by Tom Clancy
FOUR
Baku, Azerbaijan
Monday, 2:47 A.M.
David Battat awoke slowly.
The sea air was chilly and becoming raw. David was lying on his belly, his face turned to the reeds in front of the water. There was cool moisture on his cheeks, condensation from the Caspian.
He tried to move, but his head felt as if it were made of concrete. His throat was raw, and his neck hurt. He touched it gently and winced. The skin was bruised and extremely sore. His camera was gone. The CIA team back in Moscow wouldn’t be able to study the photographs he took to see who else might have been on the boat, or calculate how much weight it was carrying by where the waterline reached. Artillery and missiles weighed a lot more than explosives, currency, or drugs.
Battat tried to push himself off the ground. As he did, he felt as though a spike had been hammered through the back of his neck. He dropped, waited a few seconds, then tried again even more slowly. He managed to get his knees under him, then sat looking out across the dark water.
The Rachel was gone. He’d blown this big time. Like it or not, he’d have to let Moscow know as soon as possible.
Battat’s head throbbed, and he lowered himself back to the ground. He rested on his forearms, placed his forehead on the cool earth, and tried to get a handle on the pain. He also tried to make sense of what had happened.
Why was he still alive? Battat wondered. The Harpooner had never let anyone live. Why him?
Then it occurred to him that maybe he went down before the Harpooner even arrived. Maybe some water-front thug had happened by, saw his camera and backpack, and decided to steal them. Battat couldn’t decide which was worse: letting his target sneak up on him or being mugged. Not that it mattered. They were both bad.
The operative took a long breath, then rose slowly, first to his knees again and then to his feet. He stood unsteadily as his head pounded. He looked around for his backpack. That was gone, too. No flashlight, no chance to look around for footprints or other clues.
He looked at his watch. His wrist was trembling, and he used his free hand to steady it. It would be dawn in less than three hours. Fishermen would be setting out soon, and Battat didn’t want to be seen here. Just in case he wasn’t meant to survive, he didn’t want anyone to know that he had. He walked slowly from the shore, his head drumming. Each swallow was painful, and the collar of his turtleneck chafed his bruised neck.
But the worst pain was none of those.
The worst pain was the knowledge that he’d failed.
FIVE
Washington, D.C.
Sunday, 8:00 P.M.
As he entered the White House through the East Appointment Gate, Paul Hood remembered the first time he brought his children here. Hood had come to Washington for a conference of mayors. Harleigh was eight at the time, and Alexander was six. Alexander was not impressed by the imposing G. P. A. Healy painting of Abraham Lincoln or the magnificent Blue Room chairs bought by James Monroe or even the secret service officers. Alexander had seen paintings and chairs and police officers in Los Angeles. The spectacular chandelier in the State Dining Room was barely worth an upward glance, and the Rose Garden was just grass and flowers. But as they crossed the lawn toward E Street, the young boy finally saw something that impressed him.
Horse chestnuts.
The dark green chestnuts growing from the stout trees resembled nothing so much as little floating mines with Herz horns projecting from all sides. Alexander was convinced that they were little bombs to keep prowlers out. They’d bump their heads, and the chestnuts would explode. Alexander’s father played along with the idea, even snatching a few of the chestnuts — carefully, of course — so they could plant them in the ground back at home. Harleigh finally busted her dad by stepping on one of the newly planted chestnuts and failing to blow up.
Sharon had never approved of the deception. She felt that it encouraged militarism. Hood felt that it was just a boy’s imagination at work, nothing more.
It was rare that Paul Hood came to the White House without thinking of the horse chestnut trees. Tonight was no different, except that for the first time in years, Hood had the strong desire to go out back and pluck a few. Bring them to his son as a token, a memory of a good time shared. Besides, walking around the grounds would have been preferable to what he was doing.
He had dressed in his tuxedo, driven to the White House, and presented his calligraphic invitation at the East Appointment Gate. A junior secret service agent met Hood there and escorted him to the Red Room, which adjoined the State Dining Room. The president and First Lady were still in the Blue Room, which was the next room over. Though no one said so, the smaller Red Room — typically used for entertaining by the first ladies — was for the B-level guests.
