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

by Clancy, Tom

  An innocent man would come over and say “Hello,” she told herself. The Harpooner might do that to throw off her guard. She had to strike first, whoever was in there.

  Her other concern was a question of confidence. She had been thinking about the reluctance she heard in General Orlov’s voice. Odette wondered what concerned him most. That something would happen to her or that the Harpooner might escape? Probably both. Though she tried to rev up an “I’ll show him” mentality, General Orlov’s lack of confidence did not boost her own.

  It doesn’t matter, she told herself. Focus on the goal and on nothing else. The mission was all that mattered. The target was just a few doors down.

  Odette and David Battat had agreed that she would start their spat. She was the one who had to open the door and go in. She should control the timing. The couple passed room 314. Odette was holding the key in her left hand. She still had the gun in her right hand, under the jacket, which was draped over her forearm. Battat was holding the switchblade at his side. He seemed to be somewhat more focused than he had been when he arrived. Odette was not surprised.

  She was, too.

  They passed room 312.

  Odette turned to Battat. “Why are you stopping?” she asked him. Odette made sure not to shout just so the Harpooner could hear. Her tone was normal, conversational.

  “What do you mean, ‘Why am I stopping?’” he asked right back.

  Odette moved ahead several steps. She stopped in front of room 310. Her heart was speeding. “Aren’t we going inside?”

  “Yes,” he replied impatiently.

  “That’s not our room,” Odette said.

  “Yes it is,” Battat said.

  “No,” Odette said. “This is our room.”

  “We’re in 312,” Battat said confidently.

  She put the key in the slot of 310. That was the signal for Battat to step over to the room. He walked over and stopped directly behind her. His right shoulder was practically touching the door.

  Odette’s fingers were damp with sweat. She could actually smell the brass of the key. She hesitated. This is what you’ve been waiting for, she reminded herself. An opportunity to prove herself and to make Viktor proud. She turned the key to the right. The bolt went with it. The door opened.

  “I told you this was our room,” she said to Battat. Odette swallowed hard. The words had caught in her throat and she did not want to show her fear. The Harpooner might hear it in her voice.

  With the door open a sliver, Odette withdrew the key. She slipped it in her pocket and used that moment to listen. The TV was off and the Harpooner was not in the shower. Odette was half hoping he had been in the bathroom, cornered. But she heard nothing. She opened the door a little more.

  There was a short, narrow hallway inside. It was cavedark and utterly still. They had assumed the Harpooner would be hiding in the room, but what if he were not? He could be out for a late breakfast. Or he might have left Baku. Perhaps he kept the room as a safe house in case he needed it.

  But what if he’s waiting for us? she thought then. And she answered her own question. Then we’ll have to handle the situation. Viktor used to say that nothing was guaranteed.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” Battat asked.

  The words startled her. Odette looked back at her companion. The American’s brow was pinched. He was obviously concerned. She realized that she was probably waiting too long to go in.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she said. She opened the door a little farther and reached in with her left hand. “I’m just looking for the light.”

  Odette pushed the door until it was halfway open. She could see the glowing red numbers of the alarm clock on the night table. There was a jagged line of white light in the center of the drapes. Its brilliance only made the rest of the room seem darker.

  Odette’s gun was still hidden under her jacket, still behind the half-closed door. She found the light switch with her left hand. She flicked it on. The hall light came on as did the lamps on the night tables. The walls and furniture brightened with a dull yellow orange glow.

  Odette did not breathe as she stepped into the hallway. The bathroom was to her right. She turned and looked in. There were toiletries on the counter beside the sink. The soap was opened.

  She looked at the bed. It had not been slept in, though the pillows had been moved around. She saw a suitcase on the luggage stand, but she did not see the Harpooner’s shoes. Maybe he was out.

  “Something’s wrong here,” Odette said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s not our bag on the luggage rack,” she replied. Battat stepped in behind her. He looked around. “So I was right,” he said. “This isn’t our room.”

  “Then why did the key work?” she asked.

  “Let’s go back downstairs and find out,” Battat urged. He was still looking around.

  “Maybe the bellman made a mistake and put someone else in here,” Odette suggested.

  Battat suddenly grabbed Odette’s left shoulder. He roughly shoved her into the bathroom and followed her in.

  Odette turned and glared at Battat. He put a finger to his lips and moved very close.

  “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  “He’s in there,” Battat said quietly.

  “Where?”

  “Behind the bed, on the floor,” Battat told her. “I saw his reflection in the brass headboard.”

  “Is he armed?” she asked.

  “I couldn’t tell,” Battat said. “I’m betting he is.” Odette put her jacket on the floor. There was no longer any reason to conceal the gun. Battat was standing a few steps in front of her, near the door. Just then she saw a small round mirror and extender arm attached to the wall to his right. She had an idea.

  “Hold this,” she whispered and handed Battat the gun. Then she walked around him, popped the mirror from its holder, and moved toward the door. Crouching, she carefully poked the mirror into the corridor. She angled it so that she could see under the bed.

  No one was there.

