by Clancy, Tom
Hood could just imagine what Teheran would say about joining this new antiterrorism network. “Sure, sign us up. And don’t forget to use this new code to monitor the Sunni terrorists working out of Azerbaijan. ” It could be a real code for real transmissions, or the Iranians could use false transmissions to create deeper mistrust of the Sunnis. The United States could not refuse to help them, because the president had offered; we could not trust the code; and yet what if it turned out to be real and we ignored it?
The whole thing was a potential for disaster. For his part, Hood intended to contact Burton Gable, the president’s chief of staff, to find out what he knew about the situation. Hood didn’t know Gable well, but he had been one of Lawrence’s think tank geniuses and was instrumental in getting the president reelected. Gable hadn’t been at the dinner, but there was no policy undertaking in which he was not involved.
Hood went back to the motel, napped, then was back at Op-Center at five-thirty. He wanted to be there when his staff arrived.
Hood had spoken to psychologist Liz Gordon about Harleigh, and to attorney Lowell Coffey about the divorce, so both of them knew he was coming back. Hood had also informed General Rodgers, who had let intelligence chief Bob Herbert know.
Herbert rolled in first. He had lost his wife and the use of his legs in the American embassy bombing in Beirut in 1983. But he had turned that setback into an advantage: Herbert’s customized wheelchair was a mini-communications center with phone, fax, and even a satellite uplink that helped to make him one of the most effective intelligence collectors and analysts in the world.
Rodgers followed him in. Though the gray-haired officer had played a key role in ending the terrorist standoff at the United Nations, he was still recovering emotionally from the torture he’d suffered at the hands of Kurdish terrorists in the Middle East. Since his return, there hadn’t been quite the same fire in his eyes or bounce in his walk. Though he hadn’t broken, some proud, vital part of him had died in that cave in the Bekaa Valley.
Rodgers and Herbert were happy to see him. The two men stayed long enough to welcome him back and for Hood to brief them on what had happened at the state dinner. Herbert was blown away by what the president had said.
“That’s like the Goodyear Blimp saying it’s going to watch the stands for rowdy fans instead of watching the Super Bowl,” Herbert said. “No one would believe that. No one.”
“I agree,” Hood said. “Which is why we’ve got to find out why the president said it. If he has a plan that we don’t know about, we need to be brought into the loop. Talk to the other intel people and find out.”
“I’m on it,” Herbert said as he wheeled out.
Rodgers told Hood that he would get in touch with the heads of Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine intelligence to find out what their knowledge of the situation was.
When Herbert and Rodgers left, Hood was visited by the only key members of the team who hadn’t known about Hood’s return, FBI and Interpol liaison Darrell McCaskey and press liaison Ann Farris. McCaskey was just back from a stay in Europe, working with his Interpol associates and nurturing a romance with Maria Corneja, an operative he had worked with in Spain. Hood had a good sense about people, and his instincts told him that Darrell would be handing in his resignation before long to return to Maria. Since McCaskey was gone while Hood’s retirement was briefly in effect, he had not missed his boss.
Ann Farris was a different story. The five-foot, seven-inch-tall divorcee had always been close to Hood and had hated to see him leave. Hood knew that she cared for him, though no one could have told that just by looking at her. The thirty-four-year-old woman had developed the perfect poker face for reporters. No question, no revelation, no announcement made her jump. But to Hood, her large, dark-rust eyes were more articulate than any speech-maker or television moderator he had ever heard. And right now, her eyes were telling Hood that she was happy, sad, and surprised all at once.
Ann walked toward the desk. She was dressed in what she called her “uniform,” a black pantsuit and white blouse with a pearl necklace. Her brown hair was shoulder length and held back from her face with a pair of clips. Hood’s office was stripped of his personal touches. He hadn’t had time to put the photographs and mementos back. Yet after the struggles with Sharon and the coldness of his hotel room, Ann’s arrival suddenly made this place seem like home.
“Mike just told me,” she said.
“Told you what?”
“About Sharon,” Ann replied. “About your coming back. Paul, are you all right?”
“I’m a little banged up, but I’ll be okay.”
Ann stopped in front of the desk. Was it only just ten days ago that she had stood there while I packed? Hood thought. It seemed so much longer. Why did pain stretch time while happiness made it feel so short?
“What can I do, Paul?” Ann asked. “How are Sharon and the kids?”
“We’re all reeling. Liz is helping Harleigh, Sharon and I are pretty civil, and Alexander is Alexander. He’s okay.” Hood dragged a hand through his wavy black hair. “As for what you can do, I just realized we’re going to have to send out a press release about my return.”
“I know.” She smiled. “A head’s-up would have been a big help.”
“I’m sorry,” Hood said.
“That’s all right,” Ann replied. “You had other things on your mind. I’ll write something up and show it to you.”
Ann looked down at him, her shoulder-length brown hair framing her angular features. Hood had always felt the sexual tension between them. Hell, he thought. Everyone around them did. Bob Herbert and Lowell Coffey used to tease Hood about it. Hood’s unwillingness to give in to that tension had always kept Ann at a distance. But he could feel that distance closing.
