Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

  “What are we doing?” Battat asked.

  “Checking the stairwell first,” Odette said. “I want to make sure the other killer isn’t watching the room from there.”

  “And after that?” Battat asked.

  “How would you feel about being married?” she asked.

  “I tried it once and didn’t like it,” Battat said.

  “Then you’ll probably like this less,” she replied. “I’ll tell you what I’m thinking when we reach the stairwell.”

  They headed toward the stairwell, which was located at the opposite end of the corridor. As they neared 310, Battat felt his heart speed up. The “Do Not Disturb” sign was hanging from the door handle. There was something dangerous about the place. Battat felt it as they passed. It was not a physical sensation but a spiritual one. Battat was not prepared to go so far as to say it was palpable evil, but the room definitely had the feel of an animal’s lair.

  Odette released his hand when they reached the stairwell. She removed the gun from her holster and screwed on the silencer. Then she stepped ahead of Battat and cautiously peered through the window at the top of the door. No one was there. Odette turned the knob and stepped inside. Battat followed. He backed toward the concrete steps and leaned on the iron banister with one arm. It felt good not to have to move. Odette kept a heel in the door so it would not close and lock them out. She faced Battat.

  “I’m sure the Harpooner has his room heavily protected from the inside,” she said. “Since we probably won’t be able to break in, we’re going to have to try and draw him out.”

  “Agreed,” Battat said. He was tired and dizzy and had to force himself to focus. “What do you propose?”

  “You and I are going to have a lovers’ quarrel,” she said.

  That got his attention. “About what?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “As long as we end up arguing about which room is ours.”

  “One of us will say it’s 312 and the other will insist it’s 310,” Battat said.

  “Exactly,” Odette replied. “Then we’ll open the door to 310.”

  “How?”

  Odette reached into her pocket.

  “With this,” she said as she pulled out the master key she had taken from the housekeeper. “If we’re lucky, the Harpooner will only want to chase us away.”

  “What if someone else comes from their room or calls hotel security?” Battat asked.

  “Then we argue more quickly,” Odette said as she took off her jacket and slipped it over her forearm, concealing the gun.

  The woman seemed to be growing impatient, a little anxious. Not that Battat blamed her. They were facing both the Harpooner and the unknown. If it were not for the dullness caused by whatever was afflicting him, he would have been experiencing fear on top of his lingering anger.

  “This is not a science,” she added. “The point of what we’re doing is to distract the Harpooner long enough to kill him.”

  “I understand,” Battat said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “When I open the door, I want you to push it back hard,” she said. “That should startle the Harpooner and also give me a moment to aim and fire. When we’re finished, we come back to the stairwell and leave.”

  “All right,” Battat said.

  “Are you sure you feel up to this?” Odette asked.

  “I’ll be able to do what you want me to,” he said. She nodded and gave him a reassuring half smile. Or maybe she was trying to reassure herself.

  A moment later, they headed down the hall.

  FORTY-NINE

  Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 11:02 A.M.

  Josef Norivsky was the Russian Op-Center’s liaison between the country’s other intelligence and investigative agencies as well as Interpol. He was a young, broad-shouldered man with short black hair and a long, pale face. He strode into General Orlov’s office wearing an expression that was somewhere between fury and disbelief.

  “Something is wrong,” he said. Norivsky did not disseminate information unless he was sure of it. As a result, when he spoke, he had a way of making any statement seem like a pronouncement.

  The intelligence liaison handed Orlov a set of eight-by-ten photographs. Orlov looked quickly at the eleven blurry black-and-white pictures. The shots showed five men in ski masks moving a sixth, unmasked man through a corridor made of cinder blocks.

  “These photographs were taken by security cameras at the Lenkoran high-security prison in Azerbaijan,” Norivsky explained. “We received them two days ago. The man without the mask is Sergei Cherkassov. The SIS was hoping we could help to identify the others.”

