by Eikeltje
and looked at the NSA chief. The short, slender man had deep-set eyes
beneath a head of thick, curly white hair. The whiteness of his hair
emphasized the darkness of his eyes.
"Your team has a history of rushing blindly into evolving crises, Mr.
Hood. North Korea, the Bekaa Valley, the United Nations. You're a
lighted match waiting for the wrong tinderbox."
"We haven't blown one yet," Hood pointed out.
"Yet," Fenwick agreed. He looked at Lawrence.
"Mr. President, we need to finish reviewing our data so that you can
make a decision about the Caspian situation."
"What does Maurice Charles have to do with the Caspian situation?" Hood
demanded. He was still looking at Fenwick. He was not going to let the
man wriggle away.
"Charles? The terrorist?" Fenwick asked.
"That's right," Hood said. Hood said nothing else. He wanted to see
where this went. The president looked at Fenwick.
"Did the NSA know that Charles was involved with this?"
"Yes, Mr. President, we did," Fenwick admitted.
"But we don't know what his involvement was. We've been looking into
that."
"Maybe I can point you in the right direction, Mr. Fenwick," Hood said.
"Maurice Charles was in touch with the NSA both before and after the
attack on the Iranian oil rig."
"That's bullshit!" Fenwick charged.
"You seem sure of that," Hood said.
"I am!" Fenwick said.
"No one in my organization would have anything to do with that man!"
Hood had expected Fenwick to 3D the charge: disavow, deny, and delay.
But neither the vice president nor Gable had jumped in to defend him.
Perhaps because they knew it was true? Hood turned to the president.
"Sir, we have every reason to believe that Charles, the Harpooner, was
involved in the destruction of that rig."
"Evidence from whom?" Fenwick demanded.
"Unimpeachable sources," Hood replied.
"Who?" Vice President Cotten asked. Hood faced him. The vice president
was a calm and reasonable man. Hood was going to have to bite the bullet
on this one.
"General Sergei Orlov, commander of the Russian Op-Center." Gable shook
his head. Fenwick rolled his eyes.
"The Russians," the vice president said dismissively.
"They may have been the ones who sent Cherkassov into the region to
attack the rig. His body was found in the water nearby."
"Moscow has every reason not to want us involved in the region," Gable
said.
"If Azerbaijan is chased out of the Caspian, Moscow can lay claim to
more of the oil reserves. Mr. President, I suggest we table this side
of the problem until we've dealt with the larger issue of the Iranian
mobilization."
"We've reviewed the data Orlov provided, and we believe it's accurate,"
Hood stated.
"I'd like to see that data," Fenwick said.
"You will," Hood promised.
"You wouldn't also have given General Orlov any secure codes to help him
listen in on alleged NSA conversations, would you?" Hood ignored that.
"Mr. President, the Harpooner is an expert at creating and executing
complex cover stories. If he's involved in this operation, we have to
look carefully at any evidence that comes in. We should also inform
Teheran that this action may have nothing to do with Baku."
"Nothing?" Fenwick said.
"For all we know, they may have hired the Harpooner."
"You may be right," Hood said.
"What I'm saying is that we have no evidence of anything except the fact
that the Harpooner is in the region and was probably involved in the
attack."
"Secondhand evidence," Fenwick said.
"Besides, I spent a day trying to open a dialogue with Teheran about an
intelligence exchange. The bottom line is that they don't trust us, and
we can't trust them."
"That is not the bottom line!" Hood snapped. He stopped. He had to
watch that--showing anger. He was frustrated, and he was extremely
tired. But if he lost control, he would also lose credibility.
"The bottom line," Hood continued evenly, "is that misinformation has
been passed regularly between the NSA, the CIOC, and the Oval Office--"
"Mr. President, we need to move on," Fenwick said calmly.
"Iran is moving warships into the Caspian region That is a fact, and it
must be dealt with immediately."
"I agree," said the vice president. Cotten looked at Hood. There was
condescension in the vice president's eyes.
"Paul, if you have concerns about the actions of personnel at the NSA,
you should bring your proof to the CIOC, not to us. They will deal with
it."
"When it's too late," Hood said.
"Too late for what?" the president asked. Hood turned to the president.
"I don't know the answer to that, sir," Hood admitted.
"But I do believe you should hold off making any decisions about the
Caspian right now." Fenwick shook his head.
