Hood took a sip of water. He wondered if divorce turned all men into cynics.
Chatterjee had left the president’s side and was being shown to the table. Hood rose as the New Delhi native neared. The attendant pulled out her chair. The secretary-general thanked him and sat down. Without obviously ignoring Hood, the forty-three-year-old woman managed not to look at him. Hood had no patience for that.
“Good evening, Madam Secretary-General,” Hood said.
“Good evening, Mr. Hood,” she replied, still without looking at him.
Other people began arriving at the table. Chatterjee turned and smiled at Agriculture Secretary Richard Ortiz and his wife. That left Hood staring at the back of the secretary-general’s head. He exited the awkward moment by reaching for his napkin, putting it on his lap, and looking the other way.
Hood tried to put himself in Chatterjee’s position. The attorney-turned-diplomat had only been on the job for a short while when the terrorists struck. She had joined the United Nations as an avowed peacekeeper, and here were terrorists executing diplomats and threatening to shoot children. Chatterjee’s negotiating tactics had failed, and Hood had embarrassed her publicly by infiltrating the Security Council and ending the crisis with quick, violent action. Chatterjee was further humiliated by the way many member nations loudly applauded Hood’s attack.
But Hood and Secretary-General Chatterjee were supposed to be putting that ill will behind them, not nurturing it. She was an avowed advocate of first move detente, in which one party demonstrated trust by being the first to lay down arms or surrender land.
Or maybe she only believes in that when she advocates others to make the first move, Hood thought.
Suddenly, someone appeared behind Hood and spoke his name. He turned and looked up. It was the First Lady.
“Good evening, Paul.”
Hood rose. “Mrs. Lawrence. It’s good to see you.”
“It’s been too long,” she said, taking his hand in hers and holding it tight. “I miss those Los Angeles fund-raisers.”
“We had fun,” Hood said. “We made some history, and hopefully we did some good, too.”
“I like to think so,” the First Lady said. “How is Harleigh?”
“She took a very hard hit, and is having a rough time,” Hood admitted.
“I can’t even imagine,” the First Lady said. “Who’s working with her?”
“Right now, it’s just Liz Gordon, our staff psych at Op-Center,” Hood said. “Liz is getting a little trust going. Hopefully, in a week or two, we can bring in some specialists.”
Megan Lawrence smiled warmly. “Paul, maybe there’s something we can do to help each other. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Good. I’ll see you at twelve-thirty.” The First Lady smiled, turned, and went back to her table.
That was strange, Hood thought. “Maybe there’s something we can do to help each other.” What could she possibly need his help for? Whatever it was, it must be important. A First Lady’s social calendar was usually well-booked months in advance. She would have had to move her engagements around to make room for him.
Hood sat back down. The table had been joined by Deputy Secretary of State Hal Jordan and his wife Barri Allen-Jordan as well as two diplomats and their spouses who Hood did not know. Mala Chatterjee did not introduce him, so he introduced himself. The secretary-general continued to ignore him, even after the president rose at his table to offer a toast and say a few words about how he hoped this dinner and its show of unity would send a message to terrorists that the civilized nations of the world would never yield to them. As the White House photographer took pictures and a C-SPAN camera unobtrusively recorded the event from the southwest corner of the hall, the president underscored his faith in the United Nations by announcing officially, and to great applause, that the United States was about to retire its nearly two billion dollar debt to the United Nations.
Hood knew that paying off the debt had very little to do with terrorists. The United Nations didn’t scare them, and the president knew it, even if Mala Chatterjee didn’t. What the two billion dollars did was get the United States out of the doghouse with poor countries like Nepal and Liberia. With thawed economic relations in the Third World, we could then convince them to take loans with the provision that they buy American goods, services, and military intelligence. That would become a self-perpetuating source of income for American companies, even when other nations started putting money into those countries. That was the great thing about a government budgetary surplus and a politically expedient moment. When they came together, an administration could look benevolent and score points on the stock exchange.
Hood was only half listening to the speech when the president said something that drew him back in.
“Finally,” the president said, “I am happy to inform you that American intelligence leaders are presently earmarking personnel and resources for a vital new initiative. It is their intention to work closely with governments around the world and guarantee that attacks against the United Nations cannot, do not, and will not happen again.”
There was mild applause from tables where there were delegates. But the statement had caught Hood’s attention because he knew something that the president apparently did not.
It wasn’t true.
SIX
Hellspot Station, the Caspian Sea Monday, 3:01 A.M.
The white Cessna U206F flew low over the dark Caspian Sea, its single engine roaring loudly. Its only occupants were a Russian pilot and the man seated beside him, an Englishman of average build and average appearance.
This trip had started out off the coast of Baku. After taking off, the seaplane had headed northeast and had traveled nearly two hundred miles in the past ninety minutes. It had been a smooth, quiet ride. Neither the pilot nor his passenger spoke a word the entire time. Though forty-one-year-old Maurice Charles spoke Russian—along with nine other languages—he did not know the pilot well and did not trust even those people he did know well. That was one reason he’d managed to survive as a mercenary for nearly twenty years.
