by Clancy, Tom
Orlov was unable to speak for a moment. He had been worried about Odette and concerned about the mission. The fact that she was safe and triumphant left him choked with pride.
“We terminated with complications,” Odette went on, “but we got away. There were no other injuries.”
“Where are you now?” Orlov asked.
“At the U.S. embassy,” she said. “Mr. Battat is getting medical care. Then I’ll be going to the police station. I had to show my badge to a hotel worker, but I think I’ll be able to work it out with my superior. The Harpooner set a fire. I can tell the captain that I went there to see if I could help.”
“So you don’t want to leave, then?” Orlov. asked.
“I think there will be some interesting problems because of all this,” she said. “I’d like to stay for a while.”
“We’ll talk about it,” Orlov said. “I’m proud of you, Odette. And I know someone else would be, too.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I think Viktor was looking out for me today. So was David Battat. I’m glad you asked him to come along.”
Odette gave Orlov additional information about what had happened. They arranged to talk again in six hours. If it became necessary for Odette to leave Baku, there was an Aeroflot flight she could catch at eight P.M.
Orlov took a moment to savor the victory’s many rewards. First, having won the battle against a tenacious enemy. Second, having made the right decision to send Odette and Battat into the field together. And finally, having been able to help Paul Hood. Not only did it repay an old debt, but it hopefully opened the door to future close collaborations.
Odette said that Battat had spoken with Paul Hood. There was nothing Orlov could add to that. Orlov would call him in a few minutes. First, however, he wanted to brief the staff members who had been involved in the hunt.
He was about to send for Grosky and Kosov when the men came to his office door. Kosov was carrying a rolled-up blueprint.
“General,” said the outgoing Kosov, “we have some news.”
“Good news?” Orlov asked.
“Yes, sir,” Kosov said. “That information the Americans gave us about the Harpooner’s Russian identity has proved very useful.”
“In what way?” Orlov asked.
“It suggested to us how he has been able to come to Moscow and disappear without ever being seen,” Kosov said. He stepped forward and unrolled the blueprint on Orlov’s desk. “This is a map of the old Soviet army railroad routes,” he said. “As you know, they go underground well outside of Moscow and stop at various points beneath the city.”
“It was designed that way so troops could be moved into place clandestinely, to put down riots or even foreign attacks,” Grosky added.
“I know about these,” Orlov said. “I’ve traveled in them.”
“But what you may not know about is this one,” Kosov said.
The intelligence analyst used a pen to point to a faint red line. It led from Kievskaya metro stop to several other stations around the city. Kosov was right. Orlov did not know what it was.
“This is unmarked, as you can see, even though it links up to the main trunk,” Kosov continued. “We thought it might be a service tunnel of some kind, but we looked at an older map from the GRU files just to make certain. It was the old Stalin tunnel. If the German army had ever reached Moscow during World War II, Stalin would have been evacuated through this system. Only his closest military advisers know that it existed.” Kosov stepped back and folded his arms. “We believe, sir, that all we need to do to catch our rat is to put video cameras at the entrance and exit. Sooner or later, the Harpooner is certain to show up there.”
Orlov looked at the map for a moment, then sat back. “You may have solved a very perplexing riddle,” he said. “Excellent work.”
“Thank you, sir,” Kosov beamed.
“Fortunately,” Orlov went on, “the Harpooner was killed earlier today. The only rats that will be using the tunnel are the four-legged kind.”
Grosky’s mouth twisted slightly at one end. Kosov’s expression seemed to fall entirely.
“But we could not have taken him without you, and I will say so in my report to the president’s director of intelligence review,” Orlov promised. He rose and extended his hand to each man in turn. “I am proud of you both and deeply grateful.”
Kosov’s disappointment evaporated quickly. Grosky’s mouth remained bent. But even Grosky’s perpetual sourness couldn’t spoil the moment. An inexperienced woman, a sick man, and two former enemies had joined forces to win a big one.