Hood recognized but did not really know many of the people who were there. He knew some of them from conferences, some from briefings, and many from other dinners he attended here. The White House had two hundred fifty state dinners every year, and he was invited to at least fifteen of those. His background in Los Angeles government — which really meant knowing movie stars — finance, and espionage made him an ideal dinner guest. He could talk to generals, world leaders, diplomats, reporters, senators, and their spouses, informing and entertaining them and also not offending them. That was important.
Sharon usually came with him to those dinners. Being in the health-food business, she was generally unhappy with the fare, though she always loved the settings, which were from different administrations, different centuries. When Sharon couldn’t make it, Op-Center’s press liaison Ann Farris went with Hood. She liked any food that was put in front of her and, unlike Sharon, enjoyed talking to whoever she was seated with.
This was the first time Hood had come stag. Regardless of how the White House might try to position it, Hood did not consider Mala Chatterjee as his date. The UN secretary-general was also coming alone and was assigned a seat at Hood’s table, directly to his left.
Hood opened the door and looked into the long, chandelier-lit dining room. Fourteen round tables had been brought into the dining room. Each one was set for ten people. Hood’s invitation had said that he was seated at table two, near the center of the room. That was good. He was rarely seated so close to the president. If things got tense between him and Chatterjee, Hood would be able to exchange knowing glances with the First Lady. Megan Lawrence had been raised in Santa Barbara, California. She had spent time with Hood when he was mayor of Los Angeles, and they got to know each other quite well. She was a smart, classy lady with a dry sense of humor.
While senior staff members watched, liveried White House waitstaff hurried around, making last-minute adjustments to the rose centerpieces. They were dressed in black jackets and were multiethnic, which was to be expected at an affair of this kind.
The White House selected from a large pool of security-cleared hourly employees. And though no one liked to admit it, the composition of the staff was determined by the nature of the dinner. The young and attractive personnel were filling crystal water glasses and making sure the flatware was spaced exactly alike from setting to setting.
Straight ahead was the towering 1869 portrait of Abraham Lincoln that hadn’t impressed Alexander. It was the only painting in the dining room. Directly across from him, inscribed on the mantel, was a passage written by John Adams to his wife Abigail before they moved into the newly completed executive mansion. Franklin Roosevelt had read the lines and liked them so much that they became the official White House prayer. The inscription read:
I pray Heaven to bestow the best of blessings on this house and all that shall hereafter inhabit it. May none but honest and wise men ever rule under this roof.
Sorry, Mr. Adams, Hood thought. We managed to blow that one.
One of the senior attendants walked over. Dressed in white trousers and a white waistcoat with gold braid, he politely but insistently shut the door. Hood stepped back into the Red Room. It had grown noisier a
nd more crowded as people began filing in from the Blue Room. He couldn’t imagine what it was like in here before air-conditioning.
Hood happened to be facing the door to the Blue Room as Mala Chatterjee entered. She was on the arm of the president, who was followed by the First Lady and two delegates. The vice president and Mrs. Cotten came in next followed by California Senator Barbara Fox. Hood knew Fox well. She looked uncharacteristically confused. Hood didn’t get to ask why. At almost exactly that moment, the door to the State Dining Room opened. There was no more rushing around inside the hall. The twenty members of the waitstaff were lined up along the northwest wall, while attendants stood in a row by the door to show guests to their tables.
Hood made no effort to link up with Chatterjee. She was an intense woman, and she seemed caught up in her conversation with the president. He turned and went back into the dining hall.
Hood watched as the glitterati entered beneath the golden light of the chandelier. There was something almost ghostly about the procession: people moving slowly, stiffly dignified, and without much expression; voices low and hollow in the echoing chamber, with only occasional polite laughter; chairs soundlessly lifted and moved by attendants so they didn’t drag on the hardwood floor; and a sense that this scene had been repeated over and over throughout the years, throughout the centuries, with the same people: those who had power, those who wanted it, and people like Hood who were the buffers between them.
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 no
rth 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 those 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.