When they finally arrived, all the pilot said was, “Below, four o’clock.”
Charles looked out his window. His pale blue eyes fixed on the target. It was a beautiful thing. Tall, brightly lit, majestic.
And alone.
The semisubmersible offshore oil drilling platform stood approximately 150 feet above the water and was surrounded by sea. There was a helipad on the north side of the platform, a 200-foot-tall derrick beside it on the northwest side, and a network of tanks, cranes, antennae, and other equipment in the oil processing area.
The rig was like a lady standing on a deserted avenue under a streetlamp late at night by the Mersey back home. Charles could do what he wanted with it. And he would.
Charles picked up a camera that was sitting in his lap. He popped the button on the tan leather carrying case and removed the top. The camera was the same thirty-five-millimeter reflex that he had used in his first assignment, back in Beirut in April 1983. He began snapping pictures. A second camera, the one he had taken from the CIA operative on the beach, lay on the floor of the cabin between his feet along with the man’s backpack. There might be names or numbers in there that would prove useful. Just like the operative himself would be useful, which was why Charles had left him alive.
The airplane circled the oil platform twice, once at 600 feet and once at 300 feet. Charles exposed three rolls of film, then indicated to the pilot that it was all right to leave. The seaplane swung back to its cruising altitude of 2000 feet and headed to Baku. There, Charles would rejoin the crew of the Rachel, which by now would have removed the white banner with the fake name. They had ferried him to the plane and would be his partners in the next part of the undertaking.
But that would only be the start. His employers in America had very specific goals, and the team Charles had put together were experts in achieving thos
e goals:
turning neighbor against neighbor, nation against nation, through acts of terrorism and assassination. Before they were finished, the region would be awash in fire and blood from around the world.
And though he had already made a lot of money in the terrorist game, he had spent a lot of that wealth buying weapons, passports, transportation, anonymity. With this job, he would be richer than he had ever dared to imagine. And he had a fertile imagination.
When he was growing up in Liverpool, Charles had often dreamed about wealth and how he might obtain it. He thought about it when he swept the train station where his father sold tickets. He thought about it when he slept with his two brothers and grandfather in the living room of their one-bedroom flat, a flat that always smelled of perspiration and trash from the adjoining alley. He thought about it when he helped his father coach the local men’s football team. The elder Charles knew how to communicate, how to strategize, how to win. He was a natural leader. But Maurice’s father, his family, his working-class people were held down by the upper class. They were not permitted to go to the better schools, even if they could have afforded them. They weren’t allowed to work in the upper levels of banking, of communications, of politics. They had funny, common accents and brawny shoulders and weather-beaten faces and weren’t taken seriously.
Charles grew up feeling bad that the only outlet, the only joy his father had was football. Charles also idolized the Beatles because they had made it out—the same reason, ironically, his father and so many of his contemporaries hated “those young punks.” Charles realized that he could not escape poverty musically because he had no talent for that and it had already been done. He had to get out his way, make a mark that was uniquely his own. How could he have known that he would find his hidden skills by joining the Royal Marines, 29 Commando Regiment, Royal Artillery, and learning to work with explosives? By discovering the pleasure and genius involved in tearing things down?
It was a glorious feeling to put events like this in motion. It was the creation of art: living, breathing, powerful, bleeding, changing, utterly unforgettable art. There was nothing else like it in the world, the aesthetics of destruction. And what was most rewarding was that the CIA had inadvertently helped him by sending that man to watch for him. The agency would conclude that it couldn’t be the Harpooner who had attacked their man. No one had ever survived an encounter with the Harpooner.
Charles settled comfortably into his seat as the Cessna left the lights of the rig behind.
That was the beauty about being an artist, he told himself.
It gave him the right and privilege to surprise.
SEVEN
Camp Springs, Maryland Monday, 12:44 A.M.
Throughout the Cold War, the nondescript two-story building located near the Naval Reserve flight line at Andrews Air Force Base was a staging area for pilots and their crews. In the event of a nuclear attack, their job would have been to evacuate key officials from the government and military to a safe compound in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
But the ivory-colored building with its neat, green lawn was not just a monument to the Cold War. The seventy-eight full-time employees who worked there now were employed by the National Crisis Management Center, familiarly known as Op-Center, an independent agency that was designed to collect, process, and analyze data on potential crisis points domestically and abroad. Once that was done, Op-Center then had to decide whether to defuse them preemptively through political, diplomatic, media, economic, legal, or psychological means or else—after gaining the approval of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee—to terminate them through military means. To this end, Op-Center had at its disposal a twelve-person tactical strike team known as Striker. Led by Colonel Brett August, Striker was based at the nearby Quantico FBI Academy.
In addition to the offices upstairs, a secure basement had been built into the facility to house the more sensitive intelligence retrieval systems and personnel. It was here that Paul Hood and his top advisers worked.
