by Clancy, Tom
“Which is another reason why we should have been in the loop on this!” Moore said angrily. “Hell, we know who the undercover guys are that are watching us, and they haven’t been around for days. They’re too busy trying to find a Russian spy who slipped out of jail two days ago.”
“Again, I’m sorry,” said Battat.
“Would you mind staying in Baku while we try to make sense of all this?” the deputy ambassador asked.
“Not at all,” said Battat. “I want to help.”
“Hopefully, it’s not too late for that,” Moore said.
They rose. “What about the Rachel?” Battat asked.
“I’ve sent a small plane out to look for it,” Moore told him. “But they’ve had several hours head start, and God knows which direction they went. I’m not optimistic.”
“Can’t you trace the name?” Battat asked. “Isn’t there a local registry?”
“There is,” Moore told him, “and the Rachel isn’t in it. We’re checking records in Dagestan, Kalmyk, and other republics on the Caspian, but my guess is she’s a rogue.”
Moore showed Battat to a small guest room on the second floor of the building. There was a cot in the corner, and Battat lay down to think. The boat, the music they played, the brief glimpse he had of the man on deck—he replayed the sounds and images over and over, looking for more information. Something that might tell him who the crew of the Rachel were, how they were dressed, or where they might have come from. In SD sessions—subconscious debriefing—trained interviewers would walk agents through experiences to help them remember lost details. The interviewers would ask about the color of the sky, the look of the water, the force of the wind and the smells riding it. Once the agent was reimmersed in the scene, the interviewer would move him around, ask him to describe distinctive markings on the hull of the boat or whether there were banners on the stern or mast or sounds coming from the deck or below. It always surprised Battat how much information the brain stored that was not always immediately accessible.
Though Battat closed his eyes and breathed slowly and deeply and went through the SD checklist, he could not remember anything that brought him closer to whoever was on the boat or from what direction his assailant might have come. He could not even remember the feel of the fabric on the arm that had been choking him or the smell of the man who had attacked him. He couldn’t remember if the man’s cheek had touched him and whether he was bearded or clean-shaven. Battat had been too focused on trying to survive.
Battat’s eyes remained shut. They stopped looking into the past and gazed ahead. He would stay in Baku, but not just because the deputy ambassador had asked. Until Battat found whoever had attacked him, his confidence was broken and his life belonged to them.
Which, he realized, could be why he was left alive.
NINE
Washington, D.C. Monday, 11:55 A.M.
It had always amazed Hood how different Washington looked during the daytime. At night, the white facades were brightly lit and appeared to stand alone, shining with Olympian grandeur. In the day, situated between modern office buildings, vending carts, and glossy restaurant logos, beneath loud and ever-present jet traffic and security barricades of concrete and steel, the landmarks seemed almost antique instead of timeless.
Yet both were Washington. They represented an old, increasingly monolithic bureaucracy that had to be dealt with, and a vision of greatness that could not be ignored or diminished.
Hood parked in the Ellipse on the southern side of the grounds. He crossed E Street and walked up East Executive to the East Appointment Gate. He was buzzed through the iron gate and, after passing through a metal detector, waited inside the East Wing for one of the First Lady’s aides.
Of all the landmarks in Washington, Hood had always been partial to the Capitol. For one thing, it was the guts of the government, the place where Congress put wheels on the president’s vision. They were often square wheels or wheels of different sizes, but nothing could move without them. For another thing, the building itself was a vast museum of art and history, with treasures everywhere. Here a plaque indicating where the desk of Congressman Abraham Lincoln was located. There a statue of General Lew Wallace, the onetime governor of the territory of New Mexico and the author of Ben-Hur. Somewhere else a sign indicating the status of the search for the cornerstone of the building, which was laid over two hundred years before in a little-noted ceremony and was somehow buried and then lost under numerous modifications to the foundation.
The White House wasn’t as imposing as the Capitol. It was a much smaller structure, with peeling paint and warping wood on the exterior. But its grounds and columns, its rooms and many familiar angles were intertwined in American memory with images of great leaders doing great things—or, sometimes, infamous, very human things. It would always be the symbolic heart of the United States.
A young male assistant to the First Lady arrived. He brought Hood to the elevator that led to the third floor. Hood was somewhat surprised that the First Lady wanted to see him upstairs. She had an office on the first floor and typically received visitors there.
Hood was taken to the First Lady’s sitting room, which adjoined the presidential bedroom. It was a small room with a main door that led to the corridor and another, he assumed, that opened into the bedroom. There was a gold settee against the far wall, two matching wing chairs across from it, and a coffee table between them. A tall secretary with a laptop sat on the opposite wall. The Persian rug was white, red, and gold; the drapes were white, and they were drawn. A small chandelier threw bright shards of light around the room.
Hood looked at the two portraits on the wall. One was of Alice Roosevelt, daughter of Theodore. The other was a painting of Hannah Simpson, mother of Ulysses S. Grant. He was wondering why they were here when the First Lady entered. She was dressed casually in beige slacks and a matching sweater. Her aide shut the door behind her, leaving the two of them alone.
