most politicians, had two very distinct personalities. Behind closed doors Baxter was extremely demanding and prone to fits of rage. The fifty-four-year-old Californian had grown to look at the Oval Office almost as if it were his birthright. In his mind, he deserved it a hell of a lot more than his running mate. If it hadn’t been for Baxter and his California connections. President Hayes would never have made it to the White House.

In public they were the perfect picture of cooperation, but behind closed doors Baxter’s contempt for his boss could not be concealed. In his eyes, Hayes was a complete simpleton who had managed to stumble into the White House because he had a cleaner sexual past than any of the other candidates-and, most important, because Sherman Baxter had delivered California.

When Baxter had decided to run with Hayes, he had looked upon the endeavor as a stepping-stone to the presidency.

After a grueling campaign and just five short months in office, Baxter was already tired of playing second fiddle to Hayes. Sherman Baxter the Third, heir to one of California’s finest family wineries, did not take kindly to receiving orders from a man whose family had made their money manufacturing radiator hoses. Three more years would be hard enough to take, and seven was absolutely unthinkable. As King and Tutwiler continued to talk, Baxter gazed out the window. His black hair was thinning, and he wore it slicked back. Baxter folded his left arm over his slightly bulging midsection and remembered something that King liked to say when they discussed the agony of another three years underneath Hayes the simp: “Don’t forget, you’re one heartbeat away from the presidency, boss. You never know when some nut might punch Hayes’s ticket.”