Hood came directly from the White House affair. He was still dressed in his tuxedo, which earned him a “Good morning, Mr. Bond” greeting from the Naval officer at the gate. It made him smile. It was the only thing that had done that for days.
A strange uneasiness had settled over Hood after the president made his comments. He couldn’t imagine why the president had said the United States would offer intelligence assistance to the United Nations. If there was one thing many member nations feared, it was that the United States was already using the international organization as a means of spying on them.
The president’s short speech had pleased some people, most notably delegates who were targets for acts of terrorism. But it struck some other attendees as odd. Vice president Cotten appeared surprised, as did Secretary of State Dean Carr and America’s United Nations Ambassador Meriwether. And Mala Chatterjee had been openly bothered by the comment. So much so that she’d actually turned to Hood and asked if she had understood the president correctly. He told her that he believed she had. What he didn’t tell her was that Op-Center would almost certainly have been involved in or briefed about any such arrangement. Something might have been arranged during the time that he was away, but Hood doubted it. When he visited his office the day before to catch up on business he had missed, he saw no reference to a multinational intelligence effort.
Hood didn’t bother talking to anyone after the dinner. He left promptly and went to Op-Center, where he did additional digging into the matter. This was the first time he had seen the weekend night crew since his return. They were glad to see him, especially weekend night director Nicholas Grillo. Grillo was a fifty-three-year-old former Navy SEAL intelligence expert who had moved over from the Pentagon around the same time Hood had first joined Op-Center. Grillo congratulated him on the fine job he and General Rodgers had done in New York and asked how his daughter was. Hood thanked him and told him that Harleigh would be all right.
Hood began by accessing the files of the DCI—the Director of Central Intelligence. This independent body was a clearinghouse of information for four other intelligence departments: the Central Intelligence Agency; Op-Center; the Department of Defense, which included the four branches of the military, the National Reconnaissance Office, the National Security Agency, and the National Imagery and Mapping Agency; and Department Intelligence, which consisted of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Department of State, the Department of Energy, and the Department of Treasury.
Once Hood was into the DCI database, he asked for recent agreements or initiatives pertaining to the United Nations. There were nearly five thousand listings. He eliminated those that did not involve intelligence-gathering for the United Nations and its members. That reduced the list to twenty-seven. Hood browsed those quickly. The last was filed a week before, a preliminary report about the failure of the CIA field office to catch Annabelle Hampton’s terrorist-support activities in New York. Blame was placed on New York field office head David Battat and his supervisor in Washington, Deputy Assistant Director Wong. Wong was given a written warning, which was not entered into his record. Battat was given a sterner reprimand, which did not become part of his permanent dossier. But Battat would be hung out to dry for a while, doing what Bob Herbert had once described as “sewer rat-a-tat” jobs—dirty work in the line of fire. The kind of work that freshmen agents usually had to perform.
There was nothing about a United Nations operation involving any of the fourteen intelligence agencies. Given the new detente the president was trying to establish with the United Nations, it wasn’t surprising that Lawrence would look for a way to help them. But presenting a desire or opportunity as a done deal was mystifying.
The president would have needed the cooperation of the head of at least one of these agencies just to undertake a study for such a proposition, and that wasn’t anywhere in the files. There wasn’t even any correspondence, electronic or otherwise, requesting such a study. The only
answer Hood could think of was a handshake deal between the president and the CIA, FBI, or one of the other groups. But then one of those persons would have been there at tonight’s dinner, and the only representative from the intelligence community was Hood. Perhaps the president was trying to force the issue, the way John F. Kennedy did when he announced, publicly, that he wanted Congress to give NASA the funds to put a man on the moon. But United States involvement in international intelligence-gathering was an extremely sensitive area. A president would be reckless to attempt a wide-ranging operation like this without assurances from his own team that it was possible.
It could all be the result of a series of misunderstandings. Maybe the president thought he had the support of the intelligence community. Confusion was certainly not uncommon in government. The question was what to do now that the idea had been presented to the world body. The United States intelligence community was sure to be torn. Some experts would welcome the opportunity to plug directly into resources in nations like China, Colombia, and several former Soviet republics where they currently had very restricted access. Others—Hood included—would be afraid of joining forces with other nations and being fed false data, data that would then become part of U.S. intelligence gospel with potentially disastrous results. Herbert once told him about a situation in 1978, just before the overthrow of the shah of Iran, when antiextremist forces provided the CIA with a code used by supporters of the Ayatollah Khomeini to communicate via telefax. The code was accurate—then. Once the ayatollah assumed power, the shah’s files were raided, and the code was found to be in American hands. The code remained in the CIA’s system and was used to interpret secret communiques. It wasn’t until the ayatollah’s death in 1989—when the secret communiques said he was recovering—that the CIA went back and took a close look at the code and the disinformation they’d received. Ten years of data had to be reviewed and much of it purged.
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