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

by Clancy, Tom

“She’s spent her life there,” Rodgers said. “And going back home, right before you leave somewhere—that’s rough.”

  “I know,” McCaskey said. “But she also isn’t a kid. We went through all this. She knew that moving here would be like anyone going to a new job, a new house in a new neighborhood, a new anything. There’s a lot you think you’re going to like about it. Then, like you said, after you make the commitment, you start to think about all the things it doesn’t have.”

  “You go through withdrawal,” Rodgers said.

  “You got it,” McCaskey replied. “That’s what Maria had been going through. Or at least, that’s what she was going through until four-thirty this morning, our time. She wakes me up with a call that goes something like, ‘Darrell, I may have made a mistake. I don’t know if I can give this up.’ ”

  “I’m sorry, Darrell,” Rodgers said.

  “Thanks. I appreciate that,” McCaskey said.

  Rodgers took a swallow of coffee. He was not certain whether this was a good time or a terrible time to broach the subject of Maria becoming a part of the new unit.

  Given the situation in Botswana, he decided he did not have a choice. He also thought of something that might appeal to McCaskey.

  “So what are you going to do if she does want to go back into the field?” Rodgers asked.

  “I don’t know,” McCaskey said. “I guess the question is: Where does she get that opportunity?” He leaned in closer again. “There was a rumor going around the clubhouse yesterday that you’re going to spearhead a new HUMINT operation. Is that true?”

  Rodgers nodded. Herbert must have slipped McCaskey the word. The intelligence chief hated keeping a brother at arms in the dark.

  McCaskey sat back. “Damn, Mike. I would have appreciated some kind of heads-up.”

  “You would have gotten that today, right now,” Rodgers said. “That’s why I asked to see you this morning. Christ, Paul just hit me with this new operation. ”

  McCaskey scowled.

  “As for Maria, I don’t know why Bob called her,” Rodgers said. “The new group is my operation, not his. And I won’t ask Maria to be involved with my team if it’ll make things tough for you.”

  Even as he said that, Rodgers knew he should not have. He might not have anyone else he could call on in Europe. However, there might be a solution.

  “I don’t know, Mike,” McCaskey admitted. “I love the woman. I always have. I gave Maria up once rather than worry about losing her in the field, if that makes any sense.”

  “It does,” Rodgers said.

  “But after talking to her this morning, I know she’s not going to be happy working as a nine-to-fiver again, even for us,” he said.

  “How ya gonna keep ’em down on the farm after they’ve seen Paree,” Rodgers said.

  “Something like that,” McCaskey replied.

  “Maybe she won’t have to,” Rodgers said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We might be able to work something out where Maria is in the field part-time,” Rodgers said. “And when she does go out, we wouldn’t send her into red zones.”

  Red zones were high-risk areas, such as going behind the lines in combat situations. A white zone action was the infiltration of an adversary’s nonmilitary group. A green zone operation was the kind Maria was doing now, going into an allied area for information.

  “That could work,” McCaskey said. “Hell, I don’t want to try to control Maria.”

  “As if you could,” Rodgers said.

  “Exactly. I just don’t want her dead.”

  Rodgers glanced at the wall clock.

  “Listen, Darrell, we can talk about this later,” Rodgers said. “Having Maria work with me is not why I wanted to see you. I asked you here to tell you about the HUMINT group because I may need help from some of your people in D.C. and abroad.”

  “Then why did you want to meet at this place instead of the office?” McCaskey asked.

  “Because two other people are joining us,” Rodgers said. “I want to see how they conduct themselves in public.”

  “You mean how well they blend in,” McCaskey said.

  “Exactly,” Rodgers said.

  Just then, as if on cue, Rodgers saw Aideen Marley enter the shop. Actually, the first thing he saw was the young woman’s brilliant red hair. It was longer than he remembered, framing a face that was not as full as he remembered. She was wearing a smart fawn-colored pantsuit and seemed taller somehow. Maybe working in the corridors of power had changed her. Either it gave a person new self-confidence, or it crushed them. He liked the fact that working as a political consultant clearly had enhanced the thirty-six-year-old’s poise.

