The state dining room was the largest in the White House, but less than fifty by forty feet overall. A bomb, detonated in or close to the room, would be devastating.
Hannah started to move more quickly as her mind raced and everything went into slow — motion. She saw Director LeMay and nothing else in the room, as though the rest of the world were merely an irritating blur.
Get him out of the room.
‘Director?’
LeMay turned to Hannah and a glimmer of surprise flickered across his features.
‘Agent Ford, what brings you here? How did you gain access?’
‘There has been a major development, sir,’ Hannah replied. ‘I need to speak with you urgently, right now.’
LeMay raised an eyebrow but he excused himself from the room and followed Hannah into the hall outside, where White House staff were shuttling back and forth with trays of champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres. Hannah led him to a quiet corner, two Secret Service agents following, and turned to confront him.
‘What’s this all about, Agent Ford?’ LeMay asked.
Destroy his cell phone.
Hannah lunged for Director LeMay’s cell. She ploughed her shoulder into the Director’s chest and smashed him into the wall, the cell phone tumbling from his grasp to land on the carpet at their feet.
Hannah turned, lifted one heel and smashed it down onto the cell phone. The heel crunched through the phone and bent it almost in half with the force of the blow, the screen flickering out to darkness as LeMay staggered away from her.
‘Special Agent Ford, what the hell do you think you’re..?’
Hard — duke the son of a bitch.
Hannah turned and swung her right fist with all of her might and rage and punched Director LeMay square on the nose. The Director’s face collapsed in on itself in pain as he staggered backwards and crashed down onto his back, Hannah ignoring his plight as she picked up the cell phone that she had stamped out and turned to the Secret Service agents.
‘This cell phone is evidence that will implicate Director LeMay in the attempted murder of the President of the United States, the President of the People’s Republic of China and the shooting of a DIA officer,’ she said. ‘Please secure it and let nobody, and I mean nobody, tamper with it, understood?’
LeMay staggered to his feet, blood pouring from his nose.
‘That is my private cell and I’ll be taking it with me! This is absolute nonsense! Arrest her!’
The Secret Service agents were not accustomed to taking orders from anybody, but LeMay’s tone silenced any protest they may have made as they grabbed Hannah and pinned her against the wall. One of them picked up the damaged cell phone and handed it back to the Director.
‘What about your partner, Vaughn? Where is he?’ LeMay demanded, holding a bloodied tissue to his nose.
‘This isn’t over!’ Hannah shouted, loud enough to attract glances from dignitaries within the state dining room further down the hall. ‘Ethan Warner is still out there and we haven’t captured Abrahem Nassir!’
Secret Service Agent Daniel Hopkins dashed into the corridor along with four more agents as they confronted LeMay and Hannah.
‘What the hell’s going on here?’ he demanded in a harsh whisper, conscious of the delegates in the room nearby, then turned to his men. ‘Get both of them out of sight, now!’
Hannah looked at Hopkins. ‘Lopez was shot! LeMay’s behind it all!’
Director LeMay stared at Hannah as though she were insane. ‘I don’t know what’s got into her, but she’s about to be arrested for assault and battery and is wanted for murder in Hong Kong!’
‘The President isn’t safe!’ Hannah insisted to Hopkins. ‘This isn’t over! You have to find Ethan Warner, Aaron Mitchell and Abrahem Nassir!’
‘Who the hell is Aaron Mitchell?’ Hopkins demanded. ‘And both of the Presidents are safe, so what the hell are you talking about?’
Hannah was about to answer when her earpiece crackled, along with that of every single Secret Service Agent on the south lawn. The coded message was as concise and clear as any she had ever heard.
‘Olympus is compromised!’
Hannah looked up and saw both of the Presidents safely enveloped within the human shield of their Secret Service bodyguards. Confusion mounted in her addled mind and then she turned slowly and looked up at a television screen on a wall further down the corridor that was still displaying the feed from numerous Presidential homes around the country.
There, on one of the screens, a former President of the United States of America sat staring back at them, a gun held to his head.
XLVII
The family was seated on a wide leather couch in front of an enormous television screen that spanned an entire half of one wall, the screen a concave that prevented any reflections from marring the ultra — high resolution image presented upon it.
The carpets beneath Abrahem Nassir’s feet were thick, plush, a light cream color devoid of even the slightest stain. The magnolia walls were tastefully decorated with photographs and paintings, softly lit by the sunlight streaming in through broad windows that overlooked the immaculate lawns and the woods beyond.
‘You don’t know me.’
Abrahem Nassir stood to one side of the screen, knowing that his voice was being broadcast live to the delegates inside the White House. Abrahem knew, of course, that live did not exactly mean “live” any more. The television networks always ran on a thirty second delay, ensuring that they could cut the feed if anything untoward occurred during a broadcast. However here at the former President’s home, the feed to the White House was both truly live and direct. It could be cut off, of course, but Abrahem knew that the security agencies would want the feed to remain live as they attempted to make contact with him and prevent a tragedy.
The former President of the United States had not held office for some years now and had aged considerably. Abrahem, a man in the prime of his life, had been surprised by how short the former President was. He had expected a giant of a man surrounded by an aura of potency and competence. Instead he was more than a little disappointed that the diminutive individual who confronted him was both softly spoken and probably weighed less than a hundred eighty pounds, his hair silvery gray and his back slightly hunched with age.
‘No,’ the President replied, the barrel of Abrahem’s gun aimed directly at his head. ‘I don’t know who you are. Why are you in my home?’
Abrahem leaned back on an expensive, polished wooden cabinet that lined the wall behind him. It would not have surprised him to learn that the cabinet cost more than he would have earned in five years in Iraq. He would not rush this moment, for Abrahem knew that it would be his last. There would be no survivors in this confrontation, and if he faltered then for him at least America would win again when their soldiers and police stormed the house and gunned him down with their patriotic fury. Abrahem would ensure that they would never get the chance, for he would personally bring this to an end much sooner.
‘Why did you enter my home?’ Abrahem challenged.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘No,’ Abrahem agreed, ‘I don’t suppose that you do. Allow me to explain. You ordered your country to war against Iraq and invaded my country. Before doing so you embarked upon a campaign that you proudly named shock and awe. Do you remember that, Mister President?’