Several members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff registered surprise to see Hood with the First Lady. So did the president. He had been in the process of rising to go into an adjoining study and talk with her. The president froze and looked from Megan to Hood, then back to Megan. The new arrivals stopped at the head of the conference table.
“What’s going on?” the president asked.
Hood glanced at the joint chiefs, who were a wall of impatience. He still did not know whether the frustration was with him or with the issue at hand. All he knew was that he would not have much time to present his case.
“Sir,” Hood said, “there is increasing evidence that the attack on the Iranian oil rig was executed not by Azerbaijanis but by Iranians under the direction of the terrorist known as the Harpooner.”
The president sat back down. “Why?” he asked.
“So that Iran could justify moving ships into the region and seize as many oil resources as possible,” Hood told him.
“And risk a military showdown with the United States?” Lawrence asked.
“No, sir,” Hood replied. He looked at Fenwick. “I believe there is an agreement in place to make sure the United States does not interfere. Then, when the tensions are defused, we simply buy our oil from Teheran.”
“And when was this agreement made?” the president asked.
“Yesterday, in New York,” Hood said. “Probably after many months of negotiations.”
“You’re referring to Jack’s visit to the Iranian mission,” the president said.
“Yes, sir,” Hood replied.
“Mr. Fenwick was not empowered to make such a promise,” the president pointed out. “If he did make one, it would not be valid.”
“It might be if you were not in office,” Hood said.
“This is ridiculous!” Fenwick declared. “I was at the Iranian mission to try and expand our intelligence resources in the Middle East. I’ve explained that, and I can document it. I can tell you who I met with and when.”
“All part of the big lie,” Hood said.
“Mr. Roedner was with me,” Fenwick said. “I have the notes I made, and I’ll be happy to name my contacts. What do you have, Mr. Hood?”
“The truth,” he replied without hesitation. “It’s the same thing I had when you vowed to keep me from seeing the president.”
“What I vowed was to keep you from bothering the president,” Fenwick insisted. “Secret deals with Iran. The president being out of office. This isn’t the truth, Mr. Hood. It’s paranoia!”
The vice president looked at his watch. “Mr. President, forgive me, but we’re wasting time. We need to get on with this meeting.”
“I agree,” said General Burg. “I’m not up to speed on any of this back-and-forth, and it isn’t my job to say which of these gentlemen is full of gravy. But whether we play offense or defense, we have to make some quick decisions if we’re going to match Iran’s deployment.”
The president nodded.
“Then get on with the meeting, Mr. President, General Burg,” Hood said. “But please delay taking military action for as long as possible. Give me time to finish the investigation we’ve begun.”
“I asked for evidence to back your claims,” the president said, his voice extremely calm. “You don’t have that.”
“Not yet,” Hood said.
“And we don’t have the extra time I thought there’d be to investigate. We’ve got to proceed as if the Caspian threat is real,” the president said with finality.
“Which is exactly what they want you to do!” Hood said. He was growing agitated and had to pull himself back. An outburst would undermine his own credibility. “We believe a crisis is being engineered, one that will call into question your ability to govern.”
“People have argued about that for years,” the president said. “They voted me out of office once. But I don’t make decisions based on polls.”
“I’m not talking about a policy debate,” Hood said. “I’m talking about your mental and emotional state. That will be the issue.”
Fenwick shook his head sadly. “Sir, mental health is the issue. Mr. Hood has been under a great deal of stress these past two weeks. His teenage daughter is mentally ill. He’s going through a divorce. He needs a long vacation.”
“I don’t think Mr. Hood is the one who needs a leave of absence,” the First Lady said. Her voice was clear and edged with anger. It quieted the room. “Mr. Fenwick, I have watched my husband being misled and misinformed for several weeks now. Mr. Hood looked into the situation at my personal request. His investigation has been methodical, and I believe his findings have merit.” She glared at Fenwick. “Or do you intend to call me a liar as well?”
Fenwick said nothing.
The president looked at his wife. Megan was standing straight and stoic at Hood’s side. There was nothing apologetic in her expression. The president looked tired, but Hood thought he also seemed sad. He could not tell whether it was because Megan had run an operation behind his back or because he felt he had let her down. The couple was silent. It was clearly an issue they would settle some other time, in private.
After a moment, the president’s eyes returned to Hood. The sadness remained. “Your concern is noted and appreciated,” the president said. “But I won’t jeopardize the nation’s interests to protect my own. Especially when you have no evidence that they’re at risk.”
“All I want is a few hours,” Hood said.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have a few hours,” the president replied.
For a moment, Megan looked as though she was going to hug her husband. She did not. She looked at Fenwick and then at the joint chiefs. “Thank you for hearing us out,” she said. “I’m sorry to have interrupted.” She turned and started toward the door.
