Transfer of Power

AZIZ LOOKED UP at the digital clocks on the wall to his left. The clock closest to him gave him the East Coast time. It was 6:29 P.M. He took the remote control and turned the main TV from CNN to NBC the nightly national news was about to start, and he wanted to feel the force of America’s number one news network announcing another victory for him and his jihad.

When the overly dramatic music announced the start of the program, Aziz grinned with anticipation as the logo flashed across the screen, followed quickly by the words “White House Crisis-Day Three.”

Tom Brokaw came on and, after a brief lead-in, he cut to the United Nations in New York. The network’s correspondent clutched her microphone and passionately retold the late breaking news. The UN Security Council had unanimously voted to lift all economic sanctions against Iraq except those involving military imports and technology. The reporter went on to tell how Israel was the only UN member to protest the vote, but since they were not a permanent member of the Security Council, they could do nothing to prevent the lifting of sanctions.

Aziz stood and smiled triumphantly. He had won again.

Now all he needed was the president and he would have complete victory.

Aziz grabbed his radio and barked the name of his little thief.

“Mustafa!” Aziz repeated himself two more times, and then one of his other men answered. “Rafique, it is Ragib. “The man was standing watch in the basement by the door to the boiler room. “I don’t think he can hear you because of the drills. Do you want me to get him?”

“Yes.”

Ragib let his radio fall to his side, and he walked down the hallway toward the bunker. When he rounded the corner, he yelled, “Mustafa!” The plump man appeared from behind the door and peered down the hallway.

Ragib held up his radio and yelled, “Rafique wants to talk to you.”

Mustafa Yassin nodded and started walking toward Ragib.

After taking his ear protectors off, he brought his radio to his mouth and said, “Rafique, I am here.” The plump little man kept walking. The farther away he got from the drills the better he could hear.

Back in the Situation Room, Aziz watched the UN story unfold on the TV and asked, “What is your progress?”

“I think it will take me about an hour.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think so. The drills are getting close. Once they have reached their mark, all I have to do is take them off the door and… and then it should take me another ten to twenty minutes of tinkering and it should be ready.”

“Call me when you are ready to take the drills off the door, and I will come over.”

Yassin wasn’t sure he heard him correctly and yelled into the radio, “You want me to call you when I’m ready to take the drills off the door?”

“Yes”

“Okay.” The dumpy safecracker turned and walked back down the hallway toward the bunker.