by Clancy, Tom
The young woman shook Battat’s hand firmly but perfunctorily. As she did, Battat noticed several small bloodstains on the sleeve of her off-white police blouse. There were no lacerations on her hand or forearm. The blood did not appear to be hers.
“Are you really a policewoman?” Battat asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Were you working the night shift?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. “I was called in to do this.” She smiled slightly. “And I cannot collect overtime for it.”
Battat sipped more tea and smiled back. “I’m sorry they had to wake you.” He moved the plate to the night table and started to throw off the cover. “I probably shouldn’t be taking your bed—”
“No, it’s all right,” she said. “I’m expected on duty in less than an hour. Besides, I’m accustomed to having unexpected guests.”
“A hazard of the business,” he said.
“Yes,” Odette observed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to eat. You should do the same. Eat and then rest.”
“I will,” Battat promised.
“Do you need salt or anything else?”
“No thank you,” he said.
Odette turned and walked slowly toward the kitchenette.
Less than an hour ago, she had killed a man. Now she was serving Battat breakfast. This was a strange business. A very strange business indeed.
THIRTY-FOUR
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 12:10 A.M.
“Hello, Paul.”
Sharon’s voice was thick and cold on the other end of the phone. Hood glanced at the clock on his computer. “Hi,” he said warily. “Is everything okay?”
“Not really,” she replied.
“I just got back from the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“The short version,” she said, “is that Harleigh freaked out about ninety minutes ago. I called an ambulance—I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You did the right thing,” Hood said. “How is she?”
“Dr. Basralian sedated her, and she’s sleeping now,” Sharon went on.
“What does he think is wrong?” Hood asked. “Is it physical—?”
“He isn’t sure,” she said. “They’re going to run tests in the morning. The doctor said that sometimes a traumatic event can have physical repercussions. It can affect the thyroid, cause it to get hyper, or create a surplus of adrenaline. Anyway, I didn’t call so you’d drop what you’re doing and go to see her. I just wanted you to know.”
“Thank you,” Hood said. “I’ll still get over as soon as I can.”
“No need for that,” Sharon told him. “Everything’s quiet. I’ll let you know if there’s a change.”
“All right,” Hood said. “If that’s what you want.”
“I do. Just some down-time. Tell me, Paul. Is there a problem?” Sharon asked.
“With what?”
“The world,” Sharon said.
“Always,” Hood replied.
“I tried the motel first,” Sharon told him. “When you weren’t there, I figured you must be putting out a fire somewhere.”
Hood was not exactly sure how to take that remark. He tried not to read anything into it.
“There’s a problem in the Middle East,” Hood said. “Could be a bad one.”
“Then I won’t keep you,” Sharon said. “Just don’t kill yourself, Paul. You’re not a kid anymore. You need sleep. And the kids need you.”
“I’ll take care of myself,” he promised.
Sharon hung up. When Hood and his wife were together, Sharon used to be frustrated and angry whenever he worked long hours. Now that the two of them were apart, she was calm and concerned. Or maybe she was holding it all together for Harleigh’s sake. Whatever the reason, it was a sad, sad joke being played on the Hood family.
But Hood did not have time to consider the injustice of it all or even the condition of his daughter. The phone rang a moment after he hung up. The call was from another concerned wife.
The president’s.
THIRTY-FIVE
Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 8:30 A.M.
General Orlov was proud that his operative had been able to save the American. Proud, but not surprised.
Odette—Natalia Basov—had been working with him for three years. The thirty-two-year-old was a former decryption expert who had begun her career with the GRU, Soviet military intelligence. Her husband Viktor was an officer in the Spetsnaz, the Russian special forces. When Viktor was killed on a mission in Chechnya, Basov became deeply depressed. She wanted to get out from behind a desk. Because the GRU was being dismantled and its components downsized, Basov was sent to see Orlov. Orlov was happy to put her in the field. Not only was Basov skilled in electronic intelligence, her husband had taught her the self-defense techniques of the systema, the lethal martial arts style of the Spetsnaz. Orlov himself had studied the basics as a way of staying in shape. The systema did not rely on practiced moves or on physical strength. It taught that during an assault, your own defensive motion dictated what the counterattack should be. If you were struck on the right side of the chest, you instinctively turned the right side away to avoid the blow. As a result, your left side automatically came forward. Thus, your attack would be with the left arm. And it would not be a single blow. It would be a trinity. Perhaps a fist to the chin, an elbow to the jaw, and a swipe with the back of the hand, all in quick succession. While that was going on, you were positioning yourself to unleash the next trinity. Typically, an opponent did not get more than a first chance to strike. Multiple opponents were too busy avoiding their falling comrades to move in.
Basov had mastered the form well. And she had proven to be a valuable asset in Azerbaijan. Orlov’s people had created a false identity for her, and she had obtained a job with the police force. That put her in a job to watch and question people, other officers, guards, and night watchmen at plants and military bases. To learn what was happening in Baku’s corridors of power and in the military. Being a beautiful woman made men more inclined to talk to her, especially in bars. And underestimate her.