"Based on hearsay from Russians who may themselves be moving planes and
ships into the region."
"Mr. Fenwick has a point," the president said.
"The Russians may indeed have designs on the Caspian oil," Hood agreed.
"That in itself doesn't repudiate General Orlov's intelligence."
"How long do you need, Paul?"
"Give me another twelve hours," Hood said.
"Twelve hours will give Iran and Russia time to position ships in the
Azerbaijani oil regions," Gable said. The president looked at his watch.
He thought for a moment.
"I'll give you five hours," he said. That was not what Hood wanted, but
it was obviously all he was going to get. He took it.
"I'll need an office," Hood said. He did not want to waste time running
back to Op-Center.
"Take the Cabinet Room," the president said.
"That way I know you'll be done by seven. We'll be moving in then."
"Thank you, sir," Hood said. Hood turned. He ignored the other men as
he left the Oval Office. The hostility was much greater now than when
he had come in. Hood was certain he had hit a bull's-eye. Just not
with enough firepower. It would have been too much to expect the
president to buy everything he was telling him. Even after their
earlier conversation, Lawrence was still obviously struggling with the
idea that Jack Fenwick could be a traitor. But at least the president
had not dismissed the idea entirely. Hood had been able to buy himself
some time. Hood walked down the quiet, green-carpeted hallway of the
West Wing. He made his way past two silent secret service officers. One
was posted outside the Oval Office. The other was standing down the
hall between the doorway that led to the press secretary's office on the
northwest end of the corridor and door to the Cabinet Room on the
northeast side. Hood entered the oblong room. There was a large
conference table in the center of the room. Beyond it, in the northern
end of the room, was a desk with a computer and a telephone. Hood went
over and sat down. The first thing Hood would do was contact Herbert. He
had to try to get more information about the Harpooner's contacts with
probably not persuade the president that there was a conspiracy. Hood
needed proof. And right now, he did not know how he was going to get
it.
Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 10:20 a.m.
When he was a cosmonaut. General Orlov had learned to read voices.
Often, that was the only way he learned whether there was a problem with
a flight. Ground control had once told him that all was well with his
Salyut space station mission. In fact, pitting from micro meteoroid
dust and a chemical cloud dumped by the spacecraft's own thrusters had
corroded the solar array. The panels had been so seriously compromised
that the station was going to lose power before a Kosmos ship from Earth
was due to ferry them home. The first hint of trouble came from the
voice of the liaison in ground control. His cadence was a little
different from usual. Orlov already had an ear for voices from the years
he spent as a test pilot. Orlov insisted on being told what the problem
was with the Salyut. The entire world heard the conversation,
embarrassing the Kremlin. But Orlov was able to shut down noncritical
systems and conserve power rather than wait for scientists to figure out
how to realign the remaining panels while also shielding them from
further corrosion. Orlov trusted Natalia Basov. Completely. But he did
not always believe her, which was not the same thing. There was
something in her tone of voice that worried him. It was as if she had
been concealing something. Just like the liaison at ground control.
Several minutes after they spoke on her cell phone, Orlov called the
phone registered to Odette Kolker at her apartment. It rang a dozen
times and no one answered. Orlov hoped that meant she had taken the
American with her. Twenty minutes later, he called back again. This
time a man with a slurred voice answered. In English. Orlov looked at
the readout on the telephone to make sure he had the correct number. He
did. The woman had left without the American.
"This is General Sergei Orlov," he said to the man.
"Is this Mr. Battat?"
"Yes," Battat replied groggily.
"Mr. Battat, the woman who rescued you is my subordinate," Orlov went
on.
"She has gone out to try and apprehend the man who attacked you on the
beach. You know who I am talking about?"
"Yes," Battat replied.
"I do."
"She has no backup, and I'm worried about her and about the mission,"
Orlov said.
"Are you well enough to get around the city?" There was a short delay.
Orlov heard grunts and moans.
"I'm on my feet, and I see my clothes hanging behind the door," Battat
replied.
"I'll take one step at a time. Where did she go?" Orlov told the
American he had no idea what Odette's plan was, or if she even had one.
Orlov added that his team was still trying to get into the hotel
computer to find out which rooms were occupied by single males. Battat
asked Orlov to call him a taxi, since he did not really speak the
language. Orlov said he would do that and thanked him. He gave Battat
his telephone number at the Op-Center and then hung up. Orlov sat still.
