Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

  Hopefully, though, it would not be necessary to explain anything to anyone. With surprise on her side, Odette might be able to catch the Harpooner relatively unprepared.

  Odette walked on slightly bent knees and tiptoed to the front door of the apartment. The hardwood floors creaked loudly underfoot. It was strange, Odette thought. It had never been necessary for her to be quiet here before. Until today, there had never been anyone but her in this bed. Not that she regretted that. Viktor had been all she ever wanted.

  Odette opened the door. Before leaving, she looked back at the sleeping American.

  The woman felt bad about lying to General Orlov. Though the coin of her profession was subterfuge and deceit, she had never lied to Orlov. Fortunately, this was a win-win situation for her. If she succeeded in bringing down the Harpooner, Orlov would be angry with her—but not very. And if she failed, she would not be around to hear Orlov complain.

  Odette stepped into the corridor and quietly shut the door behind her. If she blew this assignment, she would probably have to listen to Viktor complain. Listen for all eternity.

  She smiled. That, too, was a win situation.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 2:08 A.M.

  A stoic secret service agent opened the door to the Oval Office and admitted Paul Hood. The large, white door closed with a small click. The sound seemed very loud to Hood as he crossed the carpet toward the president’s desk. So did the sound of Hood’s heart. He had no way of knowing for certain whether Fenwick was a rogue figure or working as part of a team. Either way, convincing others about possible involvement in an international conspiracy of some kind was going to be extremely difficult.

  The mood in the room was hostile. Hood could feel that even before he saw the faces of the vice president, Fenwick, and Gable. None of the men looked back at him, and the president’s expression was severe. Mike Rodgers once said that when he first joined the military, he had a commanding officer with a very singular expression of disapproval. He looked at you as though he wanted to tear heads off and use them for punting practice.

  The president had that look.

  Hood quickly made his way between the armchairs to the president’s desk. The Washington Monument was visible through the windows behind the president. The tower was brightly moonlit in the flat, black night. Seeing it then gave Hood the flash of courage he needed.

  “I’m sorry to intrude, Mr. President, gentlemen,” Hood announced. “This couldn’t wait.”

  “Things never can wait with you, can they?” Fenwick asked. He glanced back at the green folder in his lap.

  A preemptive strike, Hood thought. The bastard was good. Hood turned 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 the NSA. Yet even having the exact time and location of the calls would 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.

  FORTY-FIVE

  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 micrometeoroid 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.

  FORTY-SIX

  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 counterterrorists 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 questi
on 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. Behind her was an array of cleaning carts. To her right was a Peg-Board with keys for all the rooms. A row of master keys was located on the bottom. These were given out to the cleaning staff each morning. Two keys remained.