“I know you have a lot to do,” Ann said, “but if you need anything, I’m here. If you want to talk or don’t want to be by yourself, don’t be shy. We go back quite a few years.”
“Thanks,” Hood said.
Ann’s eyes held him for a long moment. “I’m sorry for what you and your family are going through, Paul. But you’ve done an amazing job here, and I’m glad you’re back.”
“It’s good to be back,” Paul admitted. “I think that frustrated me more than anything else.”
“What did?” she asked.
“Not being able to finish the work I started,” he said. “It may sound corny, but the teamwork of exceptional men and women built this nation. Op-Center is a part of that tradition. We have a great team here doing important work, and I hated leaving that.”
Ann continued to look at him. She seemed to want to say something more but didn’t. She stepped back from the desk.
“Well, I’ve got to get to work on the press release,” she said. “Do you want me to say anything about the situation with Sharon?”
“No,” Hood said. “If anyone wants to know, tell them. Otherwise, just say I had a change of heart.”
“That’s going to make you sound wishy-washy,” she said.
“What the Washington Post thinks isn’t going to affect my job performance,” he said.
“Maybe not now,” Ann said. “But it might if you ever decide to run for public office again.”
Hood looked at her. “Good point,” he said.
“Why don’t we tell them that the president asked you to return?” she said.
“Because he didn’t,” Hood said.
“You two had a private meeting when you came back from New York,” she said. “He won’t deny asking you to return. It shows loyalty on his part. Everyone benefits.”
“But it isn’t true,” Hood said.
“Then let’s just say this,” Ann said. “After meeting with the president, you decided to reconsider your resignation. That’s true.”
“You really want to get the president in there.”
“Whenever I can,” Ann said. “It gives us weight.”
“Weight?” Hood said. “You mean suction.”
> “Excuse me?”
“Nick Grillo said that the word-de-jour is suction.”
“Actually, that’s not quite right,” Ann informed him. “Weight is when someone has credibility. Suction is when they have considerable influence. There’s a difference.”
“I see,” Hood said. They smiled at each other. Hood looked away. “I’d better get to work,” he said. “There’s a lot of catching up to do.”
“I’m sure,” Ann said. “I’ll e-mail you a copy of the press release before it goes out.”
“Thanks again,” Hood said. “For everything.”
“Sure.” Ann hesitated. She looked at Hood for a long moment more and then left.
Hood turned to the computer monitor on his right. He did not want to watch Ann go. Ann Farris was a beautiful, intelligent, very sexual woman. For the five years they had known each other, they had flirted, she more openly than he. Now that Hood was going to be single, he felt uneasy about continuing the game. There was no longer someone between them. Flirting no longer felt like a game.
But Hood did not have time to think about that now. There was a lot to do. He had to review the daily briefings that had gone to Mike Rodgers during the past week, which included intelligence data collected from around the world as well as ongoing covert operations. He also had to look at reports from the rest of the staff and have a glance at the schedule for the upcoming week before he went to see the First Lady. He noticed that Rodgers was going to be interviewing the final candidates to replace Martha Mackall, the political liaison who had been assassinated in Spain, as well as candidates for the new post of economic adviser. With more and more nations linked together financially—“Siamese megatuplets,” was how Lowell Coffey had put it—poli—tics was becoming a troublesome sideshow to the force that really drove the world.
Hood decided to let Mike make those hires. Not only had he started the process, but Hood was going to be too busy with everything else. But with all that was going on, one thing remained true.
Paul Hood loved this work, this place.
It was good to be back.
EIGHT
Baku, Azerbaijan Monday, 4:00 P.M.
Azerbaijan is a nation in flux.
Because of political conflict in the Nagorno-Karabakh region, twenty percent of the country—mostly in the southwest, along the borders with Armenia and Iran—are occupied by rebel forces. Though a cease-fire has been observed since 1994, firefights occur with some regularity. Privately, diplomats fear that the self-proclaimed Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh will become the next Kosovo. Protests, often violent, erupt in Baku and other cities without warning. Some of them pertain to politics, others to general unrest. Since the breakup of the Soviet Union, there has been an extreme shortage of staples such as medical supplies, produce, and new technology. Cash—preferably U.S. dollars—is the only form of exchange recognized in most areas of the country, including the capital.
The United States has managed to openly support the legitimate government of Azerbaijan without alienating the powerful insurgent forces. Loans have been granted to Baku, while goods have been sold directly to “the people”—primarily the rebels. In the event of widespread revolt, the United States wants to have open lines of communication on both sides.
Maintaining that balance is the primary task of the small American embassy. Since March 1993, the fifteen employees and ten marine guards have operated from a small stone building at 83 Azadlig Prospect. In the back of that building, in a windowless, wood-paneled room, is the Department of News Services. Unlike the small press department, which issues news releases and arranges for interviews and photo ops with U.S. congressmen, senators, and other government leaders, officially the job of the DNS is to collect news clippings from around Russia and keep them on file for reference.
Officially.