Basov said that she and her guest were safe, but they were not what bothered Orlov right now. What concerned him was finding the Harpooner. Basov had told Orlov that the Baku police radio was reporting an explosion in the harbor. A boat had blown up, killing everyone on board. Orlov was willing to bet that the boat had belonged to the Harpooner. That was his way—to destroy all the evidence along with some or all of his coworkers. The dead men would probably be blamed for the rig attack. Orlov wondered who they were. Azerbaijanis? Iraqis? Russians? There were any number of people he could have recruited for a job like that. Just as long as they did not know what usually happened to his employees.
Most of Orlov’s staff began arriving at half-past eight. The general had left e-mail for the two key members of his intelligence team, Boris and Piotr, to come and see him as soon as possible. If the Harpooner had been responsible for the attack in the Caspian, he probably would not attempt to leave Baku immediately. In the past, the Harpooner apparently waited a day or two after an attack. And when he finally moved, he often passed through Moscow. No one knew why. Unfortunately, by the time authorities learned he was in the city, he had vanished. General Orlov did not want that to happen again. The question was how to find him. And Paul Hood might have unwittingly given them a clue.
Boris Grosky was a sullen, gray-haired intelligence veteran who missed the Cold War. Piotr Korsov was an eager newcomer who had studied at Technion in Haifa, Israel. He was openly thrilled to be working in a field he loved and for a man who had helped pioneer space travel. The men entered the windowless office within a minute of one another. They sat on the couch across from Orlov’s desk, Boris drinking tea and Korsov sitting with a laptop on his knees.
Orlov briefed the men. Grosky became noticeably more interested when the general mentioned that the NSA and CIA might somehow be involved in the Caspian operation.
“What I want to know is this,” Orlov said. “We have eavesdropped on cell phone communications between American intelligence operatives before. We’ve gotten through many of their secure lines.”
“We’ve gotten through most of them,” Grosky pointed out.
“They try to keep you out by altering the signal from second to second,” Korsov said. “The shifts are all within just a few megahertz in the superhigh frequency. We’ve learned how to ride most of the shifts.”
“The difficult part is decoding the messages, which are scrambled electronically,” Grosky added. “The American agencies use very complex codes. Our computers aren’t always up to the task of decrypting the calls.”
“Do the same callers usually use the same signals, the same patterns?” Orlov asked Korsov.
“Usually,” Korsov told him. “Otherwise, there would be audio crossover. Callers would keep bumping into one another.”
“Do we keep records of the calls?” Orlov asked.
“The conversations?” Grosky asked. “Yes. We keep working on them, trying to decode—”
“I mean the signals,” Orlov interrupted.
“Absolutely,” said Grosky. “We send them up to the Laika so it can keep a lookout for those signals.”
The Laika was the Russian Op-Center’s sentry satellite. Named for the pioneering Soviet space dog, the Laika was in a high geostationary orbit over Washington, D.C. It could intercept signals from the United States, all of Europe, and parts of Asia.
“So, if the Harpooner spoke with an intelligence unit in Washington, we might have picked up the signal if not the content,” Orlov said.
“That’s right,” said Kosov.
“Very good,” said Orlov. “Go to the computer records for the past two weeks. Look up communiques between Azerbaijan and the National Security Agency in Washington. Get me all the information you have.”
“Even if we haven’t decrypted them,” said Kosov.
“Yes,” Orlov replied. “I want to know exactly where the Harpooner or his people might have been calling from.”
“When you know that, what will you do?” Grosky asked.
“I’ll call the American Op-Center and ask them to go through any satellite imaging they have for the region,” Orlov said. “The Harpooner had to move explosives and personnel into position. If we can pinpoint his location, there may be a photographic record of it—”
“And clues to where he might be,” Grosky said. Orlov nodded.
“We’ll have that information for you as soon as possible,” Kosov said eagerly. “It would be a coup if we could catch that monster.”
“It would be,” Orlov agreed.
The men left. Orlov put in a call to Paul Hood to bring him up to date.
Catching the Harpooner would be a highlight of his career. But more than that, he wondered if this close cooperation between Op-Centers could become increasingly routine. If the trust and sharing could lead to less suspicion and greater international security.
That would be the real coup.
THIRTY-SIX
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 12:30 A.M.
“Paul, I’m glad I found you,” Megan Lawrence said. “I think you should come here. There’s something going on.”
The First Lady’s voice was steady when she got on the line, but Hood knew her well enough to know that it was Megan’s “I have to be strong” voice. He had heard that voice during the campaign when there were hard questions from the press about an abortion she had had before she met the president. As she had years before, Megan was pulling this strength from deep inside. She would crash only when it was safe to do so.
“Talk to me,” Hood said. He was drawing on his own emotional and psychological reserves to deal with the First Lady’s problem. The call from Sharon had shaken him.
“We were just getting into bed when Michael received a call from Jack Fenwick,” Megan said. “Whatever Fenwick said rattled my husband very much. His voice was calm while they talked and then afterward, but I watched this look come over him.”
“What kind of look?” Hood asked.
“It’s difficult to describe,” she said.
“Was it guarded, startled, doubtful?” Hood asked.