  Rodgers waved to her, and both men stood. Aideen weaved through the crowd. The smile she wore was genuine. That, too, was a rarity in Washington.

  When Aideen arrived, she gave the general a warm hug. “How are you?” she asked.

  “Not bad,” Rodgers said. “You look terrific.”

  “Thanks,” she said. She turned to McCaskey and offered her hand. “I hear you got married. Congratulations. Maria is a great, great lady.”

  “That she is,” McCaskey said.

  Aideen had worked closely with Maria and McCaskey averting a new, wide-ranging Spanish civil war.

  McCaskey asked Aideen if he could get anything for her. She asked if he would mind getting a regular decaf and a croissant. He took one of his espressos with him and went back to the counter.

  Rodgers regarded Aideen. “Decaf?” he remarked.

  “I had three cups of coffee before I left home and another on the way,” she said as she slid onto a stool. She put her shoulder bag on the floor, between her feet. “I get up and do most of my work when it’s still dark out. Better for the concentration. I research and write my Moore-Cook Journal articles when my brain is still fresh, then cram for the day’s meetings.”

  The Moore-Cook Journal was a quarterly about the impact of international affairs on domestic policy. It was published by a small, conservative isolationist think tank and was widely read in the intelligence industry.

  “How’s the consulting work going?” Rodgers asked.

  “It’s long hours, okay money, and crappy health coverage,” she said. “But I like seeing new faces each day, and I love the learning curve. The trick is knowing things other people don’t, then scaring them into hiring you.”

  “Information insurance,” Rodgers said.

  “Something like that,” Aideen replied. “It would be nice to have a steady gig again, but I got out of line when I left Op-Center. I don’t want to start over somewhere else.”

  There was a hint of bitterness in her voice. After the assassination of her mentor, Martha Mackall, Aideen needed time off—more than Op-Center could afford to give her.

  Aideen went on quickly. “I was thinking on the way over, we haven’t seen each other in over a year. How are you?”

  “Okay,” he said. “I assume you heard about the trouble in Kashmir.”

  The woman nodded once. “I was sorry to hear about that. How’s Colonel August?”

  “He’s fine,” Rodgers said. “That mission was my call, my black mark. Besides, he’s always been able to look ahead.”

  “While you look back,” she said.

  “What can I say? I’m a history buff,” he said.

  “You can say that you apply what you learn to the future,” Aideen answered. “Otherwise, what’s the point of learning it?”

  “I agree.”

  “What about Paul and Bob?” Aideen asked.

  She is good at this, Rodgers thought. Aideen did not let a sore subject sit. She got in, made her point, and kept things moving.

  “Paul and Bob are the same,” Rodgers told her. “I suppose you heard that Ann Farris is no longer at Op-Center.”

  “Yes. I’m hoping she left due to natural causes,” Aideen said. That was a euphemism for attrition or a change to a better job. What she was really saying was that s
he hoped Ann had left for professional reasons and not because of her relationship with Paul.

  “It was not exactly that,” Rodgers told her. “There were budget cuts. That’s how I lost Striker, too.”

  “Not just the personnel? You mean the group?” she asked.

  Rodgers nodded.

  That surprised the woman. Obviously, there had not been time for that one to hit the Washington grapevine.

  “Mike, I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “It’s okay. It was a kick in the pants,” he admitted, “but we move on. Which is one of the reasons I asked you to come down here today.”

  McCaskey returned with Aideen’s decaf. She thanked him without taking her eyes off Rodgers.

  “I’m putting together a new group,” he said quietly. “Very low profile, doing the same kind of work you did with Maria. I was wondering if you’d consider being part of it.”

  She looked from Rodgers to McCaskey. “Will Maria be working with us?” she asked.

  “We don’t know yet,” Rodgers said.

  “I do,” McCaskey replied. “When Mike asks that question, Maria won’t hesitate. Not like she did when I popped mine.”

  “We haven’t decided if Mike is even going to ask that question,” Rodgers clarified.

