by Clancy, Tom
“How’s your relationship with Sergei Orlov at the Russian Op-Center?” Herbert asked breathlessly.
The question surprised Hood. “I haven’t spoken to him in about six months. Why?”
“I just received a message that was forwarded from the U.S. embassy in Baku,” Herbert said. “One of the CIA’s people over there, Tom Moore, is now convinced that Baku has had a visit from the Harpooner. Moore doesn’t know why the bastard’s there—”
“It could have something to do with what you were just telling me about,” Rodgers said to Hood. “Bob’s conversation with Fenwick—”
“About Iran fearing terrorist attacks from Azerbaijan,” Hood said.
Rodgers nodded.
“I agree that that’s a possibility,” Herbert said. “Paul, if it is the Harpooner, Moore wants to catch him going into or keep him from getting out of the former USSR. He’s hoping that the Russian Op-Center can help.”
“How?” Hood asked. “Orlov and I shared our files years ago. There was nothing on the Harpooner.”
“Orlov’s facility was new then,” Herbert said. “He or his people may have found something in the old KGB files since then. Something they might not have told us about.”
“It’s possible,” Hood agreed. Op-Center was understaffed, and the situation at their Russian counterpart was even worse. Keeping up a regular flow of information was difficult.
“In addition to intel on the Harpooner,” Herbert said, “More was hoping that Orlov’s people might be able to watch the northern and northwestern sections of Russia. He was thinking that the Harpooner might try to leave the region through Scandinavia.”
Hood looked at his watch. “It’s about three in the morning over there,” he said.
“Can you reach him at home?” Herbert asked. “This is important. You know it is.”
Herbert was right. Regardless of the intelligence chief’s desire to see the terrorist captured, tried, and executed, the Harpooner was a man who deserved to be out of circulation.
“I’ll call,” Hood said.
“Before you do, what about President Lawrence?” Rodgers asked. “How did things go over there?”
“I’ll fill you in after I talk to Orlov,” Hood said as he accessed his secure phone list on the computer. He found Orlov’s number. “But from the look of it, we’re facing a lose-lose situation. Either the president is suffering from some kind of mental fatigue, or we’ve got a group of top officials running a black ops action of some kind—”
“Or both,” Herbert said.
“Or both,” Hood agreed. “I’ve got Liz Gordon coming in later to talk about what the president might be experiencing.”
Before punching in Orlov’s home telephone number, Hood called Op-Center’s linguistics office. He got Orly Turner on the line. Orly was one of Op-Center’s four staff translators. Her area of expertise was Eastern Europe and Russia. Hood conferenced her in to the call. Though Orlov spoke English well enough, Hood wanted to make sure there were no misunderstandings, no delays if technical terms or acronyms had to be explained.
“You want to know what my gut tells me?” Herbert said.
“What?” Hood asked as he punched in Orlov’s number.
“That all of this is related,” Herbert said. “The president being out of the loop, Fenwick dealing secretly with Iran, the Harpooner showing up in Baku. It’s all part of a big picture that we haven’t figured out yet.”
Herbert left the office. Hood didn’t disagree with him. In fact, his own gut was willing to go one step further.
That the big picture was bigger than what they imagined.
TWENTY-ONE
Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 3:58 A.M.
When Tom Moore went down, Pat Thomas ran toward the hospital door. He was halfway out when he saw blood pulsing from the side of Moore’s head. Thomas stopped and jumped back just as a shot blew out the glass in the door. The bullet punched into his left thigh and knocked him down. He landed in a sitting position and continued to scuttle back. A second bullet chewed up the green tile inches in front of his foot. Thomas hurried backward along the floor, propelled by his palms and right heel. The wound burned viciously, and each move was agony. He left a long smear of blood behind him.
It was a few moments before the hospital staff realized what had happened. One of the nurses, a young woman, ran forward and helped pull Thomas back. Several orderlies followed. They dragged him behind the admissions desk. Another nurse called the police.