  The SIS was Azerbaijan’s State Intelligence Service. They still maintained relatively close, cooperative relations with Russian intelligence groups.

  “What have you come up with?” Orlov asked as he finished going through the photographs.

  “The weapons they’re carrying are IMI Uzis,” said Norivsky. “They’re based on the submachine guns Iran bought from Israel before the Islamic revolution. In and of themselves, they don’t necessarily mean anything. Iranian arms dealers could have sold them to anyone. But look how the men are moving.”

  Orlov went back through the pictures. “I don’t follow,” he said.

  Norivsky leaned over the desk and pointed to the fourth picture. “The men in the ski masks have formed a diamond shape around the Cherkassov. The point man covers the package, the escapee, the man in the rear watches their flank, and the men on the sides cover right and left. The fifth man, the only one who appears in pictures one and two, is ahead of the group, securing the escape route. Probably with a rocket launcher, according to reports.” Norivsky stood. “This is the standard evacuation procedure used by VEVAK.”

  VEVAK was Vezarat-e Etella’at va Amniat-e Keshvar. The Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and Security.

  “Why would Iran want to free a Russian terrorist from Azerbaijan?” Norivsky asked. The intelligence chief answered the question himself. “To use his talents? It’s possible. But another possibility is that they wanted to dump his body at the attack site. How many bodies were found in the harbor at Baku? Four to six, depending on how the pieces eventually fit together.”

  “The same number of people who helped him to escape,” Orlov said.

  “Yes,” Nirovsky replied.

  “Which may mean they were all working together,” Orlov said. “Nothing more than that.”

  “Except for the presence of the Harpooner,” Norivsky pointed out. “We know that he has worked for Iran on many occasions. We know that he can usually be contacted through a series of associates in Teheran. What I’m saying, General, is, what if Iran organized the attack on its own oil rig as an excuse to move warships into the area?”

  “That wouldn’t explain the involvement of the American National Security Agency,” Orlov said.

  “But Cherkassov’s presence might,” Norivsky insisted. “Consider, sir. Iran threatens Azerbaijan. The United States becomes involved in that conflict. It has to. American oil supplies are being threatened. If the foe is only Iran, Americans are not opposed to an air and sea war. They have wanted to strike back at Teheran for decades, ever since the hostage crisis in 1979. But imagine that Russia is brought into the situation. At his trial, Cherkassov admitted working for the Kremlin. That was how he avoided execution. Suppose Azerbaijan or Iran retaliates by attacking Russian oil platforms in the Caspian. Are the people of the United States going to stand for a world war erupting in the region?”

  “I don’t think they would,” Orlov said. He thought for a moment. “And maybe they wouldn’t have to stand for it.”

  “What do you mean?” Norivsky asked.

  “The Harpooner was working with the NSA, apparently to orchestrate this showdown,” Orlov said. “What if someone in the American government made a deal with Iran before it happened?”

  “Does the NSA have that kind of authority?” Norivsky asked.

 
“I don’t believe so,” Orlov said. “They would probably need higher-ranking officials working with them. Paul Hood at Op-Center indicated that contacts of that type may have taken place. What if the Americans agreed they would back down at a certain point? Allow Iran to have more of the oil-rich regions in exchange for American access to that oil?”

  “A normalization of relations?” Norivsky suggested.

  “Possibly,” Orlov said. “The American military pushed to brinkmanship then pulled back for some reason. But what reason? That had to have been arranged as well.”

  Orlov did not know the answer, but he knew who might. Thanking Norivsky, Orlov rang his translator and put in a call to Paul Hood.

  FIFTY

  Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 3:06 A.M.

  After Fenwick left the Cabinet Room, Hood sat alone at the long conference table. He was trying to figure out what he could tell the president to convince him that something was wrong with the intelligence he was receiving. That was going to be difficult without new information. Hood thought he had convinced him of Fenwick’s duplicity earlier. But in the press of developing crises, crisis managers often took the advice of trusted and especially passionate friends. Fenwick was passionate, and Cotten was an old ally. Without hard facts, Hood would not be able to combat that. But what troubled him nearly as much was something the NSA head had said to Hood before leaving the Cabinet Room.

