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

by Clancy, Tom

  “Paul, thanks for coming,” the president said, extending his hand.

  “My pleasure,” Hood replied diplomatically. It was not as if he had a choice. He turned to Dan Debenport. “Good morning, Senator.”

  “Paul,” the senator replied.

  Debenport was a slope-shouldered man of average build. He had thinning straw-colored hair and a quick smile. He was not smiling now.

  The president gestured to a chair. Hood sat. The president returned to the edge of his desk. Debenport remained standing.

  “Please tell Mr. McCaskey it was a hell of a piece of detective work, finding that wound under William Wilson’s tongue,” the president said.

  “I will, and thank you, sir.”

  “I second that, Paul,” Debenport said. “Are there any new developments?”

  “Off the record?” Hood asked. He was tempted to ask Debenport if he and the CIOC were impressed enough to reinstate the budget cuts. But he had a politician’s sense that there was another reason he was here.

  “Everything we say here now is off the record,” the president said.

  “Well, we did a sketchy profile of the killing scenarios,” Hood said. “There is a very sketchy fit with Admiral Kenneth Link. Darrell is talking to him now.”

  “An ambush interview?” Debenport asked.

  “More or less,” Hood said. “We may not have a lot of time on this, and Darrell did not want to be stonewalled.”

  “Good thinking,” the president said.

  That made two compliments back to back. Hood was convinced that the president wanted something.

  “Going to talk to Link is a very encouraging development,” Debenport said. “Is there any suggestion that Senator Orr might have been involved?”

  “Senator, we’re not sure whether there was anything for Donald Orr to be involved with.”

  “You probably need to find that out,” Debenport replied.

  That was unexpected. It was also a potential violation of district privacy statutes. “If it becomes necessary, and if Op-Center has the manpower to spare, we will,” Hood told him.

  “That’s just the point,” Debenport said. “It is necessary to expand the investigation.”

  “On what grounds?” Hood asked. He did not like where this was headed. “Do you have additional information?”

  “Not as such,” Debenport replied.

  “Then—I’m confused.”

  Debenport paced for a moment before continuing. “Don Orr announced this morning that he will be running for president on the United States First Party ticket. Did you hear any of the senator’s speech?”

  “No,” Hood answered.

  “Don Orr intends to promote an extreme form of isolationism,” Debenport went on. “It may sound appealing to voters, but it will be terribly destructive.”

  “The United States cannot disentangle itself from the global economy and international resources,” the president said. “Even if we wanted to replace oil with nuclear or solar power and make all our computer and automobile components stateside, the tooling up period would take years.”

  “It would also be extremely expensive,” Debenport added. “Union workers and factories are not inexpensive.”

  “All right,” Hood said. “Senator Orr is misguided. I’m still not clear what justification Op-Center has to involve him.”

  “Paul, the senator is not only misguided, he is dangerous,” Debenport said. “Voters, God bless them, tend to respond positively to protectionist ideas, however unworkable they are.”

  “That’s their prerogative, God bless ’em,” Hood pointed out. “Using a legitimate investigation to fling mud is also dangerous.”

  “Well, there you get into the question of rights versus responsibility,” Debenport replied. “Consider the judge who overrules a jury that has been manipulated by a skilled attorney. A skilled politician can do the same thing. He can sell a catastrophic agenda. We need to take dramatic steps to undermine a seditious platform.”

  “What’s wrong with debates?”

  “You were in politics,” Debenport said. “It’s very difficult to fight someone who is selling feel-good tonics in a red-white-and-blue package. It usurps patriotism and unplugs the brain by appealing to the soul.”

  “Look, Paul,” the president said. “We don’t think the United States First Party has a chance of winning this election. But we believe that Senator Orr can rally the unions, the unemployed, and a chunk of the middle class and take twenty-five to thirty percent of the vote. Neither I nor the vice president is running. That means whoever wins will be a new president and quite possibly a minority. They will also have the senator stuck in their side, pushing his policies.”

  “Will you be running, Senator?” Hood asked.

  “I have not yet made that decision,” Debenport replied.

  Anything that was not a firm no meant yes, and even those were subject to revocation.

  Hood shook his head. “Senator, Mr. President—you’re working hard to convince me that something wrong is right. What if I don’t agree?”

  “Then we get someone who does agree,” Debenport replied flatly. “Nothing personal, Paul.”

  “Oddly enough, I believe you,” Hood said.

  “Also, we strongly disagree that what we are asking is wrong,” the president told him. “Orr is the one who is being immoral. He is using the flag for a power grab. We are trying to prevent him from dismantling a successful national and international economic balance. You know me, Paul. Whoever wins, I will be going back to American Sense. I would not be involved in this if I did not believe in it.”

  American Sense was a Washington-based think tank the president had founded between his two terms. The nonpartisan organization was a well-respected source of geopolitical expertise.

