by Eikeltje
here. If you want to talk or don't want to be by yourself, don't be
shy. We go back quite a few years."
"Thanks," Hood said.
Ann's eyes held him for a long moment.
"I'm sorry for what you and your family are going through, Paul.
But you've done an amazing job here, and I'm glad you're back."
"It's good to be back," Paul admitted.
"I think that frustrated me more than anything else."
"What did?" she asked.
"Not being able to finish the work I started," he said.
"It may sound corny, but the teamwork of exceptional men and women built
this nation. Op-Center is a part of that tradition. We have a great
team here doing important work, and I hated leaving that."
Ann continued to look at him. She seemed to want to say something more
but didn't. She stepped back from the desk.
"Well, I've got to get to work on the press release," she said.
"Do you want me to say anything about the situation with Sharon?"
"No," Hood said.
"If anyone wants to know, tell them.
Otherwise, just say I had a change of heart."
"That's going to make you sound wishy-washy," she said.
"What the Washington Post thinks isn't going to affect my job
performance," he said.
"Maybe not now," Ann said.
"But it might if you ever decide to run for public office again."
Hood looked at her.
"Good point," he said.
"Why don't we tell them that the president asked you to return?" she
said.
"Because he didn't," Hood said.
"You two had a private meeting when you came back from New York," she
said.
"He won't deny asking you to return. It shows loyalty on his part.
Everyone benefits."
"But it isn't true," Hood said.
"Then let's just say this," Ann said.
"After meeting with the president, you decided to reconsider your
resignation.
That's true."
"You really want to get the president in there."
"Whenever I can," Ann said.
"It gives us weight."
"Weight?" Hood said.
"You mean suction."
"Excuse me?"
"Nick Grille said that the word-de-jour is suction."
"Actually, that's not quite right," Ann informed him.
"Weight is when someone has credibility. Suction is when they have
considerable influence. There's a difference."
"I see," Hood said. They smiled at each other. Hood looked away.
"I'd better get to work," he said.
"There's a lot of catching up to do."
"I'm sure," Ann said.
"I'll e-mail you a copy of the press release before it goes out."
"Thanks again," Hood said.
"For everything."
"Sure." Ann hesitated. She looked at Hood for a long moment more and
then left.
Hood turned to the computer monitor on his right. He did not want to
watch Ann go. Ann Farris was a beautiful, intelligent, very sexual
woman. For the five years they had known each other, they had flirted,
she more openly than he. Now that Hood was going to be single, he felt
uneasy about continuing the game. There was no longer someone between
them. Flirting no longer felt like a game.
But Hood did not have time to think about that now.
There was a lot to do. He had to review the daily briefings that had
gone to Mike Rodgers during the past week, which included intelligence
data collected from around the world as well as ongoing covert
operations.
He also had to look at reports from the rest of the staff and have a
glance at the schedule for the upcoming week before he went to see the
First Lady. He noticed that Rodgers was going to be interviewing the
final candidates to replace Martha Mackall, the political liaison who
had been assassinated in Spain, as well as candidates for the new post
of economic adviser. With more and more nations linked together
financially--"Siamese megatuplets" was how Lowell Coffey had put
it--politics was becoming a troublesome sideshow to the force that
really drove the world.
Hood decided to let Mike make those hires. Not only had he started the
process, but Hood was going to be too busy with everything else. But
with all that was going on, one thing remained true.
Paul Hood loved this work, this place.
It was good to be back.
Baku, Azerbaijan Monday, 4:00 p.m.
Azerbaijan is a nation in flux.
Because of political conflict in the Nagorno-Karabakh region, twenty
percent of the country--mostly in the southwest, along the borders with
Armenia and Iran-are occupied by rebel forces. Though a cease-fire has
been observed since 1994, firefights occur with some regularity.
Privately, diplomats fear that the selfproclaimed Republic of
Nagorno-Karabakh will become the next Kosovo. Protests, often violent,
erupt in Baku and other cities without warning. Some of them pertain to
politics, others to general unrest. Since the breakup of the Soviet
Union, there has been an extreme shortage of staples such as medical
supplies, produce, and new technology. Cash--preferably U.S.
dollars--is the only form of exchange recognized in most areas of the
country, including the capital.