It was an extraordinary feeling.
FIFTY-NINE
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 5:04 A.M.
After the vice president and his team had been ushered away, the president asked Hood to wait for him. Hood stepped outside the Situation Room as the president and Megan stood alone behind the conference table, talking. The president took his wife’s hands in his. He seemed composed, once again in control.
The Joint Chiefs of Staff filed out quickly after Cotten’s group had been led off. They headed quickly toward the elevator. Before leaving, General Burg paused and turned to Hood. He shook the intelligence leader’s hand.
“What you did in there was good work, smart work,” the general said. “It was also ballsy. My congratulations, Mr. Hood. I’m proud to be associated with you. Proud to be an American.”
Coming from anyone else under almost any other circumstance, that sentiment might have sounded corny. But the system had worked, despite the formidable forces and pressures rallied against it. General Burg had every reason to feel proud. Hood did.
“Thank you, General,” Hood said sincerely.
After the Joint Chiefs left, the hall was quiet, save for the whispered conversation of the president and First Lady. Hood was relieved but still a little shell-shocked by everything that had just happened. He did not believe that the press would accept the given explanations for a mass resignation of the vice president and top administration officials. But that was a battle for other warriors and another day. Hood and his team had saved the presidency and defeated the Harpooner. Right now, all he wanted to do was hear what the president wanted to say, get back to the hotel, and go to sleep.
The president and First Lady emerged a few minutes later. They looked tired but content.
“Did your man in Baku have anything else to say?” the president asked as he walked toward Hood.
“Not really, sir,” Hood said. “He’s at the American embassy now. We’ll talk again. If there’s any other intel, I’ll let you know at once.”
The president nodded as he stopped next to Hood. Megan was standing beside him.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but Mrs. Lawrence and I wanted to thank you together,” the president said. “She told me you’ve been working on this nonstop since Sunday night.”
“It’s been a long day and a half,” Hood admitted.
“You’re more than welcome to sleep upstairs, if you’d like,” the president said. “Or a driver will take you home.”
“Thank you, sir,” Hood said. He looked at his watch. “Rush hour doesn’t start until six, so I should be all right. I’ll just roll down the window and enjoy the fresh air.”
“If you’re certain,” the president said. He offered his hand. “I’ve got work to do. Megan will make sure you get back upstairs. And thank you again. For everything.”
Hood accepted the president’s hand. “It’s been an honor, sir.”
After the president left, Megan faced Hood. There were tears in her eyes. “You saved him, Paul. While I stood there, I watched him pull back from wherever they had taken him.”
“He did that by himself,” Hood said. “And without your heads-up, I wouldn’t have acted on any of this.”
“For once in your life, Paul, give the self-effacement a rest,” Megan said. “You took all the risks in there. If things had gone the other way, you would have been ruined.”
&nbs
p; Hood shrugged.
Megan grimaced. “You’re exasperating. Michael is right about one thing, though. You’re tired. Are you sure you won’t rest awhile before you head back?”
“I’m sure,” Hood said. “There are still a few things we have to tie up, and I want to call Sharon.”
“How’s that going?” Megan asked.
“As good as could be expected,” Hood said. “Harleigh’s in the hospital so we’re focused on that.”
Megan touched his arm. “If you want to talk, I’m here.”
Hood thanked her with a smile. They left together, and then Hood headed for his car. A plane rumbled in the distance. Hood looked up as he unlocked his car door. The first hint of daylight was appearing on the other side of the White House grounds.
Somehow, that seemed fitting.
SIXTY
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 6:46 A.M.
Hood was surprisingly alert when he reached his office.
Mike Rodgers was gone. He had left a voice mail message two hours before about a military situation that was developing along the Pakistan-India border. Rodgers said he had gone home to get some rest before going off to a meeting at the Pentagon. Although General Rodgers was officially attached to Op-Center, he was called upon to assess flashpoints in different corners of the world.
