by Eikeltje
phone back in his pocket. That was strange. The president had announced
an intelligence initiative involving the United Nations, and one of the
first missions the national security adviser visits belongs to Iran. As
a sponsor of the kind of terrorism the United Nations opposed, that did
not make sense. The door to the Oval Office opened.
"Mrs. Leigh, would you do me a favor?" Hood said.
"Yes."
"Would you get me Jack Fenwick's itinerary in New York?"
"Fenwick? Why?"
"He's one of the reasons I asked you the question I did," Hood replied.
Mrs. Leigh looked at Hood.
"All right. Do you want it while you're with the president?"
"As soon as possible," Hood said.
"And when you get the file number, let me know what else is in the file.
I don't need specific documents, just dates when they were filed."
"All right," she said.
"And Paul--what you asked before?
I have noticed a change." He smiled at her.
"Thanks. If there's a problem, we're going to try and fix it quickly
and quietly, whatever it is." She nodded and sat at her computer as the
vice president emerged from the Oval Office. Charles Gotten was a tall,
stout man with a thin face and thinning gray hair. He greeted Paul Hood
with a warm handshake and a smile but didn't stop to talk. Mrs. Leigh
punched the phone intercom. The president answered. She told him that
Paul Hood was here, and the president asked her to send him in. Hood
went around the desk and walked into the Oval Office.
Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 12:07 a.m.
David Battat lay on the flimsy cot and stared at the dark ceiling of the
damp basement storehouse. Pat Thomas slept on his back in a cot on the
other side of the small room, breathing softly, regularly. But Battat
couldn't sleep. His neck still ached, and he was angry at himself for
having gotten cold-cocked, but that wasn't what was keeping him awake.
Before going to sleep, Battat had reviewed the original data the CIA had
received about the Harpooner. He could not put it out of his mind. All
signs, including a reliable eyewitness, pointed to it having been the
terrorist that was being met by the Rachel. And if that were so, if the
Harpooner had passed through Baku on his way to somewhere else, Battat
was deeply troubled by one question: Why am I still alive? Why would a
terrorist with a reputation for scorched earth attacks and homicidal
behavior leave an enemy alive? To mislead them? To make them think it
wasn't the Harpooner who was there? That had been his initial reaction.
But maybe the terrorist had left him alive for another reason. And
Battat lay there, trying to figure out what that reason could be. The
only reason he could think of would be to carry misinformation back to
his superiors. But he had not carried any information back, other than
what was already known: that the Rachel was where it was supposed to be.
And without knowing who got on or where it went, that information did
them no good. Battat's clothes had been gone over carefully for an
electronic bug or a radioactive tracer of some kind. Nothing had been
found, and the clothes were subsequently destroyed. If one had been
located, it would have been used to spread disinformation or to
misdirect the enemy. Moore had gone through Battat's hair, checked
under his fingernails, looked in his mouth and elsewhere for a micro
transmitter that could be used to locate Battat or eavesdrop on any
conversations he might have. Nothing had been found. There wasn't a
damn thing, he thought. And it gnawed at him because he didn't think
this was a screw-up. He was alive for a reason. He shut his eyes and
turned on his side. Thinking about this while he was dead tired would
get him nowhere. He had to sleep. He forced himself to think about
something pleasant: what he would do when he found the Harpooner. The
thought relaxed him. As he lay there, Battat began to feel warm. He
attributed that to the poor ventilation in the room and the distress he
was feeling over everything that had happened.
A few minutes later, he was asleep.
A few minutes after that, he began to perspire.
A few minutes after that, he was awake and gasping for breath.
Washington, D.C. Monday, 4:13 p.m.
The president was writing on a white legal pad when Hood entered. The
president told Hood to have a seat;
he needed to make a few notes before they talked. Hood quietly shut the
door behind him and walked toward a brown leather armchair in front of
the desk. He turned off his cell phone and sat down. The president was
dressed in a black suit and silver and black striped tie. A rich yellow
light gleamed off the panes of bulletproof glass behind the president.
