Fortunately for Mcmahon he had seen the writing on the wall and gotten out before the job destroyed him. Mcmahon had recently been put in charge of the Bureau's Critical Incident Response Group, or CIRG, which was the lead organization in resolving hostage situations. The FBI's elite Hostage Rescue Team, or HRT, was under his command along with another half dozen investigative and support units. But not once in the hundreds of meetings that Mcmahon had attended on urban terrorism had he ever heard someone postulate that the White House was vulnerable to a full-scale assault.

Mcmahon shifted his attention from terra firma to the horizon. On a more immediate note, he was not happy with the current command-and-control situation. Both FBI and Secret Service sniper teams occupied every rooftop within a block of the White House. Each team reporting to and taking orders from its own agency. In short, it was not the way to handle a crisis, and it was something that needed to be rectified immediately.

A female agent standing next to Mcmahon held her watch in front of his face.

"You'd better get moving. The meeting is in twenty minutes."

Mcmahon nodded. With sagging shoulders, he looked at the fallen officers on the South Lawn and asked, "What's the body count?"

Special Agent Kathy Jennings looked at a small notebook and said, "We have it at eighteen, with God only knows how many more inside the building." Mcmahon shook his head as he took in the carnage. He looked tired, and the crisis was only in its infancy. After a moment, he turned and headed for the door. Mcmahon dreaded attending meetings with the bigwigs. On his way out, he thanked several of the Secret Service agents for allowing him to take a look from their vantage point.

Jennings followed a half step behind, and as soon as she was sure no one could hear, she said, "I don't think they were too happy to see us. Do you think they know we're going to be running the show?"

"I don't know. They've lost at least eighteen men… probably double that, and the White House is their baby." Mcmahon turned for the stairs and started down.

"But they're not set up for this kind of thing. This is clearly ..

Jennings stopped talking for a second as they passed two Secret Service officers who were on their way up the stairs. In a lower voice, she continued, "This is clearly the Bureau's territory. It's a domestic terrorist activity."

"A lot of people are going to want to stick their hands in this pie before it's over."

"Like who?"

"Like the United States military, and again, the Secret Service."

The confident young agent shook her head in disagreement.

"The military is forbidden from .. "started Jennings.

Mcmahon raised his hand and stopped her.

"Save the lecture for one of your law-school buddies. "The senior agent was very proud of the fact that he was one of the few people in the Bureau without an accounting or law degree. "I'm talking reality here, and I'm talking from experience. Why do you think this meeting is being held at the Pentagon?

"Mcmahon let her think about the question while they descended another flight.

"If we're so clearly in charge, why isn't this meeting being held at the Hoover Building or over at Justice?" Jennings slowly started to see his point and nodded as they reached the first floor. While they continued toward the Seventeenth Street exit, Mcmahon said, "While I'm at the Pentagon, I want you to get the mobile command post in order. Get the shift changes set up, and don't take any crap from anyone."

With his voice raised an octave, he added, "And you tell those clowns I'm in a surly mood, and that when I get back from this stupid dog-and-pony show, I'm going to be looking to blow a little steam."

Mcmahon's temper was well known among his fellow law-enforcement officers at the Bureau.

"No one works longer than an eight-hour shift unless I authorize it, and I don't want people loitering around when their shifts are over. We could be here for weeks, and I don't want burned-out people sitting at the controls."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah. Make sure HRT gets priority on everything. I want them in position ASAP!"

THE EXPENSIVE SUIT was gone, replaced by drab green military fatigues, a holstered pistol, and a gas mask that was secured to his web belt.

Rafique Aziz sat at the head of the long table and stared at the bank of television sets located on the far wall of the Situation Room. Three of the six TVS were tuned to the major networks, and a fourth was tuned to CNN. all of them were covering the White House crisis from their studios in New York and with live shots from across the street at Lafayette Square.

Much of aziz's original anger at missing the president had dissipated.

With typical thoroughness, Aziz had prepared for this contingency, and if given enough time, everything could still be achieved. Now he had to at least allow himself a moment of satisfaction. He had done it. He controlled the most famous and decadent symbol of the West. He had taken his jihad, his holy war, to the heart of the enemy, and once he pried the president from his bunker, he would be able to complete his plan. No longer would America meddle in the affairs of the Arab world.

There was a knock on the door, and without turning, Aziz said, "Enter."

The usually stoic Muammar Bengazi walked into the room with a smile on his face, an AK-74 slung over his shoulder, and a notepad in his left hand. He approached Aziz and said, "We are in complete control of the building. As you ordered, all outer walls and points of entry have been wired with explosive charges. "A gleam appeared in the terrorist's eye.

"And as you predicted, we also have control of the Secret Service's weapons and security system." Bengazi stepped forward and placed his hands on the back of one of the table's chairs.

"As ordered, I have taken their perimeter system off-line. We are using only their rooftop-mounted cameras and have disconnected the computers from their modems. They are no longer feeding their headquarters with images."

"Good. I do not trust them. With all of their technology, who knows how they might have tried to trick us."

Bengazi nodded in agreement.

"As you requested." He handed Aziz the notepad that was under his left arm.

"Here is a list of all the hostages by name and position. I circled the most important ones."

Aziz leaned back in the chair and flipped through the pages, his chin resting on his chest.

"Seventy-six total hostages."

"That is correct."

Aziz found what he was looking for on the third page—it was the name of the first person he would kill. He tapped the name with his finger and then asked, "How many Secret Service agents?"

"I did not include them with the seventy-six hostages. They are on the next page. Nine alive, four of whom are in need of medical attention. We also have several marines and other military types mixed in with them."

"Do you have them separated from the others?"

Yes. They are upstairs, as you planned."

"Bound and hooded?

"Aziz asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Of course."

"Have any of the civilians tried to distinguish themselves as leaders?"

"None so far."

Flipping the notebook back to the first page, Aziz said, "When the first one stands up"—he held up his forefinger-"and tries to show bravado, I want you to come and get me. I will deal with him personally. We are spread thin enough as it is. I do not want to have to worry about some cowboy giving us trouble from within."

Bengazi nodded and suggested, "I think it might be a good idea to let the civilians go to the bathroom."

Aziz looked at his watch. It was a reasonable request, and one that would help calm them.

"Fine, but leave the Secret Service agents and the marines to wallow in their own excrement."