Flood looked at Kennedy and asked, "What's wrong now?" Kennedy exhaled and said, "We might have a problem."

"What kind of problem?" asked Flood.

Looking across the room, Kennedy placed her hands on her hips and said,

"I'm not sure, but I hope to know more within the hour. "Then looking to her boss, she said, "Colonel Fine passed on a little message for us."

Stansfield nodded knowingly and said, "I was beginning to wonder when they would weigh in."

Kennedy walked over to where Stansfield and Campbell were standing.

"He said that they will do whatever it takes to protect themselves."

Approaching the group several steps behind Kennedy, Flood pronounced,

"Good for them. At least someone is sticking by their guns in this mess."

"What happened after I left?"

The group settled into their seats, and General Flood began to recount for Kennedy the strategy laid forth by Vice President Baxter. Judging from the facial expressions around the room, even Thomas Stansfield's, it was clear what was thought of the vice president's plans. It seemed as if things were only going to get worse.

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.

AZIZ GRINNED FROM ear to ear as he watched the pundits, experts, and analysts go over every word of his speech to the American people. He had changed back into his fatigues and was sitting in the Situation Room. He now sat, remote control in hand, simultaneously watching six TVS, with his feet up on the long conference table. He was spending more and more of his time with MSNBC on the main screen, but whenever he saw someone on one of the other stations with a title such as former FBI agent, or counterterrorism expert, he couldn't resist switching to that station.

The analysis was almost exactly as he thought it would be.

For every law-enforcement type, there was a former State Department official, politician, journalist, or religious leader that would talk of a peaceful solution to a horrible situation. His favorite comment so far had come from some Baptist minister who had noted an incredible amount of religious tolerance on the part of mr. Aziz in his acknowledgment of "our Christian God."

They were literally falling all over themselves in an attempt to make it sound as if a nonviolent end to the crisis was within sight. They were saying things like, "The ball is now in Vice President Baxter's court.

If he wants to find a way out of this horrible siege, this will probably be his best chance."

Aziz loved it. The pressure was a reality. It was no longer something he hoped he could elicit. If things went as planned, he would be in a perfect position for his final demand and his triumphant return to the Middle East. The U.S. would meet his most recent demand. Most of its allies would just as soon begin trading with Iraq again. As long as military hardware and technology were off the table, the deal was palatable to all but Britain and Israel.

Aziz confidently rubbed his chin as he thought of the moment when the vault door would be opened, the moment he looked into the eyes of a defeated president of the United States—the sheer joy of being able to gloat over President Hayes, hold a gun to his head, and watch him cry.

After he had broken Hayes and made him think his life was about to end, he would show him the slightest ray of hope, and slowly, he would reveal to him how there was a peaceful way to resolve the entire crisis. Then he would change back into his suit and shock the world by going on national TV with President Hayes.

The endless parade of military personnel and Secret Service agents who had sworn on their reputations that the president was safe in his bunker would be embarrassed and shamed. They would be shunned in favor of the politicians who could broker the safe release of the president and the hostages. Aziz was relishing his exceedingly favorable luck when an image on one of the TVS caught his attention. His feet were off the table in a second, and the remote control was pointed toward the main TV like a gun. As the channel changed, the unmistakable image of Sheik Fara Harut took center stage.