  “Answer this, Senator,” Hood said. “Did the CIOC downsize Op-Center so we would be more inclined to take this assignment?”

  “Do you believe that?” Debenport asked. “Because if you do, nothing I say will change your mind.”

  Hood laughed. “That’s an old ploy, Senator, avoiding a question by suggesting it’s out of line.”

  “There was a confluence of events,” Debenport replied. “This was one way the momentum could turn.”

  “I guess it’s better to be an opportunist than a conspirator,” Hood said.

  “Paul, that’s getting personal,” the president warned. “Senator Debenport has already said that he does not want to cause you distress. There’s a proposal on the table. Either you accept it or reject it. There are no hard feelings either way.”

  “You mean, sir, I could go work for your think tank?”

  “You would be an asset.”

  “Think of this another way, Paul,” the senator said. “If this undertaking is a success, the new president might consider you for a different post. An ambassadorship, perhaps.”

  That should not have been unexpected. Embassies were political coin, the medium for payback. They were the ultimate pedestal for a bureaucrat, and Hood was surely that. Still, when he heard the proposal—the hypothetical phrasing was simply the language of barter—everything changed. Against Hood’s will, his indignation deflated. He no longer viewed cooperation as capitulation. It was part of the job.

  It was business.

  “Let me talk to Darrell when he gets back,” Hood said. His voice was low and conciliatory. “I’ll see what he found out and where he thinks this can go. Then I’ll call you, S enator.”

  “It sounds as if we have an understanding,” Debenport said hopefully.

  Hood did not want to say yes. “I understand,” he replied.

  “We can accept that for now,” the president interjected. “When do you expect to hear from him?”

  “I’ll call him on the drive back. If he is finished with the interview, I will call the senator immediately.”

  “Sounds good,” the president said. He offered his hand to Hood. “Paul, I know this is not easy. But I believe we all
want the same thing. A prosperous and secure United States of America.”

  “We do,” Hood agreed. He wanted to add, With the Bill of Rights intact. But he did not. And he knew, then, that he had agreed to help them.

  Hood left the Oval Office in something of a daze. Debenport was right. The men did have an understanding. Not that this plan was perfect or legal, only that it would go forward. Maybe it would move by inches at first, but it would proceed because there was no clearly defined ethic.

  In an ideal world, men would fight ideas with other ideas, Hood told himself. But this was far from a perfect world. Every weapon in the sociopolitical arsenal had to be used.

  Including rationalization? Hood asked himself.

  Is that what this was?

  On one level, what the senator and the president had asked him to do was wrong. They wanted him to broaden a legitimate but still very young investigation. They wanted him to pepper it with innuendo, to create gossip and not justice. Yet on another level, while their reasons were political, their argument was not wrong. It did not matter whether Donald Orr’s vision was heartfelt or manipulative. It was impractical at best, dangerous at worst.

  Hood reached his car. It was hot from sitting in the sun. In a way that was fitting. He had just made a pact with the devil.

  Hood had been seduced intellectually and professionally. Though he hated himself for succumbing, he had to be honest: he was not surprised. Hood had felt distant from Op-Center, from friends, from his family for so long that it was nice to be plugged into something.

  And there was something else, something the one-time golden boy mayor of Los Angeles did not like to admit. Idealism was great in theory but unwieldy in practice. In the end, Hood was like the world itself: a compromise; a surface of attractive, sun-hungry green and inviting blue concealing a hot, muddy interior; an imperfect paradox.

  Hood turned on the car, cranked up the air-conditioning, and set the secure cell phone in its dashboard holder. He slipped on the headset and autodialed Darrell McCaskey’s number. As he pulled from the parking area, Hood did one thing more.

  He prayed that McCaskey found just one reason to continue the investigation.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 10:44 A.M.

  “How did it go, Darrell?”

  After punching in the number, Hood grabbed a can of Coke from a cooler under the glove compartment. He always kept one there for emergencies, beside an ice pack he replaced each morning. The caffeine helped him focus. Once in a while he also reached for the ice pack. That was for meetings that ran too long, got too loud, and went nowhere. Presidential meetings were invariably very direct.

  “The interview went all right,” McCaskey said. “Mike was there, which was rough. He is not happy.”

  “No one is,” Hood said. He could not concern himself with Mike Rodgers right now. “What about Link?”

  “I have to say, Paul, the admiral was pretty forthcoming. The nutshell: Link did not like William Wilson and does not care that he’s gone.”

  “Not a surprise but also not damning,” Hood said. He took a long swallow of Coke. Motives could be elusive and misleading. He wanted to stick to the mechanics of the assassination itself. “Is there any evidence that Link has the assets to carry off these kinds of missions?”

  “Evidence? No. Potential? Yes. Link has two former Company people on staff. One is a guy named Eric Stone, who is running the convention. He was Link’s assistant and supposedly is a very efficient organizer. The other individual with intelligence credentials is the senator’s executive assistant, Kendra Peterson. It turns out Kendra had medical training in the Marines.”

