Transfer of Power

“THIS IS THE Roosevelt Room. It is called that because of the two portraits that hang on its walls.” Piper stepped into the room and motioned to the two paintings. Aziz strained to remain calm as Piper stopped at every painting, statue, and room on the way to the Oval Office. Acting his part as a West Wing tour guide, Piper babbled on about the history of the building, and Aziz nodded politely.

“You’ll notice that the portrait of Franklin Delano Roosevelt hangs above the fireplace mantel and the portrait of Teddy Roosevelt hangs over here to our right. It has become a tradition at the White House that whenever the sitting president is a Republican, Teddy’s portrait hangs over the fireplace, and when a Democrat is in office, the portraits are switched and FDR’s portrait hangs in the position of honor.” Piper folded his hands in front of his robust midsection and smiled at the rendering of his party’s icon.

While Aziz feigned interest in the artwork and historical rooms, he had marked and counted the exact position of every Secret Service officer and agent they had passed. It all seemed so easy as he casually walked among them. He was a welcomed and honored guest in a place he did not belong. All of the fences, high-tech security, and heavily armed Secret Service agents were there to stop him, and not a single one of them had the slightest clue that within their midst walked their greatest fear.

Piper rubbed a hand along the long shiny surface of the Roosevelt Room’s conference table.

“A lot of our guests get this room confused with the Cabinet Room. That, however, is across the hall and on our way to the pressroom. I’ll show you those when we’re done meeting with the president.” Piper walked to the fireplace and stopped. “I almost forgot.” Gesturing to a small bronze sculpture on the mantel, he said, “This is something we are very proud of. Our previous First Lady, also a Democrat I might add”-Piper beamed with pride-“had this bust of Eleanor Roosevelt added to the room. She felt that the room was too much of a boys’ club and felt that a woman needed to be added to the mix.”

Aziz looked at the small statue and said, “In my country such an idea would be ludicrous.” He turned and walked to the open doorway to his right. As he looked across the hall, Aziz felt both a wave of elation and tension rising up from within.

He knew from studying the floor plans of the White House that the door in front of him was one of four doors that led to the Oval Office. It was open, and from where he was standing, he could clearly see the rich blue carpet and furniture arranged in front of the fireplace. He was so close.

Standing next to the door was a very large and serious looking Secret Service agent. The agent’s sandy brown hair was cut short around his ears, and his neck bulged underneath his white shirt and de. Aziz did a quick inventory as his eyes met the agent’s and slid downward. Before turning back to Piper, Aziz noted that the agent was left-handed. The bulge on the agent’s left hip was caused by his Secret Service standard issue SIG-Sauer handgun.

Piper joined Aziz in the doorway and said, “Are you ready to meet the president?”

Aziz nodded and willed himself forward at Pipers side, his legs feeling rubbery as the adrenaline began to pump through his veins. Aziz stepped into the hallway, and for a split second he wondered if it could be a trap, if they might know who he really was. But before he could worry any further, they were at the door, and Piper was knocking on the frame.

Piper stepped into the executive office first, and Aziz followed. The chairman of the DNC stopped abruptly just inside the room and looked at the president, who was on the phone.

President Hayes placed a hand over the mouthpiece and said, “Take a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Aziz stood teetering on the balls of his feet, caught in complete indecision. He swallowed once to try to quench his quickly drying throat and then looked to Piper, who was whispering something to him. Slowly, Aziz took his focus off the president.

Piper motioned to one of the couches by the fireplace and in a hushed voice said, “Let’s have a seat over here. He’ll be with us in a minute.”

Aziz followed Piper to the couch and calculated his chances of rushing the president. The door they had just come through was still open, and he knew that there were agents posted outside two of the room’s other three doors. Aziz had also guessed that the president had security measures in and around his desk. With only a small composite knife as a weapon, he couldn’t risk alerting the agents posted outside the office until the president was within reach. But he was so close.

Aziz calculated that he could cover the twenty feet to the desk in two seconds at the most. It would take the agents almost that long to draw their weapons. Think fast, he told himself as a film of sweat began to form on his skin.

Piper plopped down on the couch and patted the seat next to him. Aziz nodded and stepped past Piper. It was time to sit or move. Aziz looked across the room at the president, who had just swiveled in his chair and turned his back to them. Hayes was looking out the window while he talked on the phone; his head was all that could be seen above the back of his black leather chair. In that split second Aziz decided to move.

He checked the underside of his belt to make sure the knife was there and then brought his left hand up toward his chest. Aziz looked down at the watch and selected the correct button that would send out the signal to the men waiting in the truck. He was about to make history, about to strike a blow for all of Islam. Piper said something from behind him, but aziz did not hear the words. His attention was elsewhere.

Slowly, he brought his other hand up to the watch. Aziz brought his gaze down to his wrist to make sure he pressed the right button. His heart was pumping so fast he felt his temples begin to throb. A layer of sweat on his skin glistened, and his hands were clammy. So moist were his palms that he stopped short of pressing the button and decided to wipe the sweat from his palms one last time. He ran his opened hands up and down the thighs of his pants twice, reminding himself while he did it how difficult it was to hold the small knife. When his palms were as dry as he could get them, he brought the watch back up and went to press the button.

His right index finger poised over the button, Aziz sensed movement and stopped everything. He looked up. From the door to the right of the president’s desk, a woman in a bright yellow blouse came walking quickly forward. She continued around the nearest side chair to where the president was sitting and deposited a stack of papers on his desk.

Aziz exhaled a deep breath, his body trembling in a release of energy as he did so. Piper said something again, and Aziz turned around to face him.

“Sit down, Prince Kalib.”

Aziz looked back toward the president and the woman, and then sat. A bead of nervous sweat ran down his forehead, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

“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.