A bald-headed doctor knelt beside Thomas. He was wearing off-white surgical gloves and shouted instructions in Azerbaijani to other hospital workers who were in front of the counter. As he did, he took a pocket knife from his white coat and carefully cut away the fabric around the wound.
Thomas winced as the khaki fabric came away. He watched as the doctor exposed the wound.
“Will I live?” Thomas asked.
The doctor didn’t answer. Suddenly, the bald man started to rise. But instead of getting up, he straddled the American’s legs. He sat on the wound, sending fire up through his patient’s waist. Thomas wanted to scream, but he could not. A moment later, the doctor slipped a hand behind the America’s head, holding it in place, and pushed the knife blade through his throat. The metal entered the skin just behind Thomas’s chin and pinned his mouth shut. The blade continued upward until Thomas could feel the point of the blade under his tongue.
Thomas choked as he coughed blood into his closed mouth. He raised his hands and tried to push the bald man back. But he was too weak. Calmly and quickly, the bald man angled the knife back. Then he drew the knife down until it reached Thomas’s larynx. He cut swiftly to the left and right, following the line of the jaw all the way to the ears. Then he removed the blade, rose, and allowed Thomas to flop to the floor. The doctor pocketed the knife and walked away without a glance back.
The American lay there, his arms weak and his fingers moving aimlessly. He could feel the warm blood flowing from both sides of his throat as the flesh around it grew cold. He tried to call out, but his voice was a burbling whisper. Then he realized that his chest was moving but no air was going to it. There was blood in his throat.
Thomas’s thoughts were confused. His vision swirled black. He thought about flying up to Baku, about meeting with Moore. He wondered how Moore was. And then he thought about his children. For a moment, he was back playing ball with them on the front lawn.
Then they were gone.
TWENTY-TWO
Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 4:01 A.M.
General Sergei Orlov was standing in the snow in the small town of Nar’yan Mar on the Arctic Ocean when a peeping bird caused him to start. He turned to look for it and found himself staring at his alarm clock.
He was back in his one-bedroom apartment in Saint Petersburg.
“Damn you,” Orlov said as the phone rang again. The former cosmonaut did not often dream of the town where he grew up. He hated being taken away from it and from his loving parents.
“Sergei?” his wife Masha said groggily beside him.
“I have it,” Orlov told her. He picked up the receiver of the cordless phone. He held it to his chest to stifle the ringing. “Go back to sleep.”
“All right,” she said.
Orlov listened enviously to the cozy rustle of the sheets as his wife curled up on her side. He got out of bed, pulled a bathrobe from the edge of the door, and pulled it on as he stepped into the living room. Even if this were a wrong number, Orlov would have trouble getting back to sleep.
He finally answered the telephone. “Hello,” Orlov said with a trace of annoyance.
“General Orlov?” said the voice on the other end. It was a man.
“Yes?” Orlov said as he rubbed his eyes vigorously with his free hand. “Who is this?”
“General, it’s Paul Hood,” said the caller.
Orlov was suddenly very much awake. “Paul!” he practically shouted. “Paul Hood, my friend. How are you? I heard th
at you resigned. And I heard about what happened in New York. Are you all right?”
Orlov walked over to an armchair while the woman translated. The general had a decent command of English, the result of the years he spent as a goodwill ambassador for the Russian space program after his flying days were finished. But he let the woman translate to be sure he didn’t miss anything.
Orlov sat down. Standing just under five-foot-seven, he had the narrow shoulders and compact build that had made him an ideal cosmonaut. Yet he had presence. His striking brown eyes, high cheekbones, and dark complexion were, like his adventurous spirit, a part of his Manchu heritage. He walked with a significant limp due to a left leg and hip badly broken when his parachute failed to deploy in what turned out to be his last space mission.
“I’m fine,” Hood said in reply. “I withdrew my resignation.”
While Turner translated, Orlov turned on the lamp beside the chair and sat down. He picked up a pen and pad he kept on the small end table.