  “I’m not going to let you advise the president.” This was not just an international showdown. It was also a territorial fight in the Oval Office. But for what, exactly? It was not just about access to the president of the United States. Fenwick had tried to confuse Lawrence, to embarrass him, to mislead him. Why?

  Hood shook his head and rose. Even though he had nothing to add to what he said before, Hood wanted to hear what the joint chiefs had to say. And Fenwick could not bar him from the Oval Office.

  As Hood was leaving the Cabinet Room, his phone beeped. It was General Orlov.

  “Paul, we have some disturbing information,” Orlov said.

  “Talk to me,” Hood replied.

  Orlov briefed him. When he was finished, Orlov said, “We have reason to believe that the Harpooner and Iranian nationals carried out the attack on the Iranian oil rig. We believe the attack may have been the same Iranians who freed the Russian terrorist Sergei Cherkassov from prison. This would make it seem as if Moscow was involved.”

  “Compelling the United States to lend its support to Azerbaijan as a counterbalance,” Hood said. “Do you know if Teheran sanctioned the attack?”

  “Very possibly,” Orlov replied. “The Iranians appear to have been working for or were trained by VEVAK.”

  “In order to precipitate a crisis that would allow them to move in militarily,” Hood said.

  “Yes,” Orlov agreed. “And the presence of Cherkassov, we think, was designed to give Iran a reason to threaten our oil facilities. To draw Russia into the crisis. Cherkassov may have had nothing to do with the attack itself.”

  “That makes sense,” Hood agreed.

  “Paul, you said before that members of your own government, of the NSA, were in contact with the Iranian mission in New York. That it was a member of the NSA that was in communication with the Harpooner in Baku. Could that agency be involved in this?”

  “I don’t know,” Hood admitted.

  “Perhaps the mission put them in contact with the Harpooner,” Orlov suggested.

  That was possible. Hood thought about it for a moment. Why would Fenwick help Iran to blow up its own rig and then encourage the president to attack Iran? Was this a plot to sucker Iran into a showdown? Was that why Fenwick had concealed his whereabouts from the president?

  But Fenwick would have known about Cherkassov, Hood thought. He had to know that Russia would be drawn in as well.

  And that still did not explain why Fenwick had made a point of calling the president right before the United Nations dinner. That was a move designed to humiliate Lawrence. To erode confidence in the president‘s—

  Mental state, Hood thought suddenly.

  Hood followed the thread. Wasn’t that what Megan Lawrence was concerned about? Mental instability, apparent or real, created by a careful pattern of deception and confusion? The president becomes deeply shaken. The United States finds itself on the precipice of war, led there by Fenwick. Lawrence tries to manage the crisis. What happens next? Does Fenwick undermine him somehow? Make him doubt his abilities—

  Or does he make the public doubt his abilities? Hood wondered.

  Senator Fox was already concerned about the president. Mala Chatterjee had no love for him. The secretary-general would certainly give interviews stating that the president had been completely mistaken about the United Nations initiative. What if Gable or Fenwick were also to leak information about bad judgment the president had shown over the past few weeks?

  Reporters would swallow it whole, Hood knew. It would be easy to manipulate the press with a story like that. Especially if it came from a reliable source like Jack Fenwick.

  And it wasn’t just Fenwick and Gable who were involved in this, Hood now knew for certain.

  The vice president had been on the same page as Fenwick and Gable back in the Oval Office. Who stood to benefit most if the president himself and possibly the electorate were convinced that he was unfit to lead the nation in a time of crisis? The man who would succeed him, of course.

  “General Orlov, have we heard from our people tracking the Harpooner?” Hood asked.

  “They’re both at the hotel where he is staying,” Orlov reported. “They’re moving in on him now.”