Bob Herbert was still awake and “at the switch,” as he described it. He came to Hood’s office and quickly brought Hood up to speed on the little additional intelligence that Orlov had on the Harpooner and his movements. Then Herbert asked Hood how things had gone at the White House.
Herbert listened intently to his chief’s matter-of-fact recitation of the facts. When Hood was finished, the intelligence head sighed. “I’ve been sitting here collecting intelligence while you were out there, in the field, saving America and the Constitution from a demagogue.”
“Some guys have all the luck,” Hood said dryly.
“Yeah,” Herbert said. “But you’re not the one I envy.”
“Oh?”
Hood thought for a moment. Then, just before Herbert said it, Hood knew what was coming.
“I wish I had been the one who pulled the plug on the Harpooner,” Herbert said. His voice was a low monotone. His eyes were staring. His mind was somewhere else. “I’d have done it slowly. Very slowly. I would have made him suffer the way I’ve suffered without my wife.”
Hood did not know what to say, so he said nothing. Herbert looked at him. “I’ve got a lot of vacation time coming, Paul. I’m going to take it.”
“You should,” Hood said.
“I want to go to Baku and meet this woman Odette,” Herbert said. “I want to see where it happened.”
“I understand,” Hood told him.
Herbert smiled. His eyes were damp. “I knew you would.” His voice cracked. “Look at me. You’re the one who’s had his ass on the firing line twice in the past two weeks. But I’m the one cracking up.”
“You’ve been carrying this pain and frustration for nearly twenty years,” Hood said. “It’s got to come out.” He snickered humorlessly. “I’ll break, too, Bob. One day the UN thing, the White House—it’s all going to hit me and I’ll come apart big time.”
Herbert smiled. “Just hold on till I’m back from vacation so I can pick up all the cogs and wheels.”
“It’s a deal,” Hood said.
Herbert wheeled around the desk and hugged Hood warmly. Then he turned his chair around and left the office.
Hood put in a quick call to General Orlov, thanking him for everything he had done and suggesting that they work out a way to integrate their two systems on some level. Create an Interpol for crisis management. Orlov was all for the idea. They agreed to talk about it the following day.
After hanging up with Orlov, Hood looked at the computer clock. It was still too early to call home. He decided to go to the hotel and phone Sharon and the kids from his room. There would be no other calls, no distractions.
Hood left his office and headed back upstairs. He greeted members of the day team as they arrived: Darrell McCaskey, Matt Stoll, and Liz Gordon. He told them each to go see Bob Herbert for an update. Hood said he would brief them more fully later in the day.
By the time he reached the parking lot, he was starting to crash. The caffeine had made its way through his system. Hood’s body was definitely winding down. As he neared his car, he saw Ann Farris. She was just pulling through the gate. The press liaison saw him, waved, and drove over.
She rolled down the window. “Is everything all right?” she asked.
Hood nodded. “Just tired,” he said. “Bob is still there. He’ll brief you. There’s nothing we have to press release, though. Not yet.”
“Where are you headed?” she asked.
“Back to the hotel,” he said. “I’ve got to get some rest.”
“Hop in and I’ll run you over,” she said. “You don’t look like you should be driving.”
“I don’t know when I’ll be coming back,” Hood told her. “I need the car.”
“You’ll be coming back this afternoon,” Ann said. “I know you. A two- or three-hour power nap, and then you’ll be back. Just call when you wake up, and I’ll come and get you.”
The offer sounded inviting. He did not feel like driving anymore.
“All right,” Hood said.
Hood went to the passenger’s side and slid in. He shut his eyes and had to be nudged awake when they arrived. He was groggy. Ann left her car out front and walked him to his room.
She returned a few minutes later, climbed behind the wheel, and sat there for a moment.
“Screw this,” she said. Instead of driving off, she moved the car to the main lot. Then she went back inside.