“Good, good!” Orlov said.
“Listen, General,” Hood went on, “I’m very sorry to be calling you so early and at home.”
“It’s no bother, Paul,” Orlov replied. “What can I do for you?”
“The terrorist who calls himself the Harpooner,” Hood said. “You and I once spoke about him.”
“I remember,” said Orlov. “We’ve been looking for him in connection with the terror bombings in Moscow several years ago.”
“General, we believe he is in Azerbaijan.”
Orlov’s full lips tightened. “That would not surprise me,” he said. “We thought we had him located in Moscow two days ago. A guard near Lenin’s Tomb was very confident in his identification. He summoned police assistance, but by the time it had arrived, the suspect had disappeared.”
“Do you mean the police lost him, or the suspect knew he was being watched and managed to get away?” Hood asked.
“The police are generally good at surveillance,” Orlov replied. “The subject went around a corner and was gone. He could have changed clothes somehow—I don’t know. The Kievskaya metro stop is near where he was last seen. It is possible he went down there.”
“It’s more than possible,” Hood said. “That was where one of our embassy people spotted him.”
“Explain, please,” Orlov said.
“We had heard that he was in Moscow,” Hood said. “The embassy person followed the man he thought was the Harpooner onto the metro. They went to a transfer station, and the Harpooner got off. He boarded another train, left it at the Paveletskaya stop, then he literally vanished.”
Orlov was now very interested. “You’re sure it was Paveletskaya?” he asked.
“Yes,” Hood asked. “Is that significant?”
“Perhaps,” Orlov said.
“General Orlov,” Hood said, “however the Harpooner left Moscow, it’s possible that he may be headed back there or toward Saint Petersburg. Do you think you could help us try and find him?”
“I would love to capture that monster,” Orlov replied. “I will contact Moscow and see what they have. In the meantime, please send whatever information you have to my office. I will be there within the hour.”
“Thank you, General,” Hood said. “And again, I’m sorry to have wakened you. I didn’t want to lose any time.”
“You did the right thing,” Orlov assured him. “It was good speaking with you. I will talk to you later in the day.”
Orlov rose and went back to the bedroom. He hung up the phone, kissed his precious, sleeping Masha on the forehead, then quietly went to the closet and removed his uniform. He carried it into the living room. Then he went back for the rest of his clothes. He dressed quickly and quietly, then left his wife a note. After nearly thirty years, Masha was not unaccustomed to his comings and goings in the middle of the night. When he had been a fighter pilot, Orlov was often called for missions at odd hours. During his spacefaring years, it was common for him to suit up while it was still dark. Before his first orbital flight he had left her a note that read, “My dearest—I am leaving the earth for several days. Can you pick me up at the spaceport on Sunday morning? Your loving husband, Sergei. PS: I will try to catch you a shooting star.”
Of course, Masha was there.
Orlov left the apartment and took the stairs to the basement garage. The government had finally given him a car after three years, since the buses were unreliable. And with everything that was going on in and around Russia, from restless republics to rampant gangsterism in major cities, it was often imperative for Orlov to be able to get to his Op-Center’s headquarters.
And it was imperative now. The Harpooner was back in Russia.
TWENTY-THREE
Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:51 P.M.
Liz Gordon came to Hood’s office after his conversation with Orlov. A husky woman with sparkling eyes and short, curly brown hair, Gordon was chewing nicotine gum and carrying her ever-present cup of coffee. Mike Rodgers remained for the talk.
Hood told Gordon how the president had seemed during their meeting. Hood also gave the woman a brief overview of the possible covert activities that might explain what appeared to be the president’s delusions.
When Hood was finished, Gordon refilled her coffee cup from a pot in the corner of the office. Though Hood had been dubious of psychiatry when he had first come to Op-Center, Gordon’s profiling work had impressed him. He had also been won over by her thoroughness. She brought a mathematician’s prooflike manner to the process. That, coupled with her compassion, had made her an increasingly valuable and respected member of the team. Hood did not have any trouble entrusting his daughter to her.