Hood did not know what else to say. He would have to go back to the Cabinet Room and work with Herbert and Orlov. Try to get the proof the president needed and get it quickly.
He turned to follow the First Lady from the Situation Room. As he did, there was a gentle beep from somewhere in the room. A cell phone. The sound had come from the inside pocket of Fenwick’s suit.
He shouldn’t be able to get a signal in here, Hood thought. The walls of the Situation Room were lined with chips that generated random electrical impulses or impedence webs. The IWs were designed to block bugs from broadcasting to anyone on the White House grounds. They also blocked cell phone calls with one exception: transmissions relayed by the government’s Hephaestus satellite array.
Hood turned back as the NSA chief had slipped a hand into his jacket. Fenwick took out the phone and shut off the ringer.
Bingo.
If it got through IW security, it had to be a Hephaestus call. Highest security. Who wouldn’t Fenwick want to talk to right now?
Hood leaned over the NSA chief and pulled the phone from his hand. Fenwick reached for it, but Hood stepped away.
“What the hell are you doing?” Fenwick demanded. He pushed the chair back and rose. He walked toward Hood.
“I’m betting my career on a hunch,” Hood said. He flipped open the cover and answered the call. “Yes?”
“Who is this?” asked the caller.
“This is Jack Fenwick’s line at the NSA,” Hood said. He walked toward the president. “Who’s calling?”
“My name is David Battat,” said the clear voice on the other end.
Hood felt the world slide off his shoulders. He held the cell phone so the president could listen as well. Fenwick stopped beside them. The NSA head did not reach for the phone. He just stood there. Hood saw just where the weight of the world had shifted.
“Mr. Battat, this is Paul Hood of Op-Center,” said Hood.
“Paul Hood?” Battat said. “Why are you answering this line?”
“It’s a long story,” Hood said. “What is your situation?”
“A helluva lot better than Mr. Fenwick’s,” Battat said. “We just took down the Harpooner and recove
red his secure phone. This number was the first one that came up on the Harpooner’s instant-dial menu.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 4:41 A.M.
Paul Hood stepped to a corner of the room to finish speaking with Battat. It was important that he get all the information he could about the Harpooner and what had happened.
While Hood did that, President Lawrence stood. He glanced over at his wife, who was standing by the door. He gave her a little smile. Just a small one to show that he was okay and that she had done the right thing. Then Lawrence turned to Fenwick. The NSA chief was still standing beside him. His arms were stiff at his side and his expression was defiant. The other men remained seated around the table. Everyone was watching Lawrence and Fenwick.
“Why did the Harpooner have your direct number and the Hephaestus access code?” the president asked. There was a new confidence in his voice.
“I can’t answer that,” Fenwick said.
“Were you working with Iran to orchestrate a takeover of Azerbaijani oil deposits?” the president asked.
“I was not.”
“Were you working with anyone to organize a takeover of the Oval Office?” the president asked.
“No, sir,” Fenwick replied. “I’m as puzzled as you are.”
“Do you still believe that Mr. Hood is a liar?”
“I believe that he’s misinformed. I have no explanation for what is going on,” Fenwick said.
The president sat back down. “None at all.”
“No, Mr. President.”
The president looked across the table. “General Burg, I’m going to get the secretary of state and our UN ambassador working on this right away. How would you feel about coordinating a midlevel alert for the region?”
Burg looked at his colleagues in turn. No one voiced a protest. The general looked at the president. “Given the confusion about just who we should be fighting, I’m very comfortable with yellow status.”
The president nodded. He looked at his watch. “We’ll reconvene in the Oval Office at six-thirty. That will give me time to work with the press secretary to get something on the morning news shows. I want to be able to put people at ease about our troops and about the status of our oil supply.” He regarded vice president Cotten and Gable. “I’m going to ask the attorney general to look into the rest of this situation as quietly as possible. I want him to ascertain whether treasonable acts have been committed. Do any of you have any thoughts?”
There was something challenging in the president’s voice. Hood had just finished up with Battat and turned back to the table. He remained in the corner, however. Everyone else was still.
The vice president leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. He said nothing. Gable did not move. Fenwick’s deputy, Don Roedner, was staring at the conference table.
“No suggestions at all?” the president pressed.
The heavy silence lasted a moment longer. Then the vice president said, “There will not be an investigation.”
“Why not?” asked the president.
“Because you will have three letters of resignation on your desk by the end of the morning,” Cotten replied. “Mr. Fenwick‘s, Mr. Gable’s, and Mr. Roedner’s. In exchange for those resignations, there will be no charges, no prosecution, and no explanation other than that members of the administration had a difference of policy opinion.”
Fenwiclc’s forehead flushed. “Three letters, Mr. Vice President?”