“Nancy Reagan found them in the basement,” Megan said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The portraits,” she said. “She found them personally. She hated the idea of women being left to gather dust.”
Hood smiled. They embraced lightly, and then Megan gestured toward the settee.
“There are still wonderful things down there,” Megan said as they sat. “Furnishings, books, documents, things like Tad Lincoln’s writing slate and a diary that belonged to Florence Harding.”
“I thought most of that memorabilia was in the Smith-sonian.”
“A lot of it is. But many of the family-related things are still here. People have gotten jaded by all the scandals over the years,” Megan said. “They forget how much the White House was and is a home. Children were born and raised here, there were weddings, birthdays, and holidays.”
Coffee arrived, and Megan was silent as it was served. Hood watched her as the White House steward quietly and efficiently set out the silver service, poured the first cup, then left.
The passion in Megan’s voice was exactly as Hood remembered. She never did anything she didn’t care deeply about, whether it was addressing a crowd or advocating greater education spending on TV talk shows or discussing the White House with an old friend. But there was something in her expression he had never seen before. The old enthusiasm stopped short of her eyes. When he looked in them, they seemed frightened. Confused.
Hood picked up his cup, took a sip of coffee, then turned to Megan.
“I appreciate your coming,” the First Lady said. Her cup and saucer were on her lap, and she was looking down. “I know you’re busy and that you have problems of your own. But this isn’t just about me or the president, Paul.” She looked up. “It’s about the nation.”
“What’s wrong?” Hood asked.
Megan breathed deeply. “My husband has been behaving strangely over the last few days.”
Megan fell silent. Hood didn’t push her. He waited while she drank some of her coffee.
“Over the past week or so, he’s been more and more distracted,” she said. “He hasn’t asked about our grandson, which is very unusual. He says that it’s work, and maybe it is. But things got very strange yesterday.” She regarded Hood intently. “This remains between us.”
“Of course.”
Megan took a short, reinforcing breath. “Before the dinner last night, I found him sitting at his dressing table. He was running late. He wasn’t showered or dressed. He was just staring at the mirror, flushed and looking as though he’d been crying. When I asked him about it, he said he’d been exercising. He told me that his eyes were bloodshot because he hadn’t been sleeping. I didn’t believe him, but I let it be. Then, at the predinner reception, he was flat. He smiled and was pleasant, but there was no enthusiasm in him at all. Until he received a phone call. He took it in his office and returned about two minutes later. When he came back, his manner was entirely different. He was outgoing and confident.”
“That’s certainly how he seemed at dinner,” Hood said. “When you say the president was flat, what exactly do you mean?”
Megan thought for a moment. “Do you know how someone gets when they’re really jet-lagged?” she asked. “There’s a glassiness in their eyes and a kind of delayed reaction to whatever is said?”
Hood nodded.
“That’s exactly how he was until the call,” Megan said.
“Do you know who called?” Hood asked.
“He told me it was Jack Fenwick.”
Fenwick was a quiet, efficient man who had been the president’s budget director in his first administration. Fenwick had joined Lawrence’s American Sense think tank, where he added intelligence issues to his repertoire. When the president was reelected, Fenwick was named the head of the National Security Agency, which was a separate intelligence division of the Department of Defense. Unlike other divisions of military intelligence, the NSA was also chartered to provide support for nondefense activities of the Executive Branch.
“What did Fenwick tell the president?” Hood asked.
“That everything had come together,” she told Hood. “That was all he would say.”
“You have no idea who or what that is?”
Megan shook her head. “Mr. Fenwick left for New York this morning, and when I asked his assistant what the phone call was about, she said something very strange. She asked me, ‘What call?’ ”
“Did you check the log?”
Megan nodded. “The only call that came into that line at that time was from the Hay-Adams Hotel.”
The elegant old hotel was located on the other side of Lafayette Park, literally across the street from the White House.
“I had a staff member visit the hotel this morning,” Megan went on. “He got the names of the night staff, went to their homes, and showed them pictures of Fenwick. They never saw him.”
“He could have come in a back entrance,” Hood said. “Did you run a check of the registry?”
“Yes,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean anything. There could have been any number of aliases. Congressmen often use the hotel for private meetings.”
Hood knew that Megan wasn’t just referring to political meetings.
“But that wasn’t the only thing,” Megan went on. “When we went downstairs to the Blue Room, Michael saw Senator Fox and went over to thank her. She seemed very surprised and asked why he was thanking her. He said, ‘For budgeting the initiative.’ I could see that she had no idea what he was talking about.”
Hood nodded. That would explain the confusion he had noticed when Senator Fox entered the room. Things were beginning to fall into place a little. Senator Fox was a member of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee. If any kind of intelligence operation had been approved, she would have to have known about it. Apparently, she was as surprised to learn about the international intelligence-sharing operation as Hood had been. Yet the president either assumed or had been told, possibly by Jack Fenwick, that she had helped make it happen.
“How was the president after the dinner?” Hood asked.
“That’s actually the worst of it,” Megan said. Her composure began to break. She set her coffee cup aside and Hood did likewise. He moved closer. “As we were getting ready for bed, Michael received a call from Kirk Pike.”