  “To terminate, not capture.”

  “We don’t have the manpower to capture him,” Orlov stated. “The truth is, we may not even have the manpower to complete the mission at hand. It’s a great risk, Paul.”

  “I understand,” Hood said. “General, are you solid about this information? That the men who attacked the Iranian rig are Iranian?”

  “Until their body parts are collected and identified, an educated guess is the best I can do,” Orlov said.

  “All right,” Hood said. “I’m going to take that information to the president. His advisers are pushing him to a military response. Obviously, we have to get him to postpone that.”

  “I agree,” Orlov said. “We’re mobilizing as well.”

  “Call me with any other news,” Hood said. “And thank you, General. Thank you very much.”

  Hood hung up the phone. He ran from the Cabinet Room and jogged down the carpeted hallway toward the Oval Office. Canvas portraits of Woodrow Wilson and First Lady Edith Bolling Wilson looked down from the wall. She had effectively run the country in 1919 when her husband suffered a stroke. But she was protecting his health while looking out for the country’s best interests. Not her own advancement. Had we become more corrupt since then? Or had the line between right and wrong become entirely erased? Did presumably virtuous ends justify corrupt means?

  This was maddening. Hood had information, and he had a strong, plausible scenario. He had Fenwick turning pale when he said that the Harpooner had been captured. But Hood did not have proof. And without that, he did not see how he was going to convince the president to proceed slowly, carefully, regardless of what Iran did. Nor were the joint chiefs likely to be much help. The military had been itching for a legitimate reason to strike back at Teheran for over twenty years.

  He turned the corner and reached the Oval Office. The secret service officer stationed at the door stopped him.

  “I have to see the president,” Hood told him.

  “I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to leave,” the young man insisted.

  Hood wagged the badge that hung around his neck. “I have blue-level access,” he said. “I can stand here. Please. Just knock on the door and tell the president I’m here.”

  “Sir, my doing that won’t help you to see the president,” the secret service agent told him. “They’ve moved the meeting downstairs.�
��

  “Where?” Hood asked. But he already knew.

  “To the Situation Room.”

  Hood turned and swore. Fenwick was correct. He was going to keep him from seeing the president. The only way to get down there was with the next-level access badge, which was red level. Everyone who had that level would be down there. Being seduced and controlled by Jack Fenwick.

  Hood walked back toward the Cabinet Room. He was still holding his cell phone and tapping it against his open palm. He felt like throwing the damn thing. He could not phone the president. Calls to the Situation Room went through a different switchboard than the rest of the White House. He did not have clearance for direct dial, and Fenwick would certainly have arranged it so that any calls Hood made would be refused or delayed.

  Hood was accustomed to challenges, to delays. But he always had access to the people he needed to talk to and persuade. Even when terrorists had seized the United Nations Security Council, there had been ways to get in. All he needed was the resolve and manpower to do it. He was not accustomed to being utterly stonewalled like this. It was miserably frustrating.

  He stopped walking. He looked up at the portrait of Woodrow Wilson, then looked at the painting of Mrs. Wilson.

  “Shit,” he said.

  He glanced down at the phone. Maybe he wasn’t as stonewalled as he thought.

  Jogging again, Hood returned to the Cabinet Room. He was willing to bet there was one avenue Jack Fenwick hadn’t closed down.

  He couldn’t have, even if he wanted to.

  A queen always beat a Jack.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 11:09 A.M.

  As Odette walked down the hall, she had two concerns.

  One worry was that she might be making a mistake about the identity of the man in room 310. That he was not, in fact, the Harpooner. Orlov had given Odette a general idea what the Harpooner looked like. But he had added that the Harpooner probably wore disguises. She had a mental picture of someone tall and aquiline with pale, hateful eyes and long fingers. Would she hesitate to shoot if someone not-so-tall and heavyset with blue, welcoming eyes and stubby fingers opened the door? Would that give him a chance to strike first?