Transfer of Power

THE DOOR WAS so hot in one spot that warch could only touch it for a second or two at a time. He took this as a terrible sign. That, and the fact that nightfall had come and gone and there had been no abatement in the drilling. Things were getting bleaker by the moment, and you could see it on the faces of the tired agents.

To make matters worse for the Secret Service agents. President Hayes had done the unthinkable. He had ordered all of them to place their weapons on the small table near the kitchenette. The president made it clear that there were to be no acts of bravado. That they would surrender without a shot. In Hayes’s opinion, if the terrorists got the door open, there was no sense in further bloodshed. At that point the battle would be over.

Warch had tried only once to change President Hayes’s mind, but it was to no avail. Hayes was steadfast in his decision that there would be no more bloodshed. As Warch stood by the vault door, Hayes came over. The president placed his hand on the door.

“It’s getting warmer.”

“Yep,” answered Warch.

“Any bright ideas?”

“Nope.”

Hayes gestured for Warch to follow him. They walked over to the couches and sat, Warch on the love seat, and Hayes on the couch. Hayes looked at Warch and said, “Jack, stop beating yourself up. There’s nothing else we can do.”

“It’s not in my personality to give up, sir.”

“Well, that’s admirable, but I just want you to know that I appreciate everything you and your men have done.”

“Thank you.”

A question had been burning in Warch’s mind since the attack. With the president in such a complimentary mood, Warch decided to ask it.

“Sir, who was that prince, and how did he get in to see you?”

Hayes had thought long and hard about this over the last two days, and he kept going back to his meeting in the Situation Room three nights ago. The meeting where he had authorized the abduction of Fara Harut. In that meeting he had seen a black-and-white photograph of Rafique Aziz.

It was an old one, but the eyes had left an impression on him. The face was different, but there was something about the eyes that made him think it was Aziz.

“I can’t be sure, but I think it might have been Rafique Aziz. Or if it wasn’t, it was one of his people.” Warch nodded. “I told you about the call I got from Irene Kennedy, right before the attack.” Hayes nodded.

“Well, I’ve never seen a photo of Aziz, but whoever that man was standing in the Oval Office, I didn’t like the look in his eye.”

“I’ve seen a photo of him, but it was old.”

“Sir, I’ll understand if you don’t want to answer this question.”

Warch looked at the president to see if he was open.

Hayes nodded for Warch to go ahead.

“I have my suspicions, but I’d like to know for sure… What did these terrorists hang in front of the DNC to entice them into getting a face to-face meeting with you?”

Hayes thought for a moment. It was ingrained in his political instincts to avoid answering this question. He had worked on the Hill for twenty-plus years, and the only thing that was as certain as hot summers in Washington was congressional investigations. And when this whole thing was over, they would see an endless stream of investigations, reviews, and reports. If recent history had taught Hayes anything, it was that the cover-up usually created more problems than it solved. If national security wasn’t on the line, it was best to get everything out in the open. For this mess, that would damage the party-how much was anyone’s guess-but it was better than dragging the whole thing out for years.

The politics of greed had shown its ugly head in the worst of ways, and because of it they were now in this fix. Hayes knew what was the right thing to do, and it was probably better to do it now, while he felt a sense of honor, because, God only knew, if he waited until he was out of this, he’d have a room full of lawyers and consultants telling him to keep his mouth shut and say nothing. Feeling indebted and unusually forthright, Hayes began to tell warch what had happened.