Hood had just finished his short chat with Sharon. His wife had said that there had been no change in anything.
Hood removed his shoes and tie and was unbuttoning his shirt when there was a knock on the door. It had to be a bellboy with a fax from the office or his attorney. No one else knew he was here. He fished a dollar from his wallet and opened the door. He was surprised to see Ann.
“Thanks,” she said, “but I didn’t come back for my tip.”
He smiled and let her in.
Ann was still wearing her jacket, but she looked different. There was something more accessible about her. It was in the eyes, he decided.
Hood shut the door behind her. As he did, he was surprised by something else. He was glad that she had come back.
EPILOGUE
Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 3:00 P.M.
Throughout the late morning and early afternoon, the surprises kept coming for Ron Friday, each one more startling than the last.
First, Friday was surprised to find David Battat at the embassy. The CIA operative was being nursed to health by the embassy medic. He looked in remarkably good health and even better spirits.
Next, Friday was even more surprised to hear that a local policewoman had been responsible for killing the Harpooner. Friday himself would not have known how to find him or what he looked like. He could not imagine how a policewoman had gotten to him. Maybe it was an accident or they were mistaken. Perhaps someone else had been mistaken for the Harpooner. In any case, authorities were speculating that he had been the man behind the attack on the Iranian oil rig. Prodded by the United States, military mobilization was being delayed while an investigation was under way.
But the biggest surprise was the call from Jack Fenwick’s executive secretary, Dori. Her boss, Don Roedner, Red Gable, and the vice president were all resigning later that morning. Dori did not know anything about the operation Fenwick had been running and was stunned by the announcement. Friday was stunned, too. He could not imagine how everything had come unraveled. He could not imagine what his old mentor must be feeling. He wished he could speak with him, say something reassuring.
But Friday had not been able to reach Fenwick on his cell phone. Someone else answered, and he quickly hung up. He did not know w
hether the NSA chief would be investigated and whether that investigation would ever get to him. Friday did not generally report to Fenwick directly. He reported to T. Perry Gord, assistant deputy director of South Asian affairs. There was no reason it should reach him. Gord knew nothing about Fenwick’s other activities.
Still, after weighing whether or not to remain in Baku, Friday decided it would be best to leave. He would go somewhere that was a little bit off the radar. Someplace the international press would not be paying so much attention to over the next few weeks.
Fortunately, there was a situation developing on the India-Pakistan border that fell within Gord’s jurisdiction. Rather than send someone over from Washington, Friday arranged to have himself transferred to the embassy in Islamabad in order to do on-site intelligence gathering. There was a Pakistan International Airlines flight leaving Moscow the following morning. He would fly from Baku tonight and make certain that he was on it.
It would have been nice, he thought, if it had all worked out for Fenwick. With Cotten in the White House, Fenwick would have had unprecedented access and power. And any one of the few people who had taken part in the changeover would have been rewarded. Not just for their contribution but for their silence. On the other hand, one of the reasons Friday had gone into intelligence work was for the challenge. The danger. He had done his job. And he had enjoyed doing it, taking out a CIA operative who had CIA swagger. The kind that had helped to keep Friday back his whole life. That swagger did not prevent Thomas Moore from walking into a neat little NSA trap.
All right, Friday thought. Things had not worked out. It was on to the next project.
That, too, was one of the things Ron Friday enjoyed about intelligence work. It was never the same. He never knew who he might be working with—or against. In Islamabad, for example, it was not just a question of getting a good man to the flashpoint. It was getting the right man there quickly. Gord had heard through the grapevine that someone from Op-Center was being brought in to consult on the India-Pakistan situation and was probably going to be sent to the region. Over the past few years, Op-Center had taken over a great deal of the work Fenwick’s team used to handle. That had resulted in ongoing budget and personnel battles at the NSA. Fenwick got the monies he wanted but it had turned a heated rivalry into a ferocious one.