In fact, the DNS is staffed by one CIA operative who gathers intelligence from around the nation. Most of the information comes from electronic surveillance that is conducted both from the office via satellite and from vans. Some of it comes from personnel who are paid to watch, listen to, and photograph government officials—sometimes in compromising situations. Some of those situations are also arranged by the DNS.
Because he was hurt, David Battat did not want to attempt returning to Moscow. Instead, he made his way to the embassy on foot. He was taken to see Deputy Ambassador Dorothy Williamson, who brought in Senior Researcher Tom Moore. Williamson was a large woman with curly black hair. Battat guessed her to be about forty. Moore was a lean giant in his thirties with a long, gaunt face and a lugubrious expression. If Battat had to be stranded in Baku, his expression would be gloomy as well.
Williamson’s aide was a smart veteran named Ron Friday. He was the only one who gave Battat an encouraging smile. Battat appreciated that.
While Battat gave Moore a quick rundown on what had happened, Williamson had the Marine medic take a look at Battat’s wounds. There was swelling in his throat and traces of blood in his saliva, though the damage did not appear to be serious. When the medic was finished with him, Battat was taken to the DNS room. He was given privacy while he called Moscow. He spoke to Pat Thomas, the assistant director of public information at the embassy. Thomas was also an OTR—off the record—field director for the CIA. That meant there was no record of him at agency headquarters. His reports were delivered directly to Washington in the diplomatic pouch.
Thomas did not take the news well. If Battat had succeeded in identifying the Harpooner, Thomas would have been a hero. Instead, he would have to explain to his counterpart in Baku and his superior in Washington how they had managed to blow the relatively simple job of surveillance.
Thomas said that he would think about their next step and let him know. Food was brought in. Battat ate, even though he had left his appetite back at the beach, along with his self-esteem, his energy, the mission, and his career. Then he sat in a chair resting until Williamson and Moore arrived for a second, more thorough, conversation. Moore looked grim. This was going to be painful.
Acoustic devices planted in the walls caused conversations to sound like static to the electronic eavesdropping devices that the Azerbaijanis had placed on surrounding buildings.
Battat told them that Moscow had suspected the Harpooner was in Baku, and he had been sent to try and identify him. This news did not meet with the approval of the senior researcher.
“The field office in Moscow obviously didn’t feel it was necessary to involve us in this operation,” Moore complained. “Do you want to tell me why?”
“They were afraid that our target might have people watching the embassy,” Battat said.
“Not all of our people are in the embassy,” Moore pointed out. “We have external resources.”
“I understand,” Battat said. “But Moscow felt that the fewer people who were in the loop, the better our chances of surprising the target.”
“Which didn’t really help, did it?” Moore said.
“No,”
“Whoever attacked you obviously knew you were coming.”
“Apparently, though I don’t understand how,” Battat said. “I was well hidden, and I wasn’t using anything that gave out an electronic pulse. The camera was one of the digital seventies. No flash, no glass in front to reflect light, no moving parts that clicked.”
“Couldn’t this Harpooner or his people have done a routine sweep of the shore?” the deputy ambassador asked.
“I was watching for that,” said Battat. “I got to the site early, at a spot we’d selected through satellite imaging. We chose it specifically so that I could see and hear people coming and going.”
“Then why didn’t you see or hear the goddamned assailant coming?” asked Moore.
“Because they hit me just when something started to happen out on the boat I was watching,” he said. “Someone came from below and turned on a radio. It was a perfect distraction.”
“Which suggests that someone knew you were in that spo
t, Mr. Battat,” Moore said.
“Probably.”
“Possibly even before you got there,” Moore went on.
“I don’t see how, but I can’t rule it out,” Battat agreed.
“What I really want to know, though, is whether this was even the Harpooner,” Moore went on.
“What do you mean?” the deputy ambassador asked.
“The Harpooner has been a terrorist for over two decades,” Moore told her. “He has personally run or been a part of at least fifteen terrorist strikes that we know of and probably many more that we don’t know about. He’s eluded countless efforts to trap him thanks, in large part, to his ability to stay mobile. He has no permanent address that we know of, hires whoever he needs, and rarely uses the same people twice. We only know what he looks like because one of his arms suppliers once snuck a photo to us. The supplier’s body was found a few months later on a sailboat, slit from chin to belly with a fish-gutting knife—after we’d relocated him and given him a new ID.”
“I see,” the deputy ambassador said.
“He left the knife behind,” Moore said. “He always leaves his weapons behind, from spearguns to bowline stirrups.”
“Sea-related things,” said Williamson.
“Often,” Moore said. “We suspect he was in the naval service somewhere—not a big leap of faith, though we haven’t been able to trace him. But in all that time, the Harpooner never left a witness. Which means that either it wasn’t the Harpooner who attacked Mr. Battat or the Harpooner wanted him alive.”
The deputy ambassador regarded Battat. “For what reason?”
“I can’t think of one,” Battat admitted.
The three were silent for a moment. The only sound was the hum of the air vent.
“Mr. Battat, the presence of a man like the Harpooner in this region could have terrible ramifications for all of us,” said the deputy ambassador.