“All of that,” Megan replied.
Hood understood. That was what he saw in the Oval Office. “Where is the president now?” he asked.
“He went down to meet with Fenwick, the vice president, and Red Gable,” Megan said.
“Did he say what the meeting was about?” Hood asked.
“No. But he told me not to wait up,” she said.
It was probably about the Caspian situation. A small, nonconspiratorial part of Hood said that this might not be anything to worry about. On the other hand, the president was meeting with people who had fed him misinformation before. Perhaps that was what Megan had seen in her husband’s expression. The fear that it might be happening again.
“Paul, whatever is going on, I think Michael needs to have friends around him,” Megan said. “He should be with people he knows well and can trust. Not just policy advisers.”
Hood’s aide Stef Van Cleef beeped. She said there was a call from General Orlov. Hood told her to apologize to the general for the delay. He would take it in just a moment.
“Megan, I don’t disagree,” Hood said. “But I can’t just invite myself to a meeting in the Oval Office—”
“You have the security clearance,” she said.
“To get into the West Wing, not the Oval Office,” he reminded her. Hood stopped. His eyes were on the beeping light on the phone. Maybe he would not have to get himself invited.
“Paul?”
“I’m here,” Hood said. “Megan, listen to me. I’m going to take a call, and then I’m going to the White House. I’ll call your private line later and let you know how things are going.”
“All right,” Megan said. “Thank you.”
Hood hung up and took the call from Orlov. The Russian general briefed him on the plan to try to locate the Harpooner. Orlov also told him about the destruction of the boat in the harbor. He suspected that Azerbaijani officials would find bodies in the water, either the Harpooner’s hirelings or people who were abducted to impersonate hirelings.
Hood thanked Orlov and informed the general that he would have Op-Center’s full cooperation. Hood indicated that he would be away from the office for a while and that he should contact Mike Rodgers with any new information. When Hood hung up, he conferenced Herbert and Rodgers on his cell phone. He updated them as he hurried to the parking lot.
“Do you want me to let the president know you’re coming?” Rodgers asked him.
“No,” Hood said. “I don’t want to give Fenwick a reason to end the meeting early.”
“But you’re also giving Fenwick and his people more time to act,” Rodgers pointed out.
“We have to take that chance,” Hood said. “If Fenwick and Gable are launching some kind of endgame, I want to give them time to expose it. Maybe we can catch them in the act.”
“I still think it’s risky,” Rodgers said. “Fenwick will press the president to act before other advisers can be consulted.”
“That could be why this was timed the way it was,” Herbert pointed out. “If there’s a plot of some kind, it was designed to happen when it was the middle of the night here.”
“If this is tied to the Caspian situation, the president will have to act quickly,” Rodgers went on.
“Mike, Bob, I don’t disagree with what you’re saying,” Hood told them. “I also don’t want to give these bastards a chance to discredit anything I may have to say before I get there.”
“That’s a tough call,” Herbert said. “Real tough. You don’t have a lot of information on the situation overseas.”
“I know,” Hood said. “Hopefully, we’ll have more intel before too long.”
“I’ll be praying for you,” Herbert said. “And if that doesn’t work, I’ll be checking other
sources.”
“Thanks,” Hood said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Hood sped through the deserted streets toward the nation’s capital. There was a can of Coke in the glove compartment. Hood kept it there for emergencies. He grabbed the can and popped the tab. He really needed the caffeine. Even warm, the cola felt good going down.
Rodgers was correct. Hood was taking a chance. But Hood had warned the president about Fenwick. The rerouted phone call, the visit to the Iranian mission, failure to communicate with Senator Fox and the COIC. Hopefully, Lawrence would look very carefully at whatever data was being presented to him. The president might also take the time to run the information through Op-Center, just to make sure it was valid.
But Hood’s hopes did not change the fact that the president was under an unusual amount of stress. There was only one way to be certain what Michael Lawrence would do. That was for Hood to get there with new intelligence. And while Hood was there, to help the president sift through whatever information Fenwick was presenting to him.
And there was one more thing Hood had to do. Pray that Mike Rodgers was not right.
That there was still time.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 9:01 A.M.
Maurice Charles settled into his small room at the Hyatt. The room had a queen-sized bed and a tall cabinet that held the TV and minibar. There was a desk to the left of them and a night table on either side of the bed. An armchair was tucked into a corner opposite the desk. There was very little room, which was fine with Charles. He did not like suites. There was too much open space. Too many places for people to hide.
The first thing Charles did was to tie a nylon rope to one of the legs of the desk. It was located near the window. The room was on the third floor of the ten-story hotel. If Charles were cornered there for any reason, the police would find it difficult to climb from the ground or rappel from the roof without making noise. That left only the door as a means of getting in. And he was prepared to deal with that. He carried cans of shaving cream that were actually filled with highly flammable liquid methanol. Spilled under the doorway and set aflame, it burned hot and fast and drove people back. That would give Charles time to shoot anyone who was waiting for him outside the window, then use the rope to climb out. Methanol was also a fatal poison. The liquid’s fumes were so potent that even brief exposure to the vapors could cause blindness.