The former chief of Navy Intelligence, Pike was the newly appointed director of the CIA.
“He took the call in the bedroom,” Megan went on. “The conversation was brief, and when Michael hung up, he just sat on the bed, staring. He looked shell-shocked.”
“What did Pike tell him?”
“I don’t know,” Megan told him. “Michael didn’t say. It may have been nothing, just an update that got his mind working. But I don’t think he slept all night. He wasn’t in bed when I got up this morning, and he’s been in meetings all day. We usually talk around eleven o’clock, even if it’s just a quick hello, but not today.”
“Have you talked to the president’s physician about this?” Hood asked.
Megan shook her head. “If Dr. Smith can’t find anything wrong with my husband, he might recommend that Michael see Dr. Benn.”
“The psychiatrist at Walter Reed,” Hood said.
“Correct,” Megan said. “Dr. Smith and he work closely together. Paul, you know what will happen if the president of the United States goes to see a psychiatrist. As much as we might try to keep something like that a secret, the risks are much too high.”
“The risks are higher if the president isn’t well,” Hood said.
“I know,” Megan said, “which is why I wanted to see you. Paul, there are too many things going on that don’t make sense. If there’s something wrong with my husband, I’ll insist that he see Dr. Benn and to hell with the political fallout. But before I ask Michael to submit to that, I want to know whether something else is going on.”
“Glitches in the communications system or a hacker playing tricks,” Hood said. “Maybe more Chinese spies.”
“Yes,” Megan said. “Exactly.”
He could see Megan’s expression, her entire mood, lighten when he said that. If it were something from the outside, then it could be fixed without hurting the president.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Hood promised.
“Quietly,” Megan said. “Please, don’t let this get out.”
“I won’t,” Hood assured her. “In the meantime, try and talk to Michael. See if you can get him to open up somehow. Any information, any names other than what you’ve told me, will be a big help.”
“I’ll do that,” Megan said. She smiled. “You’re the only one I can trust with this, Paul. Thank you for being there.”
He smiled back. “I get to help an old friend and my country. Not a lot of people get that chance.”
Megan rose. Hood stood, and they shook hands. “I know this is not an easy time for you, either,” the First Lady said. “Let me know if there’s anything you need.”
“I will,” Hood promised.
The First Lady left, and her aide returned to show Hood out.
TEN
Baku, Azerbaijan Monday, 9:21 P.M.
Pat Thomas experienced two miracles in one day.
First, the Aeroflot TU-154 that was scheduled to leave Moscow at six P.M. did so. On time. With the possible exception of Uganda Royal Airways, Aeroflot was the most notoriously late carrier Thomas had ever flown on. Second, the airplane landed in Baku at 8:45 P.M.—five minutes ahead of schedule. During his five years of service at the American embassy in Moscow, Thomas had never experienced either of those events. What was more, despite a relatively full aircraft, the airline had not double- or triple-booked his seat.
The slim, nearly six-foot-tall, forty-two-year-old Thomas was assistant director of public information at the embassy. What the title of ADPI really meant was that Thomas was a spy: a diplomatic private investigator was how he viewed the acronym. The Russians knew that, of course, which was the reason one or two R
ussian agents always shadowed Thomas in public. He was certain that someone in Baku would be waiting to tail him as well. Technically, of course, the KGB was finished. But the personnel and the infrastructure of the intelligence operation were still very much in place and very much in use as the Federal Security Service and other “services.”
Thomas was dressed in a three-piece gray winter suit that would keep him warm in the heavy cold that always rolled in from the Bay of Baku. Thomas knew he would need more than that—strong Georgian coffee or even stronger Russian cognac—to warm him after the reception he expected to receive at the embassy. Unfortunately, keeping secrets from your own people was part of the spy business, too. Hopefully, they would vent a little, Thomas would act contrite, and everyone could move on.
Thomas was met by a staff car from the embassy. He didn’t rush tossing his single bag in the trunk. He didn’t want any Russian or Azerbaijani agents thinking he was in a hurry. He paused to pop a sucker into his mouth, stretched, then climbed into the car. Be boring. That was the key when you thought you were being watched. Then, if you had to speed up suddenly, chances were good you might surprise and lose whoever was trailing you.
It was a thirty-minute drive from Baku International Airport to the bay-side region that housed the embassies and the city’s commercial district. Thomas never got to spend more than a day or two at a time here, though that was something he still meant to do. He had been to the local bazaars, to the Fire Worshipper’s Temple, to the State Museum of Carpets—a museum with a name like that demanded to be seen—and to the most famous local landmark, the Maiden Tower. Located in the old Inner City on the bay and at least two thousand years old, the eight-story tower was built by a young girl who either wanted to lock herself inside or throw herself into the sea—no one knew for certain which version was true. Thomas knew how she felt.
Thomas was taken to see Deputy Ambassador Williamson, who had returned from dinner and was sitting behind her desk, waiting for him. They shook hands and exchanged a few banal words. Then she picked up a pen and noted the time on a legal pad. Moore and Battat came to her office moments later. The agent’s neck was mottled black and gunmetal gray. In addition to the bruises, he looked exhausted.