  Before they could discuss the team further, David Battat entered the café. Rodgers recognized him from his file photo and motioned him over. The general did not know what to expect from the man. He only knew what he had read in the dossier, that Battat had been a CIA liaison with the Mujahideen guerrilla fighters in Afghanistan. He worked his way up to running a field office in New York. He was sent back in the field when one of his operatives, Annabelle Hampton, helped the terrorists who attacked the United Nations Security Council. Stationed in Baku, Azerbaijan, he had recently worked with Op-Center to prevent war in the Caspian Sea.

  The former CIA agent was short and scrappy, with none of the boot camp polish to which Rodgers was accustomed. But the general was not dealing with the military any longer. He felt like South Carolina’s Edward Rutledge and the other Southern delegates to the Continental Congress must have felt when they first met their Yankee counterparts. No veneer, no respect for class or finery. Yet Rodgers reminded himself that they all managed to work together to gain American independence.

  Battat reached the table. He was wearing a New York University sweatshirt and had the New York Times under his arm. He carried nothing else. Rodgers liked a man who traveled light.

  Battat brushed back his short, thinning black hair. He introduced himself to Rodgers and McCaskey.

  Rodgers introduced Aideen. Battat’s heavy eyebrows rose behind his sunglasses.

  “You must be the Aideen Marley who writes for the MCJ,” Battat said.

  “That’s me,” she said.

  “I read your article on the impact of media hysteria on civic antiterrorist preparedness,” Battat said. “We’ll have to discuss it.”

  “You don’t agree with my findings?” she asked.

  “I do, as far as they go,” he said. He pulled a stool underneath him and sat down. “You can’t anticipate and preempt assaults. All you do is panic people, which can be worse than an attack itself. Hell, it is an attack itself.”

  “A mock attack,” she said.

  “Psychological assaults are not pretend assaults,” Battat replied.

  “No, but they are easier to defend against,” she suggested. “Education always goes down harder than ignorance.”

  “Education is totally beside the point,” Battat said dismissively. “Fear is the key. A dictator has to be afraid that he will lose his small kingdom if he attempts to expand it. Khrushchev didn’t pull his missiles from Cuba because he suddenly thought, ‘Hey, wait a minute! What am I doing?’ ” Battat said. “He was scared of mutual assured destruction. So forget that. You also can’t just manage crises after the fact, which is what Aideen’s article really suggests.”

  “What’s your solution?” Aideen asked.

  Rodgers was enjoying this. The great thing about pundits is that they were always right and wrong. There was no universal solution. But the debates were always fascinating.

  “My solution is an aggressive offense,” Battat replied. “An enemy hits a building, you knock out a city block. They hit a city block, you wipe out an entire town or city. They hit a city, you turn the country to landfill.”

  “What’s wrong with the legal system handling the aftermath of an attack?” Aideen asked.

  “Because that gives them a podium from which to spout their BS,” Battat replied. “Who needs that?”

  “It also lets people know that they are twisted individuals who need to be watched,” Aideen said.

  “You know what?” Battat replied. “TV is something you watch. I prefer our enemies dead.”

  “We will have to discuss this,” Aideen said.

  There was an edge in Aideen’s voice. But again, the woman had been savvy enough to table the discussion before it became overly emotional. As for Battat, he sounded like any passionate Washingtonian with an opinion. That would not make him stand out. Just the opposite in fact. These two looked and sounded like ordinary citizens.

  “David, can I get you anything?” McCaskey asked. “I mean, apart from a tactical nuclear weapon?”

  “I’m good,” Battat said. “They gave out cookies on the plane.” He looked at Rodgers. “How have you been?”

  “I’m alive,” Rodgers replied.

  “I read about what happened overseas,” Battat said. “You did us proud. Americans and everyone in the business.”

  “Thanks,” Rodgers said. “I was just telling Ms. Marley that because of what happened, we’ve been forced to make a few changes.”

  “Nothing the unappreciative, buck-passing bureaucrats do surprises me,” Battat said. “How can I help?”