“That’s correct, Mr. Fenwick,” Cotten replied. The vice president did not look at the NSA chief. “In exchange for complete amnesty.”
Hood did not miss the subtext. Nor, he was sure, did the president. The vice president was in on this, too. He was asking the others to take a fall for him—though not a big one. Quitting an administration, high-ranking officials often tumbled upward in the private sector.
The president shook his head. “I have here a group of administration officials who apparently conspired with an international terrorist to steal oil from one nation, give it to another, reap foreign policy benefits, and in the process steal the office of president of the United States. And you sit there anogantly declaring that these men will be given de facto amnesty. And that one of them, it appears, will remain in office, in line for the presidency.”
Cotten regarded Lawrence. “I do declare that, yes,” he said. “The alternative is an international incident in which the United States will be seen as having betrayed Azerbaijan. A series of investigations and trials that will ghost this administration and become its sole legacy. Plus a president who was unaware of what was going on among his closest advisers. A president who his own wife thought might be suffering from a mental or emotional breakdown. That will not boost public confidence in his abilities.”
“Everyone gets off,” the president said angrily. “I’m supposed to agree to that?”
“Everyone gets off,” the vice president repeated calmly.
“Mr. Vice President, sir?” General Burg said. “I just want to say if I had my weapon here, I would shoot you in the ass.”
“General Burg,” the vice president replied, “given the pitiful state of our military, I’m confident you’d miss.” He regarded the president. “There was never going to be a war. No one was going to shoot at anyone or be shot at. Peace would have been reached with Iran, relations would have been normalized, and Americans would have had a guaranteed fuel supply. Whatever one may think of the methods, this was all done for the good of the nation.”
“Any time laws are broken, it is not for the good of the nation,” the president said. “You endangered a small, industrious country trying to get its footing in a post-Soviet world. You sought to undo the will of the American electorate. And you betrayed my faith in you.”
Cotten rose. “I did none of those things, Mr. President,” he replied. “Otherwise, I would be resigning. I’ll see you all at the six-thirty meeting.”
“You will not be needed there,” the president said.
“Ah,” said the vice president. “You would prefer I go on the Today Show to discuss administration policy in the Caspian region.”
“No,” the president replied. “I would prefer that you draft your letter of resignation to submit with the others.”
The vice president shook his head. “I won’t do that.”
“You will,” the president replied. “And attribute your resignation to mental exhaustion. I won’t make you a martyr to an anticonstitutional fringe. Find some other line of work, Mr. Cotten.”
“Mr. President, you are pushing the wrong man,” Cotten warned.
“I don’t think so,” the president replied. His eyes and voice grew steely. “You’re correct, Mr. Cotten. I don’t want a national or international scandal. But I’ll suffer those before I leave a traitor in the line of succession to the office of president. Either you resign or, in exchange for that amnesty, I will urge Mr. Fenwick and his associates to tell the attorney general what they know about your involvement in this operation.”
Cotten was silent. Red and silent.
The president reached for the phone in front of him. He pushed a button. “Corporal Cain?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Please have an unarmed detail report to the Situation Room at once,” Lawrence told him. “There are some gentlemen who need to be escorted to their offices and then from the grounds.”
“Unarmed, sir?” Cain repeated.
“That’s right,” Lawrence said. “There won’t be any trouble.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Wait outside the door when you’re finished,” the president added. “The men will be joining you in just a moment.”
“Yes, sir.”
The president hung up. He regarded the four men. “One more thing. Information about your participation in these events must not leave this room. Amnesty will not be based on anything I intend to do for you. Pardoning you would be a sin. It will be based solely on
the absence of news.”
The men turned and walked toward the door.
Megan Lawrence stepped aside.
Hood’s eyes met hers. The First Lady was glowing with pride. They were obviously thinking the same thing.
She was the only Lawrence who would be stepping aside this day.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 12:53 P.M.
In most intelligence agencies it’s often difficult to tell night from day. That’s because conspiracy and espionage never rest, so the counterterrorists and spybusters also work around the clock. Most are usually fully staffed. The distinction is even less noticeable in the Russian Op-Center because the facility is below ground. There are no windows anywhere.
But General Orlov always knew when it was afternoon. He knew because that was when his devoted wife called. She always rang shortly after lunchtime to see how her Sergei’s sandwich was. She phoned even today, when she had not had time to prepare a bag lunch before he left.
Unfortunately, the call was brief. It often was. They usually had longer conversations when he was in space than they did at the Op-Center. Two minutes after Masha called, Orlov received a call from Odette. He told Masha he would have to call her back. She understood. Masha always understood.
Orlov switched lines. “Odette, how are you?” the general asked eagerly.
“I’m very well,” the woman replied. “We accomplished our mission.”
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.
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