by Clancy, Tom
“Such as?” Herbert asked.
“What if disinformation isn’t the end but the means?” Hood said. “What if someone is trying to convince Lawrence that he’s losing his grip?”
“You mean, what if someone is trying to gaslight the president of the United States?” Herbert declared.
“Yes,” Hood replied.
“Well, it’s going to take a lot of convincing before I buy that,” Herbert said. “For one thing, anyone who tried that would never get away with it. There are too many people around the president—”
“Bob, we already decided that this is something Jack Fenwick would not, probably could not, do on his own,” Hood said.
“Yes, but to make it work, he’d need a small army of people who were very close to the president,” Herbert said.
“Who?” Hood asked. “The chief of staff?”
“For one,” Herbert said. “He’s privy to most of the same briefings the president receives.”
“Okay,” Hood said. “Gable’s already on my list of unreliables. Who else? Who would be absolutely necessary for a plan like this to work?”
Before Herbert could answer, his phone beeped. He answered the call and was back in less than a minute.
“Don’t tell me, ‘I told you so,’ ” Herbert said.
“Why?” Hood asked.
“A high-level official at the CIA in Washington got the intel about the Harpooner from the NSA,” Herbert told them. “The NSA didn’t have anyone in Baku, so they notified the CIA. The CIA sent David Battat.”
“Whom the Harpooner knew just where to find,” Rodgers said. “Instead of killing him, the Harpooner poisoned him somehow. And then Battat was used to bring out Moore and Thomas at the hospital.”
“Apparently,” Herbert said.
“Paul, you asked a question a moment ago,” Rodgers said. “You wanted to know who else would be necessary for a psy-ops maneuver to work against the president. That’s a good question, but it’s not the first one we need to answer.”
“No?” Hood said. “What is?”
“Who would benefit the most from the mental incapacitation of the president?” Rodgers asked. “And at the same time, who would be in a perfect position to help make some of the disinformation happen?”
Hood’s stomach was growling now. The answer was obvious.
The vice president of the United States.
THIRTY-TWO
Washington, D.C. Monday, 11:24 P.M.
Vice President Charles Cotten was in the ground-floor sitting room of the vice presidential residence. The mansion was located on the sprawling Massachusetts Avenue grounds of the United States Naval Observatory. It was a twenty-minute drive from here to the vice president’s two offices: one in the White House and the other in the neighboring Old Executive Office Building. It was just a short walk from the mansion to the National Cathedral. Lately, Cotten had been spending more time than usual at the cathedral.
Praying.
An aide knocked and entered. The woman told the vice president that his car was ready. The vice president thanked her and rose from the leather armchair. He entered the dark, wood-paneled hallway and headed toward the front door. Upstairs, Cotten’s wife and children were asleep.
My wife and children. They were words Cotten never thought would be part of his life. When he was a senator from New York, Cotten had been the ultimate lady’s man. A new, gorgeous date to every function. The press referred to these younger women as “Cotten candy.” There were regular jokes about what went on below the Cotten belt. Then he met Marsha Arnell at a Museum of Modern Art fund-raiser in Manhattan, and everything changed. Marsha was twenty-seven, eleven years his junior. She was a painter and an art historian. She was telling a group of guests about late—twentieth-century art and how the work of commercial artists like Frank Frazetta, James Bama, and Rich Corben defined a new American vision: the power of the human form and face blended with landscapes from dream and fantasy. Cotten was hypnotized by the young woman’s voice, her ideas, and her vital and optimistic view of America.
They were married four months later.
For nearly ten years, Marsha and their twin girls had been the foundation of Charles Cotten’s life. They were his focus, his heart, and their future was never far from his thoughts.
They were the reason the vice president had conceived of this plan. To preserve America for his family.
The fact was, the United States was at risk. Not just from terrorist attacks, though more and more those were becoming a very real threat. The danger facing the United States was that it was on the verge of becoming irrelevant. Our military could destroy the world many times over. But other nations knew that we would never do that, so they did not fear us. Our economy was relatively strong. But so were the economies of many other nations and alliances. The Eurodollar was strong, and the new South American League and their SAL currency was growing in power and influence. Central America and Mexico were talking about a new confederacy. Canada was being tempted to join the European economy. Those unions, those nations, did not face the kind of suspicion and resentment that greeted America the world over. The reason? America was a giant everyone wanted to see brought down. Not destroyed; they needed us too much for international policing. They simply wanted us humbled and humiliated. We were a meddling thug to our enemies and an overbearing big brother to our supposed allies.
These were not concerns that bothered other nations during times of international depression or world war. It was all right to invade France to free the French of Hitler. But it was not okay to fly over France to bomb Libya, the home of a different despot. It was all right to maintain a military presence in Saudi Arabia to protect the nation from Saddam Hussein. But it was not all right to fly jets from Riyadh to protect American troops in the region.
We were not respected, and we were not feared. That had to change. And it had to change long before Michael Lawrence was scheduled to leave the White House in three years. That would be too late to act.