Beyond it, the Rose Garden looked rich and alive. Everything seemed so
right here, so healthy and normal, that for a moment Hood doubted
himself. But only for a moment. Hood's instincts got him where he was;
there was no reason to start doubting them now. Besides, the battle was
always somewhere else, never in the command tent. The president finished
writing, put down his pen, and looked at Hood. His face was drawn and
warm, but his eyes had their usual gleam.
"Talk to me, Paul," the president said. Hood grew warm behind the ears.
This wasn't going to be easy. Even if he were correct, it wasn't going
to be easy convincing the president that members of his staff might be
running an operation of their own. Hood did not have a lot to go on, and
part of him wished that he had gone to the First Lady before coming
here. It would have been better to let her talk to him in private. But
if the intelligence Herbert had received was right, there might not be
time for that. Ironically, Hood would have to keep Megan Lawrence out
of this. He did not want the president to know that his wife had been
talking about him behind his back. Hood leaned forward.
"Mr. President, I have some concerns about the United Nations
intelligence operation."
"Jack Fenwick is setting it all up," the president said.
"There'll be a comprehensive briefing when he returns from New York."
"Will the NSA be running the project?"
"Yes," the president informed him.
"Jack will be reporting directly to me. Paul, I hope this visit isn't
about some kind of territorial pissing contest between Op Center and the
NSA--"
"No, sir," Hood assured him. The intercom beeped. The president
answered. It was Mrs. Leigh. She said she had something for Paul
Hood. The president frowned and asked her to bring it in. He looked at
Hood.
"Paul, what's going on?"
"Hopefully, nothing," Hood said. Mrs. Leigh walked in and handed Hood a
single sheet of paper.
"Is this all?" Hood asked. She nodded.
"What about the file itself?"
"Empty," she said. Hood thanked Mrs. Leigh, and she left.
"What file is empty?" the president asked irritably.
"Paul, what the hell is going on?"
"I'll tell you in a moment, Mr. President," Hood said. He looked down
at
the paper.
"From eleven a.m. this morning until four p.m." Jack Fenwick was
scheduled to meet with representatives of the government of Iran at
their permanent mission in New York."
"Impossible," said the president.
"Sir, Mrs. Leigh obtained this from the NSA office," Hood said. He
handed the president the paper.
"It has their file number on top. And according to intel we received,
Fenwick did spend a good part of the afternoon at the Iranian mission."
The president looked at the paper and was still for a long moment. Then
he shook his head slowly.
"Fenwick was supposed to be meeting with the Syrians, the Vietnamese, a
half-dozen others," he said.
"That's what he told me last night. Hell, we aren't even close to
reaching an intelligence agreement with Iran."
"I know," Hood said.
"But Fenwick was there. And except for this document, the file is
empty. As far as the NSA is concerned, there is no such thing as the UN
initiative."
"This has to be bullshit," the president said dismissively.
"More bullshit." The president jabbed the intercom button on his phone.
"Mrs. Leigh, get me Jack Fenwick--"
"Sir, I don't think you should talk to anyone at the NSA," Hood said.
"Excuse me?"
"Not yet, at least," Hood said.
"Hold on, Mrs. Leigh," the president said.
"Paul, you just told me my national security adviser is way off the play
book Now you're telling me not to bother finding out if that's true?"
"Before you do that, we need to talk," Hood said.
"About what?"
"I don't believe this situation with Fenwick is a miscommunication,"
Hood said.
"Neither do I," the president said.
"My conversations with him were very explicit. That's why he and I need
to talk."
"But what if something is very wrong?" Hood asked.
"Explain."
"What if this is a rogue operation of some kind?" Hood asked.
"You're out of your mind," the president said. He appeared stunned.
"Christ, Paul, I've known most of these people for fifteen, twenty
years--they're good friends!" Hood understood. And all he could think
to say was,"
"Et to. Brute?"
"The president looked at him.
"Paul, what are you talking about?"
"When Julius Caesar was killed by republicans in the senate, it was his
closest and oldest friend who organized the assassination," Hood said.
The president looked at him. A moment later, he told Mrs. Leigh to
forget the call. Then he shook his head slowly.
"I'm listening," the president said.
"But this better be good." Hood knew that. What he didn't know was
where to begin. There was a possible conspiracy and possible mental
illness. Perhaps both. He decided to start at the beginning and work
his way through.
"Mr. President, why did Fenwick call you last night?" he asked.