The United States has managed to openly support the legitimate
government of Azerbaijan without alienating the powerful insurgent
forces. Loans have been granted to Baku, while goods have been sold
directly to "the people"--primarily the rebels. In the event of
widespread revolt, the United States wants to have open lines of
communication on both sides.
Maintaining that balance is the primary task of the small American
embassy. Since March 1993, the fifteen employees and ten marine guards
have operated from a small stone building at 83 Azadlig Prospect. In
the back of that building, in a windowless, wood-paneled room, is the
Department of News Services. Unlike the small press department, which
issues news releases and arranges for interviews and photo ops with U.S.
congressmen, senators, and other government leaders, officially the job
of the DNS is to collect news clippings from around Russia and keep them
on file for reference.
Officially.
In fact, the DNS is staffed by one CIA operative who gathers
intelligence from around the nation. Most of the information comes from
electronic surveillance that is conducted both from the office via
satellite and from vans. Some of it comes from personnel who are paid
to watch, listen to, and photograph government officials-sometimes in
compromising situations. Some of those situations are also arranged by
the DNS.
Because he was hurt, David Battat did not want to attempt returning to
Moscow. Instead, he made his way to the embassy on foot. He was taken
to see Deputy Ambassador Dorothy Williamson, who brought in Senior
Researcher Tom Moore. Williamson was a large woman with curly black
hair. Battat guessed her to be about forty. Moore was a lean giant in
his thirties with a long, gaunt face and a lugubrious expression. If
Battat had to be
stranded in Baku, his expression would be gloomy as
well.
Williamson's aide was a smart veteran named Ron Friday. He was the only
one who gave Battat an encouraging smile. Battat appreciated that.
While Battat gave Moore a quick rundown on what had happened, Williamson
had the Marine medic take a look at Battat's wounds. There was swelling
in his throat and traces of blood in his saliva, though the damage did
not appear to be serious. When the medic was finished with him, Battat
was taken to the DNS room. He was given privacy while he called Moscow.
He spoke to Pat Thomas, the assistant director of public information at
the embassy. Thomas was also an OTR--off the record--field director for
the CIA. That meant there was no record of him at agency headquarters.
His reports were delivered directly to Washington in the diplomatic
pouch.
Thomas did not take the news well. If Battat had succeeded in
identifying the Harpooner, Thomas would have been a hero. Instead, he
would have to explain to his counterpart in Baku and his superior in
Washington how they had managed to blow the relatively simple job of
surveillance.
Thomas said that he would think about their next step and let him know.
Food was brought in. Battat ate, even though he had left his appetite
back at the beach, along with his self-esteem, his energy, the mission,
and his career. Then he sat in a chair resting until Williamson and
Moore arrived for a second, more thorough, conversation.
Moore looked grim. This was going to be painful.
Acoustic devices planted in the walls caused conversations to sound like
static to the electronic eavesdropping devices that the Azerbaijanis had
placed on surrounding buildings.
Battat told them that Moscow had suspected the Harpooner was in Baku,
and he had been sent to try and identify him. This news did not meet
with the approval of the senior researcher.
"The field office in Moscow obviously didn't feel it was necessary to
involve us in this operation," Moore complained.
"Do you want to tell me why?"
"They were afraid that our target might have people watching the
embassy," Battat said.
"Not all of our people are in the embassy," Moore pointed out.
"We have external resources."
"I understand," Battat said.
"But Moscow felt that the fewer people who were in the loop, the better
our chances of surprising the target."
"Which didn't really help, did it?" Moore said.
"No."
"Whoever attacked you obviously knew you were coming."
"Apparently, though I don't understand how," Battat said.
"I was well hidden, and I wasn't using anything that gave out an
electronic pulse. The camera was one of the digital seventies. No
flash, no glass in front to reflect light, no moving parts that
clicked."