The problem had not been caused by Michael Lawrence. He was simply the latest bearer of the torch of arrogant isolationism. When he was in the Senate, Cotten had felt that there needed to be a United States that was better integrated with the world. The one that Teddy Roosevelt had described. The one that carried a big stick and was not afraid to use it. But also one that knew how to speak softly. An America that knew how to use and exert diplomacy and economic pressure. One that had the resolve to use quiet assassination and blackmail instead of mounting very public and unpopular miniwars.
When the senator was tapped to share a ticket with presidential candidate Michael Lawrence, Cotten accepted. The public liked Lawrence’s “I’m for the people” slogan and style, his perception as a man who had come back from the political wilderness to serve them. But he had wanted to balance his relatively up-front and independent manner with someone who knew how to work the back rooms of Congress and the corridors of power abroad.
Cotten left the mansion and slid into the car. The driver shut the door for him. They rolled into the dark, still night. Cotten’s soul was on fire. He was not going to enjoy what he and his allies were about to do. He remembered when he had first approached them and others individually. Seemingly casual remarks were dropped. If they were ignored, he let the subject drop. If not, he pursued it with more pointed remarks. Cotten realized that was what it must be like for a married man to ask a woman to have an affair. Go too far with the wrong individual, and everything could be lost.
Each man had become involved for the same reason: patriotism. The creation of an America that led the world community rather than reacted to it. An America that rewarded peace with prosperity and punished warmongers not with a public pummeling and credibility but with quiet, lonely death. Lawrence was not willing to cross the line from legal war to illegal murder, even though lives would be saved. But the dawn of the twenty-first century was not a time for warfare. It bred short-term misery and long-term hatred. The world was b
ecoming too small, too crowded for bombs. As distasteful as this was, a change had to come. For the nation and for the sake of its children. For the sake of his children.
The car moved swiftly through the empty streets. Washington was always so deserted at night. Only the spies and plotters were afoot. It seemed strange to think of himself in that capacity. He had always been a straight shooter. If you felt passionately about something, you spoke your mind. If you didn’t feel passionately, then it probably was not worth doing. But this was different. This operation had to be kept very quiet. Kept only among those who were actively involved in its planning and execution.
Now this was it, Cotten thought. The last leg of the operation. According to the president’s staff, announcing a UN intelligence initiative that did not exist had seriously rattled Lawrence. It had shaken him more than the other canards Fenwick and Gable had fed him and subsequently denied—usually during a cabinet session or meeting in the Oval Office.
“No, Mr. President,” Cotten would say softly, seemingly embarrassed for the confusion of the president, “there was never a Pentagon report that Russia and China exchanged artillery fire over the Amur River. Sir, we had not heard that the FBI director had threatened to resign. When did this happen? Mr. President, don’t you recall? We had agreed that Mr. Fenwick would share this new intelligence with Iran.”
The question of sharing intelligence with Iran had been important to the final stage of the operation. Jack Fenwick had told the Iranian ambassador that according to United States intelligence sources, an attack would come from Azerbaijan. They weren’t sure what the target would be, but it would probably be a terrorist attack in the heart of Teheran. Fenwick had assured Iran that if they retaliated, the United States would stay out of it. This nation wanted to nurture closer ties with the Islamic Republic of Iran, not stand in the way of its self-defense.
Lawrence, of course, would be pushed to behave in a less accommodating manner. And when he realized where his confused perceptions had taken the nation, he would be forced to resign.
The fact that Lawrence had known nothing about the meeting was irrelevant. At tonight’s meeting with the so-called “Eyes Only Group”—Gable, Fenwick, and the vice president—the men would convince the president that he had been kept informed. They would show him memos that he had seen and signed. They would show him the calendar his secretary kept on the computer. The appointment had been added after she left for the day. Then they would jump right into the current crisis. They would trust and the president would lead. By morning, Michael Lawrence would be publicly committed to a path of confrontation with two of the most volatile nations on earth.
The following morning, with the help of unnamed NSA sources, the Washington Post would run a front-page, above-the-fold article about the president’s mental health. Though the newspaper piece would be hooked to the UN fiasco, it would also contain exclusive details about some of the president’s increasingly dramatic and fully documented lapses. The nation would not tolerate instability from the commander-in-chief. Especially as he was about to send the nation to war.
Things would happen very quickly after that. There was no constitutional provision for the president to take a leave of absence. And there was no short-term cure for mental illness. Lawrence would be forced to resign, if not by public pressure then by act of congress. Cotten would become president. The United States military would immediately back down in the Caspian Sea to avoid a confrontation with Iran and Russia. Instead, through intelligence operations, they would prove that Iran had masterminded the entire operation in the first place. Teheran would protest, but the government’s credibility would be seriously compromised. Then, through diplomacy, the United States would find ways to encourage moderates in Iran to seize more power. Meanwhile, spared a pounding from Iran and Russia, Azerbaijan would be in America’s debt.