Save for the faint buzz of the fluorescent light on his desk, his
underground office was dead silent. Even space was not this quiet.
There were always creaks as metal warmed and cooled or bumps as loose
objects struck equipment. There were sounds of coolant moving through
pipes and air rushing through vents. And every now and then there was
someone talking in his headphone, either from Earth or somewhere else in
the ship. Not here. This was a lonelier-feeling place by far. By now,
Odette had probably reached the hotel and gone inside. He could phone
her and order her back, but he did not think she would listen. And if
she was intent on going through with this, he did not want to rattle
her. She needed to know she had his support. Orlov was angry at Odette
for having disobeyed orders and lying to him. His anger was tempered by
an understanding of what had driven the woman. Her husband had been a
loner as well. A loner who had died because of someone else's
carelessness. Still, she would not stand in the way of Orlov's job. And
that job was not just to capture or kill the Harpooner. It was to make
certain that Odette did not end up like Viktor.
Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 10:31 a.m.
There was a great deal of traffic, and it took Odette twice as long as
she expected to reach the Hyatt Hotel. She parked on a side street less
than a block from the employees' entrance. She did not want to park out
front. There was still a sniper out there somewhere, the person who had
shot the American diplomat outside the hospital. The killer might be
bird-dogging the hotel for the Harpooner. He might have seen her car at
the hospital and could recognize it again. It was a sunny morning, and
Odette enjoyed the brief walk to the front of the hotel. The air tasted
richer and seemed to fill her lungs more than usual. She wondered if
Viktor had felt this way while he was in Chechnya. If simple moments had
seemed more rewarding when there was a real risk of losing it all.
Odette had been to the rear entrance of the hotel twice before. Once
was to help a cook who had burned himself in a skillet fire. Another
time was to quiet a man who was complaining about charges on his dinner
bill. She knew her way around the back. Unfortunately, she didn't think
she would find the Harpooner here. Odette assumed that when the
Harpooner came and went, he used the front entrance. Sneaking out a
delivery door or first floor window might call attention to himself.
Smart terrorists hid in plain sight. And smart counter terrorists waited
for them rather than charging into their lair, she thought. But Odette
had no idea when the Harpooner would be leaving. It could be the middle
of the night. It could be early afternoon. It could be three days from
now. She could not be here the entire time. She also had no idea
whether or not he would be disguised. And for all she knew, he might
even hire a prostitute to pose as his daughter, wife, or even his
mother. There were some old prostitutes in Baku. Some very young ones,
too. Odette had arrested a number of them. There were many
possibilities, all of which made it imperative that Odette get to the
Harpooner before he left. The question was how to find him. She had no
idea what his name was or what name he might be using. Except for the
Harpooner, Odette thought. She laughed to herself. Maybe she should run
down the halls shouting that name. Watch to see which doors did not
open. Anyone who did not need to see what the uproar was about had to
be the Harpooner. Odette rounded the corner and walked toward the front
of the hotel. There was a kiosk around the corner.
A newspaper extra was already announcing the Iranian buildup in the
Caspian Sea. There were aerial reconnaissance photos of Iranian ships
setting sail. Baku had always been relatively insulated from military
action. This was something new for the nation's capital. That would
help to explain the traffic. Most people lived in the suburbs. Many of
them probably came to work, heard the news, and were getting out of town
in the event of attack. There was just one person standing beneath the
gold and green awning. A doorman in a green blazer and matching cap.
There were no tour buses, though that was not surprising. They usually
left by nine a.m. Tourists who had entered the country as part of a
group probably could not opt for early departure and had almost
certainly gone ahead with their plans. In any case, checkout was not
until noon. People who did want to leave were probably on the phones
trying to book plane, train, or car reservations-Of course, she thought.
The phone. Orlov had said that the Harpooner made a call using a secure
phone. That would mean he probably had not made any calls using the
hotel phone. She would look for a single male occupant with no phone
charges on his bill. Odette entered the hotel. She looked away from the
front desk as she crossed the lobby. She did not want to risk being
seen by the manager or any of the clerks who might recognize her. The
first thing she did was turn to the right, toward the corridor that led
to housekeeping. The long, simple office was located in the back of the
hotel. There was a desk with a supervisor in the front of the office.