"He had finished a day of meetings with ambassadors at the Hay-Adams,"
the president said.
"There was strong opposition to the intelligence initiative from several
key governments. He was supposed to let me know if and when he finally
pulled it all together."
"Mr. President," Hood said, "we don't believe that Jack Fenwick was at
the Hay-Adams Hotel last night. The call he made to you was apparently
routed to the hotel from somewhere else."
"From where?" the president asked.
"I don't know," Hood admitted.
"Perhaps he was already in New York. Was Fenwick also liaising with the
CIOC?"
"No," the president said.
"Getting approvals from the Oversight Committee was the responsibility
of Fenwick's deputy, Don Roedner, and Red Gable on this end." Hood
didn't know Roedner any better than he knew Gable. He didn't even know
Gable had a nickname.
"Sir," Hood continued, "last night, when you thanked Senator Fox for
budgeting Mr. Fenwick's initiative, that was the first she'd heard
about it." President Lawrence froze, but only for a moment. His
expression changed slowly. He looked very strange for a moment, both
twenty years older and like a lost boy. He sat back.
"Gable wouldn't go behind my back on something," the president said
faintly.
"He wouldn't. And if he did, I'd read it in his face."
"When was the last time you saw him?" Hood asked. The president
thought.
"Friday, at the cabinet meeting."
"There were a lot of people there, a lot of issues on the table," Hood
said.
"You might have missed it. Or maybe he was snookered by the NSA."
"I can't believe that, either," the president said.
"I see," Hood said.
"Well, if Fenwick and Gable aren't rogue, there's only one other option
I can think of."
"Which is?" Hood had to be careful how he said this. He was no longer
floating ideas about the president's staff but about the president
himself.
"Maybe none of this happened," Hood said.
"The UN initiative, the meetings with foreign governments--none of it."
"You mean I imagined it all," the president said. Hood didn't answer.
"Do you believe that?" the president asked.
"I do not," Hood replied truthfully. If nothing else, there was the
rerouted phone call from the Hay-Adams, and the president didn't imagine
that.
"But I won't lie to you, Mr. President," Hood went on.
"You do seem tense, guarded, distracted. Definitely not yourself." The
president took a long breath. He started to say something and then
stopped.
"All right, Paul. You've got my attention. What do we do next?"
"I suggest we proceed under the assumption that we've got a serious
problem," Hood said.
"I'll continue the investigation from our end. We'll see what we can
find out about the Iranian connection. Check on what else Fenwick has
been doing, who he's been talking to."
"Sounds good," Lawrence said.
"Fenwick is due back late tonight. I won't say anything to him or to
Red until I hear from you. Let me know as soon as you learn anything
else."
"I will, sir."
"Will you also bring Senator Fox up to speed?" Hood said he would and
then stood. So did the president. He seemed a little stronger now, more
in command. But the things Megan had told Hood still troubled him.
"Mr. President," Hood said, "I do have one more question." The
president looked at Hood intently and nodded once.
"A few minutes ago, you said that this was'more bullshit,"
"Hood said.
"What did you mean?" The president continued to regard Hood.
"Before I answer that, let me ask you a question."
"All right."
"Don't you already know the answer to that?" the president asked. Hood
said that he did not.
"You came to see me only because of what happened last night?" the
president asked. Hood hesitated. The president knew that he and the
First Lady were old friends. It was not Hood's place to tell the
president that his wife was worried about him. But Hood also did not
; want to be just one more person who was lying to the president.
"No," Hood answered truthfully.
"That is not the only reason." The president smiled faintly.
"Fair enough, Paul. I won't press you."
"Thank you, sir."
"But I will tell you one thing about the bullshit," the president said.
"This is not the only mix-up we've had here over the past few weeks.
It's been frustrating." The president extended his hand across his
desk.
"Thanks for coming, Paul. And thanks for pushing me." Hood smiled and
shook the president's hand. Then he turned and left the Oval Office.
There was a group of eager-looking Boy Scouts waiting outside with a
photographer. The young men were award-winners of some kind, judging by
their sashes. Hood winked at them, taking a moment to savor their
openmouthed awe and innocence. Then he thanked Mrs. Leigh as he passed