Transfer of Power

THEY WERE THE last two to enter Director Stansfield’s private conference room. As Kennedy and Mcmahon took their seats, an agitated Director Roach was already letting the others know how the FBI felt about the current situation.

“Horseshit” was the phrase he used to describe the mess the others had created and the lack of professional courtesy they had displayed.

Seated at the head of the table was Director Stansfield. To his left were Vice President Baxter and Dallas King. To the director’s right sat General Flood and Director Roach. Mcmahon and Kennedy took seats next to each other on Director Roach’s side of the table. It was a small meeting and intended to be so.

FBI Director Roach had paused for a brief moment when Kennedy and Mcmahon entered and then continued, saying, “I can see no valid reason for not informing us that you were sending those men into the building.

It absolutely mystifies me.” Roach shook his head.

“Skip and I have already talked about it… we would have agreed with sending them in. I just don’t get it.”

Vice President Baxter leaned forward and stabbed his index finger into the tabletop. Staring at General Flood, he started angrily, “I did not authorize sending any SEALS through that air duct.” Flood looked back at Baxter with barely masked contempt and then turned to Roach. “It’s my fault. I was given the authority to conduct surveillance, and we were presented with a unique opportunity.”

“I still don’t see why you couldn’t pick up the phone and call us,” said Roach.

Flood sat up a little straighter. He wanted to tell the director of the FBI that he was left out of the loop because the vice president had suggested it, but that was not the way things were done in Washington.

“In the flurry of events that took place early this morning, I made a critical mistake of not informing both of you.” General Flood looked to Baxter and then Roach. “I will make sure that it does not happen again.”

Both Roach and Baxter grudgingly accepted the general’s apology with a nod, but Skip Mcmahon was less cordial. With his gruff demeanor, which was in many ways similar to the general’s, Mcmahon placed a big fist on the table and asked bluntly, “What else haven’t you told us?”

Flood and Stansfield kept their poker faces fixed, while Baxter and King shared a look that caused Mcmahon to ask the question again.

“What else? You can’t send me out there to get blindsided again. I need every advantage I can get over Aziz.”

Director Stansfield liked Skip Mcmahon. In many ways he admired him.

This was an unusual situation, however. Mcmahon was under an immense amount of pressure, and he was the person dealing with Aziz-the only person. Aziz had been adamant about that. Stansfield, always thinking a dozen moves ahead, did not like the idea of telling Mcmahon everything.

The older spymaster saw a potential problem. He envisioned Aziz with a gun to a hostage’s head making a demand that Mcmahon could not meet. He saw the dangers of telling Mcmahon too much, of putting Mcmahon in a position where he might be tempted to give Aziz some of that information in exchange for the life of a hostage. Stansfield couldn’t do that. Rapp was far too valuable a card in this game to start waving around for the other players to see.

Stansfield observed Mcmahon as he stared down Baxter and King, sensing that they knew something. Knowing he had to act fast, before one of them opened his mouth, Stansfield decided to kill two birds with one stone.

“There is something I should tell you.” Stansfield reached down next to his chair and grabbed the morning’s copy of The Washington Post.

Standing, to further draw Mcmahon’s attention away from King and Baxter,

Stansfield walked around the table and set the paper in front of

Mcmahon. Stansfield pointed to a front-page headline that read

“CIA Saves Day by Warning Secret Service.”

“How this story ever got to the Post is something that I will deal with later.” Stansfield looked across the table and gave Dallas King a knowing look.

“But, in the meantime, I will bring you up to speed on a highly classified subject. We have in our possession certain intelligence that we deem to be highly accurate. That source did in fact provide us with the information that enabled us to alert the Secret Service to a potential attack just minutes before the actual attack took place. That source has also provided us with information pertaining to the demands Mr. Aziz will put forth and the men and equipment he brought with him.”

Mcmahon looked up at Stansfield, who had worked his way back to his seat.

“That’s how you knew about all of the plastique explosives?”

“Yes.”

“What about the demands?”

“That I am willing to share with you, but”-Stansfield again glanced over at Dallas King-“it is extremely confidential information that is not to be passed on to anyone.” Looking back to Mcmahon and Roach, he added, “I trust both of you, so I assume you will keep this confidential.”

Both of the FBI men nodded, and Stansfield said, “Aziz’s next demand will be to ask that the UN vote to lift all economic sanctions against Iraq. He is going to make a slight concession, in an effort to sound reasonable, and state that all san cons regarding weapons of mass destruction may remain in place.”

“The UN,” started Mcmahon, “can they move that fast?”

“If we want them to, they will,” answered General Flood.

“There is one last demand.” Stansfield stopped and looked around the room, wanting to hedge his bet just a touch.

“But unfortunately we are still trying to find out what it is.”

Mcmahon looked at Stansfield. In all the years that he had been working for the FBI, he had never come across an individual as cool and analytical as Thomas Stansfield-on either his side of the law or the other. The man was impossible to read. Mcmahon turned away from Stansfield and looked immediately to his right to see if he could get anything from Kennedy. He studied her face for even the slightest clue to whether Stansfield was being forthright about the family jewels or if he was still holding out. She stared back at him blankly, just like her boss, giving nothing away.

After several seconds of silence, Mcmahon looked across the table at Vice President Baxter and Dallas King. Before entering this meeting, Kennedy had told him that Baxter had authorized the insertion of the SEALS, but just minutes ago, General Flood had taken the blame for the whole mess. Either Kennedy was lying or General Flood was covering for the vice president. Mcmahon decided to play along until he could get Kennedy alone, and then, he would get to the bottom of the whole thing.

Dallas King took his forefinger and as nonchalantly as possible wiped the bead of sweat that had formed on his upper lip.

He felt as if he were standing in downtown Phoenix at high noon in the middle of July. Every time someone looked at him, he wondered if they knew. Since seeing the photo of his beer-drinking buddy on CNN this morning. King had been an absolute basket case. At first he tried to convince himself that it wasn’t the same man. The guy that he drank beers with was named Mike, and he was a student. Mike didn’t wear his hair slicked back like the man on the news. King tried to convince himself that it wasn’t the same person, but it was futile. As he recollected his relationship with the mysterious Mike, there were too many strange coincidences. For several weeks straight he had run into Mike everywhere he went. Mike had conveniently known all about the Stanford basketball team. King’s alma mater.

King closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he remembered the evening they took the late-night tour of the White House. King remembered how Mike had claimed he had an uncle who used to work for the Secret Service under Kennedy. He convinced King to show him the Treasury tunnel, saying that it was originally designed as a bunker during World War II. Mike told King that during the Kennedy administration, the staffers used to sneak women down into bunk rooms off the tunnel and have sex.

And that’s exactly what they had done that night. President Hayes was out of town, and King had no problem gaining access for his newfound friend and a couple of hot young ladies. King couldn’t believe how unlucky he was. Of the hundreds of people who worked at the White House, this crazy terrorist had to pick him. Squeezing his nose even tighter, he said to himself. How could you have fucked up so bad? The pressure was unbelievable. He needed time to think, time to maneuver.