After the clouds of war drifted away, President Cotten would make certain of something else. That Azerbaijan and America shared in the oil reserves of the Caspian Sea. The Middle East would never again hold the United States hostage. Not in their embassies nor at the gas pump.
With order restored and American influence and credibility at its peak, President Charles Cotten would reach out to the nations of the world. They would be invited to join us in a permanent peace and prosperity. When their people experienced freedom and economic reward for the first time, they would cast those governments out. Eventually, even China would follow suit. They had to. People were greedy, and the old-line Communists would not live forever. If the United States stopped provoking them, providing the government with a public enemy, Beijing would weaken and evolve.
This was the world that Charles Cotten wanted for America. It was the world he wanted for his own children. He had thought about it for years. He had worked to achieve it. He had prayed for it.
And very soon, he would have it.
THIRTY-THREE
Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 8:09 A.M.
David Battat was lying on a hard twin bed in the small, sparsely furnished studio apartment. There was a window to his left. Though the blinds were drawn, the room brightened as light leaked through the slats.
Battat was shivering but alert. His abductor, hostess, or savior—he had not yet decided which—was in the kitchenette off to the right. She had been making eggs, sausage, and tea when the phone rang.
Battat hoped the call was brief. The food smelled good, but the thought of tea was even better. He needed to warm himself inside. Do something to stop the trembling. He felt as though he had the flu. He was weak and everything he saw or heard seemed dreamlike. But his head and chest were also very tight. More than from any sickness he could remember. Hopefully, once he had tea and something to eat, he would be able to focus a little better, try to understand what had happened back at the hospital.
The woman walked over to the bed. She was carrying the phone. She stood about five-foot-nine and had a lean, dark face framed by thick, black, shoulder-length hair. Her cheekbones were pronounced, and her eyes were blue. Battat was willing to bet there was Lithuanian blood in her. She handed the receiver to Battat.
“There is someone who wishes to speak with you,” she said in thickly accented English.
“Thank you,” said Battat. His own voice was a weak croak. He accepted the cordless phone. He did not bother to ask her who it was. He would find out soon enough. “Hello?”
“David Battat?” said the caller.
“Yes—”
“David, this is Paul Hood, the director of Op-Center.”
“Paul Hood?” Battat was confused. Op-Center found him here and was calling him now to ask about—that? “Sir, I’m sorry about what happened,” Battat said, “but I didn’t know that Annabelle Hampton was working with—”
“This isn’t about the United Nations siege,” Hood interrupted. “David, listen to me. We have reason to believe that the NSA set you and your colleagues up.”
It took a moment for Battat to process what Hood had said. “They set us up to be murdered? Why?”
“I can’t tell you that now,” Hood replied. “What’s important is that for the present, you’re out of danger.”
The young woman walked over with a cup of tea. She set it on the night table beside the bed. Battat used an elbow to drag himself into a sitting position. She helped him by putting strong hands under his arm and literally lifting him from the bed.
“What I need to know is this,” Hood went on. “If we can locate the Harpooner, do you feel up to helping us take him down?”
“If there’s a way for me to get the Harpooner, I’m up for it,” Battat said. Just the thought of that energized him.
“Good,” Hood told him. “We’re working with a Russian intelligence group on this. I don’t know when we’ll have additional information. But when we do, I’ll let you and your new partner know.”
Battat looked over at the young woman. She was standing in the kitchenette spooning eggs onto two plates. The last time he
was in the field, Russians were the enemy. It was a strange business they were in.
“Before I go, is there anything else you can tell us about the Harpooner?” Hood asked. “Anything you might have seen or heard while you were looking for him? Anything Moore or Thomas might have said?”
“No,” Battat said. He took a sip of tea. It was stronger than he was used to. It was like a shot of adrenaline. “All I know is that someone put me in a choke hold from behind. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. As for Moore and Thomas, they were as mystified as I was.”
“Because—?”
“The Harpooner had let me live,” Battat said.
“Assuming it was the Harpooner,” Hood said. “Listen. Use the time you have to rest. We don’t know where the Harpooner may turn up or how much time you may have to get to him. But we need you to be ready to move out.”
“I’ll be ready,” Battat said.
Hood thanked him and hung up. Battat placed the phone on the night table. Then he took another swallow of tea. He still felt weak, but he was trembling a little less than before.
The young woman walked over with a plate for him. Battat watched her as she set the plate on his legs and placed a cloth napkin and utensils on the night table. She looked tired.
“My name is David Battat,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
“And you are—?” he pressed.
“In Baku, I am Odette Kolker,” she said. There was finality in the young woman’s voice. It told him two things. First, that she was definitely not an Azerbaijani recruited by the Russians. And second, that Battat would not be getting her real name. Not from her, anyway.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Battat said, extending his hand. “I’m also extremely grateful for everything you’ve done.”
“You’re welcome,” she said.