  “We’re putting together a different kind of sports team, and I’m sounding out possible players.”

  “I’m in,” Battat told him.

  “That’s it?” McCaskey said.

  “That’s it,” Battat replied.

  “Great,” Rodgers said. He looked at Aideen. “What about you?”

  She hesitated before replying. “I’m very interested,” she said. “I’d like to discuss this some more.”

  “Sure,” Rodgers said.

  Rodgers did not know whether her hesitation was bitterness toward Op-Center, a desire to run her own life, or maybe even impatience with Battat. Possibly a little of everything.

  “What I suggest is that we go back to the office and have a real chat,” Rodgers said.

  Aideen nodded.

  “Question,” Battat said. “When were you thinking of fielding this team? Just so I can work things out schedule-wise.”

  Rodgers finished his coffee and looked at his watch. He replied, “In about six hours.”

  SIXTEEN

  Washington, D.C. Thursday, 8:12 A.M.

  The list of people who Bob Herbert trusted was short. The list of people he trusted absolutely was shorter still.

  Edgar Kline was never on the very short list. Now, Herbert was not sure he was on the short list. Kline also had self-interests to protect. The well-being of the Vatican and its inner circle was his top priority. Herbert understood and respected that. But Herbert also had interests to look after. That was why he called one of his freelancers, April Wright.

  April was a professional watcher, one of the hundreds who walked the streets of the nation’s capital every day. Some were hired by American agencies to spy on rival agencies. Others were hired by Americans to spy on foreigners and vice versa. They were dressed as delivery people, tourists, souvenir salesmen, or joggers. A few watchers worked in teams and pretended to be TV reporters or college kids making a student film. Some carried handbags that contained changes of clothes. If the watchers had to watch an area with a security camera, they did not want to stay in the same outfit all day.

  April used to be an actress. She worked mostly i
n regional theater, so her face was not well known. She had been a close friend of Herbert’s wife. Now the woman was married to a pilot and had a young daughter. During the course of a day, she went from posing as a nanny to being a mother out for a walk to being a homeless woman with a child. In all of her disguises, she carried a digital camera. When she was “homeless,” she kept it hidden in the bottom of a brown paper bag. Whenever she needed to take a picture, she took a drink. April was good at what she did, and she loved it. It was also a secret only Herbert shared. April was only available when her husband was out of town.

  Herbert asked April to keep an eye on the Watergate. He wanted to know where Kline went and who came to see him. She signed in at ten P.M. then came downstairs in her nanny guise and found a spot near the house phones. She rocked her baby until two A.M. and then became homeless, watching Kline’s window from the outside. Shortly after dawn, she was an early-rising mom out for a few turns around the lobby. She always made sure she was near the phone when anyone used it. If Kline had left the hotel, she would have followed him. The driver that had brought her there waited for that purpose.

  Herbert had arranged for Kline to come to Op-Center at eight A.M. and brief Hood. At two A.M., April made an interim report. At seven forty-five, she made her final report. Herbert thanked her and told her to go home. In the meantime, he had asked Matt Stoll’s computer group to check the flights from Spain to Botswana. There was something he needed to know.

  Kline arrived in a taxi. Herbert greeted his old friend at the main level and took him directly to Hood’s office. Kline sat in the armchair in front of Hood’s desk. Herbert parked his wheelchair inside the door. Hood had also asked his political liaison, Ron Plummer, to attend the meeting. The former CIA intelligence analyst for Western Europe arrived just a minute after Herbert. He shut the door and leaned against it, crossing his arms tightly. Plummer was a short man with thinning brown hair and wide eyes. He wore thick, black-framed glasses atop a large, hooked nose. He was an intensely focused man, which was fortunate. His work on the delicate situation in Kashmir had been the key to keeping it from exploding.

  Herbert asked how Kline’s evening had gone. The Vatican security officer said that it went well. He had met with Cardinal Zavala before Mass this morning. Kline said that when he was finished here, he was going directly to New York to meet with Cardinal Murrieta.