  “He’s gone,” she said quietly.

  Odette extended the mirror arm a little farther so she could see more of the room. She angled it slowly from side to side. There was no one in the corners, and she could not see a bulge behind the drapes.

  “He’s definitely not here,” she said.

  Battat squatted behind her and looked into the mirror. Odette wondered if the feverish man had really seen anyone or if he had been hallucinating.

  “Wait a second,” Battat said. “Move the mirror so we can see the head of the bed.”

  Odette did as he asked. The drapes were moving there. It looked as if they were being stirred by a gentle wind.

  “The window’s open,” Odette said.

  Battat rose. He entered the room cautiously and looked around. “Damn.”

  “What?” Odette asked as she stood.

  “There’s a rope under the drape,” he said and started toward it. “The bastard climbed—”

  Suddenly, Battat turned and hurried back into the bathroom.

  “Down!” he shouted and shoved Odette roughly to the floor. He dove down beside her, next to the fiberglass bathtub. Quickly, he pulled her jacket over their heads and lay beside her, his arm across her back.

  A moment later, the hotel room was lit by a yellow red flare. There was a whooshing sound as the air became superheated. The flare died after a moment, leaving a sickly sweet smell mixed with the stench of burning fabric and carpet. The room smoke detector was squealing.

  Odette whipped her jacket from them and knelt. “What happened?” she shouted.

  “There was a TIC on the desk!” Battat yelled.

  “A what?”

  “A TIC,” Battat said as he jumped to his feet. “Terrorist in a can. Come on—we’ve got to get out of here!”

  Battat helped Odette up. She grabbed her jacket and the two of them swung into the hallway. Battat shut the door and staggered over to room 312. He was o
bviously having difficulty staying on his feet.

  “What’s a terrorist in a can?” Odette asked.

  “Napalm with a benzene chaser,” Battat said. “It looks like shaving cream and doesn’t register on airport X-ray machines. All you have to do is twist the cap to set the timer, and blam.” The main fire alarm began to clang behind them. “Give me the master key,” he said as they reached 312.

  Odette handed it over.

  Battat opened the door. Smoke was already spilling through the door that connected the room to 310. Battat hurried past it and ran to the window. The heavy drapes were open. He edged toward the window, standing back just enough so that he could see out but not be seen from below. Odette stepped up behind him. Battat had to lean against the wall to keep from falling. They looked out at the empty parking lot.

  “There,” Battat said, pointing.

  Odette moved closer. She looked out.

  “Do you see him?” Battat asked. “In the white shirt, blue jeans, carrying a black backpack.”

  “I see him,” Odette replied.

  “That’s the man I saw in the room,” Battat said.

  So that’s the Harpooner, she thought. The monster cut an unimposing figure as he walked unhurriedly from the hotel. But his easygoing manner only made him seem even more noxious. People might be dying in the fire he set to cover his escape. Yet he did not care. Odette wished she could shoot him from here.

  “He’s probably going to keep moving slowly so he won’t attract attention,” Battat told her. He gave the gun back to her. He was panting, having trouble standing. “You’ve got enough time to catch up to him and take him out.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’d only slow you down,” he said.

  She hesitated. An hour ago, she had not wanted him to be part of this. Now she felt as if she was deserting him.

  “You’re wasting time,” Battat said. He gave her a gentle push and started toward the door. “Just go. I’ll get to the stairwell and make my way back to the embassy. I’ll see if I can do anything from there.”

  “All right,” she said, then turned and hurried toward the door.

  “He’ll be armed!” Battat yelled after her. “Don’t hesitate!”

  She acknowledged with a wave as she left the room. The hallway was filling with smoke. The few guests who had been in their rooms were filing into the hallway to see what was happening. Housekeeping staff and security personnel were beginning to arrive. They were helping everyone toward the stairwell.

  Odette told one of the security men that someone needed help in 312. Then she rushed ahead to the stairwell.

  In less than a minute, she was in the street. The parking lot was on the other side of the building. She ran toward it.

  The Harpooner was gone.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 3:13 A.M.

  Paul Hood returned to the Cabinet Room and shut the door. He took a calming breath. The room smelled of coffee. He was glad. It covered the stink of treason. Then he took out his Palm Pilot, looked up a number, and went to the phone to enter it. This was not something that Hood wanted to do. It was something he had to do. It was the only way he could think of to prevent what was effectively shaping up as a coup d’état.

  The phone was answered right after the second ring. “Hello?” said the voice on the other end.

  “Megan, it’s Paul Hood.”

  “Paul, where are you?” asked the First Lady. “I’ve been worried—”

  “I’m in the Cabinet Room,” he said. “Megan, listen. Fenwick is definitely involved in a conspiracy of some kind. My feeling is that he, Gable, and whoever else is in this have been trying to gaslight the president.”

  “Why would anyone want to make my husband think he’s lost his mind?” she asked.