"Couldn't this Harpooner or his people have done a routine sweep of the
shore?" the deputy ambassador asked.
"I was watching for that," said Battat.
"I got to the site early, at a spot we'd selected through satellite
imaging.
We chose it specifically so that I could see and hear people coming and
going."
"Then why didn't you see or hear the god damned assailant coming?" asked
Moore.
"Because they hit me just when something started to happen out on the
boat I was watching," he said.
"Someone came from below and turned on a radio. It was a perfect
distraction."
"Which suggests that someone knew you were in that spot, Mr. Battat,"
Moore said.
"Probably."
"Possibly even before you got there," Moore went on.
"I don't see how, but I can't rule it out," Battat agreed.
"What I really want to know, though, is whether this was even the
Harpooner," Moore went on.
"What do you mean?" the deputy ambassador asked.
"The Harpooner has been a terrorist for over two decades," Moore told
her.
"He has personally run or been a part of at least fifteen terrorist
strikes that we know of and probably many more that we don't know about.
He's eluded countless efforts to trap him thanks, in large part, to his
ability to stay mobile. He has no permanent address that we know of,
hires whoever he needs, and rarely uses the same people twice. We only
know what he looks like because one of his arms suppliers once snuck a
photo to us. The supplier's body was found a few months later on a
sailboat, slit from chin to belly with a fish-gutting knife--after we'd
relocated him and given him a new ID."
"I see," the deputy ambassador said.
"He left the knife behind," Moore said.
"He always leaves his weapons behind, from spear guns to bowline
stirrups."
"Sea-related things," said Williamson.
"Often," Moore said.
"We suspect he was in the naval service somewhere--not a big leap of
faith, though we haven't been able to trace him. But in all that time,
the Harpooner never left a witness. Which means that either it wasn't
the Harpooner who attacked Mr. Battat or the Harpooner wanted him
alive."
The deputy ambassador regarded Battat.
"For what reason?"
"I can't think of one," Battat admitted.
The three were silent for a moment. The only sound was the hum of the
air vent.
"Mr. Battat, the presence of a man like the Harpooner in this region
could have terrible ramifications for all of us," said the deputy
ambassador.
"Which is another reason why we should have been in the loop on this!"
Moore said angrily.
"Hell, we know who the undercover guys are that are watching us, and
they haven't been around for days. They're too busy trying to find a
Russian spy who slipped out of jail two days ago."
"Again, I'm sorry," said Battat.
"Would you mind staying in Baku while we try to make sense of all this?"
the deputy ambassador asked.
"Not at all," said Battat.
"I want to help."
"Hopefully, it's not too late for that," Moore said.
They rose.
"What about the Rachel?" Battat asked.
"I've sent a small plane out to look for it," Moore told him.
"But they've had several hours head start, and God knows which direction
they went. I'm not optimistic."
"Can't you trace the name?" Battat asked.
"Isn't there a local registry?"
"There is," Moore told him, "and the Rachel isn't in it. We're checking
records in Dagestan, Kalmyk, and other republics on the Caspian, but my
guess is she's a rogue."
Moore showed Battat to a small guest room on the second floor of the
building. There was a cot in the corner, and Battat lay down to think.
The boat, the music they played, the brief glimpse he had of the man on
deck--he replayed the sounds and images over and over, looking for more
information. Something that might tell him who the crew of the Rachel
were, how they were dressed, or where they might have come from. In SD
sessions--subconscious debriefing--trained interviewe
rs would walk
agents through experiences to help them remember lost details. The
interviewers would ask about the color of the sky, the look of the
water, the force of the wind and the smells riding it. Once the agent
was reimmersed in the scene, the interviewer would move him around, ask
him to describe distinctive markings on the hull of the boat or whether
there were banners on the stern or mast or sounds coming from the deck
or below. It always surprised Battat how much information the brain
stored that was not always immediately accessible.
Though Battat closed his eyes and breathed slowly and deeply and went
through the SD checklist, he could not remember anything that brought
him closer to whoever was on the boat or from what direction his
assailant might have come. He could not even remember the feel of the