“The president’s behavior does not seem extreme,” Gordon said, “so we can eliminate some very serious dementias, which would indicate a complete or nearcomplete loss of intellectual capacity. That leaves us with dangerous but more elusive delusions, of which there are basically six kinds. First there’s organic, which is brought on by illness such as epilepsy or brain lesions. Second is substance-induced, meaning drugs. Third is somatic, which involves a kind of hyperawareness of the body—anorexia nervosa or hypochondria, for example. What you’ve described doesn’t sound like any of those. Besides, they certainly would have been caught by the president’s physician during one of his regular checkups. We can also rule out delusions of grandeur—megalo—mania—since that would show up in public. We haven’t seen any of that.
“The only two possibilities are delusions of reference and delusions of persecution,” she went on. “Delusions of reference is actually a mild form of delusions of persecution, in which innocent remarks are deemed to be critical. That doesn’t seem to apply here. But I can’t be as quick to rule out persecution delusions.”
“Why not?” Hood asked.
“Because the sufferer will go to great pains to conceal them,” she said. “He or she believes that others are trying to stop them or hurt them in some way. They often imagine a conspiracy of some kind. If the president fears that people are out to get him, he won’t want to confide in anyone.”
“But the stress might come out in little bursts,” Rodgers said.
“Exactly,” Gordon told him. “Crying, withdrawal, distraction, temper—all of the things Paul described.”
“He seemed to want to trust me,” Hood said.
“That’s true and also characteristic of the illness,” Gordon said. “Delusions of persecution is a form of paranoia. But as a sage once said, ‘Sometimes even paranoids have enemies.’ ”
“Is there something we should do?” Hood asked. “The First Lady’s feelings notwithstanding, we have to do something if the president can’t continue to function under these circumstances.”
“Whatever is going on sounds like it’s in an advanced-early stage,” Gordon said. “The effects are unlikely to be permanent.”
Hood’s phone beeped.
“If there is a conspiracy, and you can expose it quickly,” Gordon went on, “ther
e is every reason to believe the president can stay on the job after a short rest. Whatever has happened probably wouldn’t have any effects, long-term or short.”
Hood nodded as he answered the phone. “Yes?”
“Paul, it’s Bob,” said Herbert.
“What’s up?”
“A major situation,” he said. “I just got a call from the CIA suit who relayed Tom Moore’s request to me from Baku. Moore and the CIA guy from Moscow, Pat Thomas, were just wasted. They were taking David Battat to the hospital—the guy the Harpooner attacked during the stakeout. Moore was tagged by a sniper outside the hospital, and Thomas had his throat cut in the lobby.”
“By who?” Hood asked.
“We don’t know.”
“No one saw him?” Hood asked.
“Apparently not,” Herbert replied. “Or if they did, they didn’t see him again.”
“Where is Battat?”
“He’s still at the hospital, which is why the suit called me,” Herbert said. “The embassy called for police protection, but we don’t know whether they’ve been compromised or not. The CIA is out of people, and they’re afraid Battat will be next, and soon. We don’t have anyone in Baku, but I thought—”
“Orlov,” Hood said urgently. “I’ll call him now.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Khachmas, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 4:44 A.M.
Maurice Charles did not like to repeat himself.
If he arrived someplace by car, he liked to leave by bus or rail. If he went west by air, he liked to go east by car or bus. If he wore a hat in the morning, he took it off in the afternoon. Or else he wore a different one or dyed his hair. If he destroyed a car with a pipe bomb, he attacked the next target with C-4. If he had done surveillance along a coastline, he retreated inland for a short time. Repetition was the means by which entrepreneurs in any field were undone. Patterns enabled lesser thinkers to anticipate you. The only exceptions were densely populated cities where he might be seen. If he found a relatively obscure route through a place like that, he would use it more than once. The risk of being spotted and identified was greater than the risk of reusing an out-of-the-way road or tunnel.