"Again, I respect your accomplishments, but you couldn't be more wrong.

You have absolutely no idea who you're dealing with." Seeing that Tutwiler was not going to budge, Kennedy left the room and started down the hallway to explain the new development to Stansfield. Midway down the hall she heard Mcmahon call her name.

A second later Mcmahon pulled up alongside her and placed his hand on her shoulder. "Irene, it's not worth it. I already went all the way to the top. For now, she gets her way."

Kennedy stopped, her cheeks slightly flushed. Murmuring more to herself than Mcmahon she said, "Now I know why Mitch got so mad yesterday."

Mcmahon didn't quite get Kennedy's comment and decided to ignore it.

"The way I figure it, Irene, is that Tutwiler's ass is hangin' out pretty far on this one. After she screws up this morning, she'll be out of our hair." Mcmahon studied Kennedy's tense face, not used to such a reaction from the almost always unflappable protegee of Thomas Stansfield.

"Take a deep breath, Irene; it's not going to do you any good to get upset right now."

Kennedy looked up at Mcmahon and bit down on the bottom corner of her lip.

"I'm usually the one giving you this lecture."

"What can I say; I'm a quick learner." Mcmahon gave her a fake smile and turned Kennedy back toward the command post.

"I need you with me during this call, all right?"

Kennedy nodded and went along reluctantly.

HIS FINGERS TAPPED the shiny surface of the conference table of the White House Situation Room and his eyes stayed transfixed on the computer screen. Rafique Aziz sat in the president's leather chair, rocking slightly. Aziz brought his wrist up and checked the time. The balance of the Swiss bank account hadn't changed in almost half an hour.

Two more minutes and the spectacle would start. Aziz's eyes lifted an inch above the top of the computer screen and looked at the bank of television screens that dominated the far wall.

The three major networks and CNN were all broadcasting live from the other side of Lafayette Park. NEC and CBS were interviewing family members of the hostages; ABC was talking to a psychiatrist who had written a book on hostages identifying with their captors, the so-called Stockholm syndrome; and CNN was talking to a retired FBI agent, whom Aziz thought to be typically smug.

A thin smile creased his lips as Aziz thought about just how predictable these Americans were. The smile widened even further. Aziz put his hands behind his neck and rocked back and forth in the chair. A mailbox icon appeared on the second laptop, and an electronic voice alerted him to an incoming E-mail. Aziz quickly tapped the proper keys, and a second later the message was up on the screen. As Aziz read the message, he moved closer to the screen, reading the first line over and over, unable to get past the shock of it. It couldn't be. How could they have gotten their hands on him? Why now?

The message read, "Fora Harut abducted in early morning commando raid yesterday. Croup suffered heavy casualties. Harut assumed taken alive.

Do not know who conducted operation, but assume either America, Britain, or Israel."

ACROSS THE STREET in the Executive Office Building, Vice President Baxter was holding court in a separate conference room down the hall from the FBI's command post. As always Dallas King was sitting next to Baxter, General Flood was on the vice president's left, and farther down the table FBI Director Roach, Cia Director Stansfield, and Secret Service Director Tracy had taken their seats. The secretaries of state and defense were also present, along with a dozen aides and several Secret Service agents from the vice president's detail. The door was closed, and each occupant stared expectantly at the black speaker placed in the center of the table. After twenty more seconds of silence the black box announced the ringing of the phone in the Situation Room.

AZIZ WAS STILL staring at the message when the phone started to ring. He was furious, outraged that such a thing could happen, and now of all times. His eyes burned a hole in the screen as his mind raced to calculate the potential damage this catastrophe could inflict on his mission. All the while Aziz tried to keep emotion out of it. Fara Harut was his mentor, the man who had wooed him from the classroom to the battlefield, the man who had shown him the evil of the Zionists.

Harut was the reason he was where he was today, and now, he was gone.

The phone continued its irritating noise, and Aziz had to catch himself from answering it—not now, not until he calmed down and put himself in the proper mind-set. There was the plan, and he had to stick with it.

After he had more time to think, he could deal with this calamity.

Laying his hands flat on the table, he forced all of the tension from his body and immersed himself in his role. Finally, after the phone had rung at least a dozen times, he reached out and slowly brought the receiver to his mouth.

"Yes."

"Mr. Aziz," stated a calm and confident female voice, "this is Attorney General Margaret Tutwiler. We are having some problems getting together all of the money. "There was a pause on the line and then, "So far we have managed to transfer—"

"One point three billion dollars." Aziz gave her the sum as he stood abruptly. Anger coursing through every inch of his body. This was too much. He had done his research on the Americans.

He knew who all of the players would be. He knew that with Hayes out of commission the transfer of power would take place, and with Vice President Baxter came an increased role for the already important attorney general. But to insult him in such a way was inconceivable. It was such a blatant affront that there was no way it could be anything other than intentional.

A slightly surprised Tutwiler said, "Yes, one point three billion."

She stammered for a second.

"It's going to take some time to gather all of the money… It would be a big help, as far as expediting the transfer of the remainder of the money, if you could show us a sign of your good faith."

Aziz closed his eyelids tightly, commanding himself to continue forward with the plan. In a pained voice, he asked, "What would you propose?"

"The release of several hostages would go a long way in showing us you are sincere."

This was beyond belief. In a voice that was near breaking, Aziz asked,

"How many would you like me to release—ten, twenty… maybe thirty of them?"

Tutwiler, unsure of how genuine the offer was, tentatively replied, "Um… thirty would be great… and after they are released, we can work on getting more of the money transferred."

Aziz stood looking down the length of the table, staring at everything and nothing at the same time, his instincts sharp, his anger funneling into a direct beam of energy. Plan or no plan, this had moved into the realm of the personal. They were trying to insult him by sending this woman to talk with him. They were testing him to see how far he would go. Was it a trap? He thought not. It was too early for an attack, it was broad daylight, and the media was right across the street. If they wanted to test his resolve, he would show them just how strong and determined it was.

It was all too much. First the news that Fara Harut had been taken, and now this stupid woman insulting him. Finally, unable to hold it in anymore, he yelled, "What did I tell you yesterday? I said all of the money by nine! I didn't say part of it; I said all of it! Don't insult me by talking to me of the difficulty of transferring the money! Your Treasury Department could transfer ten times the money I asked for in one hour if they wanted to! I think it is time to teach you stupid Americans a lesson! Look out your windows, and I will show you what happens when you play your idiotic games with me!"