  “Because they’ve also set in motion a confrontation with Iran and Russia in the Caspian Sea,” Hood told her. “If they can convince the president or the public that he’s not equipped to handle the showdown, he’ll have to resign. Then the new president will either escalate the war or, more likely, he’ll end it. That will win him points with the people and with Iran. Maybe then we’ll all divide up the oil wells that used to belong to Azerbaijan.”

  “Paul, that’s monstrous,” Megan said. “Is the vice president involved with this?”

  “Possibly,” Hood said.

  “And they expect to get away with it?”

  “Megan, they are very close to getting away with it,” Hood informed her. “The Caspian situation is revving up, and they’ve moved the strategy sessions from the Oval Office to the Situation Room. I don’t have security clearance to go down there.”

  “I’ll phone Michael on the private number and ask him to see you,” Megan told him.

  “That won’t be enough,” Hood said. “I need you to do something else.”

  Megan asked him what that was. Hood told her. “I’ll do it,” she said when he was finished. “Give me five minutes.”

  Hood thanked her and hung up.

  What Hood had proposed was a potentially dangerous tactic for him and for the First Lady. And under the best of circumstances, it was not going to be pleasant. But it was necessary.

  Hood looked around the room.

  This was not like rescuing his daughter. That had been instinctive. He had to act if she were to survive. There had been no choice.

  This was different.

  Hood tried to imagine the decisions that had been made in this room over the centuries. Decisions about war, about depressions, about human rights, about foreign policy. Every one of them had affected history in some way, large or small. But more important than that, whether they were right or wrong, all of them had required a commitment. Someone had to believe they were making the proper decision. They had to risk anything from a career or national security to the lives of millions on that belief.

  Hood was about to do that. He was about to do both, in fact. But there was a proverb that used to hang in the high school classroom where Hood’s father taught civics. It was appropriate now:

  “The first faults are theirs that commit them. The second theirs that permit them.”

  As Hood turned and left the Cabinet Room, he did not feel the weight of the decision he made. Nor did he feel the danger it represented.

  He felt only the privilege of being able to serve his country.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 11:15 A.M.

  It had been a long time since Maurice Charles had to make a sudden retreat from a safe site. It infuriated him to run from a place he had carefully prepared. But it infuriated him even more to run from anyone or anything. It did not even matter to him at the moment how someone had found out where he was. From their accents, the intruders were Russian and American. Perhaps Moscow and Washington had been tracking him without him knowing it. Perhaps he had slipped up somewhere. Or maybe one of his associates had made a mistake.

  But Charles did not believe the couple had been there by accident. For one thing, he had taken both of the keys to room 310 when he checked in. The front desk did not have a third key to give out. When the click of the bolt being opened woke him up, he knew something was not right. For another thing, Charles had watched the woman’s feet, listened to her speak as she came in. Everything about her entrance was tentative. If she truly thought this were her room, she would have strode in and turned on the light. Women were always eager to prove things when they believed they were correct.

  Yet, as angry as Charles was, he refused to give in to his rage. The immediate task was to cover his tracks so he could get away. That meant eliminating the couple who had come to his room. He had not considered calling the assassins he had used the night before. He did not want it to be known that he had run into trouble. That would be bad for his reputation and bad for business.

  He had gotten a good look at the couple’s feet and pants. That would be enough to identify them. He had his gun and his knife. They would not su
rvive the morning.

  Charles had walked halfway into the parking lot before turning around. If the couple were looking out a window to find him, he wanted them to see him. He wanted them to come rushing downstairs to stop him from getting away. That would make them easier to spot. It would also tell him whether or not they had backup. If they had called for help, cars or other personnel would converge on the parking lot within moments. If that did not happen, he could dispatch them and then get out of the city by train as he had planned.

  After giving the couple a chance to see him, Charles doubled back to the hotel. He entered by the side door, which led past a row of shops. There were fire sirens approaching the hotel but no police sirens. No other cars came speeding into the lot. That did not mean Charles was home free. But it did suggest that the man and woman had been acting without immediate backup near or on site. Losing himself in a crowd that was fleeing a fire should be easy. First, however, he had to finish his business with the intruders.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 3:17 A.M.

  During the administration of Harry Truman, the White House was virtually gutted and rebuilt due to the weakened condition of its centuries-old wooden beams and interior walls. The Trumans moved across the street to Blair House and, from 1948 to 1952, new foundations were laid and the decaying wooden struts were replaced by steel girders. A basement was also excavated, ostensibly to provide more storage space. In fact, it was created to provide safe areas for the president and members of his staff and family in the event of nuclear attack. Over the years, the basement was secretly expanded to include offices, command headquarters, medical facilities, surveillance posts, and recreational areas. It is now comprised of four levels that go down over two hundred feet.

  All four basement levels are only accessible by a pair of elevators. These are located in both the East and West Wings. The West Wing elevator is located a short distance west of the president’s private dining room, in a corner that is halfway between the Oval Office and the vice president’s office. The carriage is small and wood-paneled and holds six people comfortably. Access to the elevator is gained by thumbprint identification. There is a small green monitor to the right of the door for this purpose. Since the White House recreation areas are down there, all the members of the First Family have access to the elevator.