  “That’s not in her file, is it?” Hood said. His head was still in the Oval Office, on the decision he had to make. Dossier data was swimming, anchorless, in his memory. He took another hit of Coke.

  “No, it isn’t,” McCaskey said. “Kendra spent several months working in health care but left because of tendonitis in her hands. Presumably, the affliction was temporary. If a disability had been noted in Kendra’s record, it might have impacted her career in the military and afterward. The staff sergeant probably let her transfer without remarking on what was a very brief tenure.”

  “Or her medical experiences may have been deleted more recently by a really efficient organizer who had access to them,” Hood pointed out.

  “It’s possible. The point is, one of the first skills Kendra would have learned over there was how to give an injection,” McCaskey said.

  “I’ll have Matt Stoll run a comparison on images captured by the security camera and at this morning’s press conference,” Hood said. “That may tell us if Ms. Peterson goes on the suspect list. What was your impression of Link himself?”

  “He’s very confident and a bit of a bully,” McCaskey said. “He also made it clear that he feels extremely inconvenienced by our investigation. It’s difficult to tell whether he’s guilty or whether he just resents the hell out of our probe.”

  “Or he may just have it in for Op-Center,” Hood said. The NSA and the NCMC had experienced a few run-ins over the years, including the exposure of former operative Ron Friday as a double agent. “If you had to guess, which is it?”

  “That’s tough to say, Paul. Link definitely views the investigation as politically motivated,” McCaskey said. “He thinks Op-Center is using it to try to roll back the budget cuts. Truth is, I think we’re going to hear a lot of that as long as we’re involved in the Wilson killing.”

  “When have we ever worried about what people think?” Hood asked. It was ironic, though, Hood thought. Link could end up being right for the wrong reasons. “I’m going to get Matt Stoll working on that image comparison. What are the codes for the hotel image files?”

  “WW-1 and RL-1,” McCaskey replied. “I’m going to call Bob Herbert and pick his brain, then pop over to the British embassy. I rang George Daily. He’s setting up a conference call with their security chief here. He was going to see if the Brits have anything on file about Wilson being watched, stalked, or threatened.”

  “Good idea. We’ll talk more when you get back.”

  Hood hung up and called Bugs Benet. He asked him to access the online news photo services. He wanted images of Kendra Peterson, including this morning’s press conference. They should be appearing online by now. Hood asked to have the pictures sent to Stoll’s office along with Darrell’s image files on the Wilson and Lawless killings. When he reached the office, Hood went directly to Matt Stoll’s office.

  The corridors were unusually quiet. There were fewer personnel, of course, and those who were there did not seem to be making eye contact with Hood. Maybe it was his imagination. Or maybe it was a variation on what they learned in elementary school. If they did not look at the teacher, they would not get called on. If they did not look at the director, they would not be fired.

  Matt Stoll’s office was different from the others in the executive level. The computer wizard had originally set up the Computer and Technical Support Operations in a small conference room. Hood had always intended to move the CATSO, but Stoll quickly filled the room with a haphazard arrangement of desks, stands, and computers. As Op-Center’s computing needs grew, Stoll simply added to the original disarray. Within a few months, it would have been too much trouble to move it.

  There were now four people working in the rectangular space. Stoll and his longtime friend Stephen Viens, Op-Center’s imaging expert, worked back to back in the center of the room. Viens had previously managed the spy satellite access time schedules at the National Reconnaissance Office. Whenever the military or a spy agency needed images from space-based resources, they scheduled it through Viens. After Stoll’s old college mate was scapegoated for a black ops funding scam, Hood hired him.

  Before yesterday morning, three other individuals had worked in this office: Mae Won, Jefferson Jefferson, and Patricia Arroyo. Seven other technical experts worked in an adjoining office. Stoll had been asked to l
ay off five of the techies and one of these three people. He had selected Patricia Arroyo, who had the least seniority. She and the others were gone within the half hour. That was standard procedure in government agencies. Otherwise, disgruntled personnel could sabotage equipment or programs or walk off with sensitive material. Hood had made an exception in the case of Mike Rodgers. That was not a chance he could take with the others.

  Hood greeted the solemn group and told them why he was there. Stoll did not wait for Bugs to send him pictures. He went to a raw news feed from one of the networks, grabbed images of the press conference, and isolated Kendra Peterson. He opened Darrell’s files of the hotel security camera images. He opened his 3-D ACE file and left-clicked each of the images to drop them in the file. ACE stood for Angular Construct and Extrapolation, a graphics program Stoll had written. It created 3-D images based on a very little amount of information. Though it could not construct an entire face from a nose, it could show the nose from all angles. These could be superimposed over other photographs to see if they matched.

  The only distinctive images they had of the assassin showed gloved hands, a chin, and a portion of one ear. Everything else was under a hat, a scarf, in boots, or beneath loose-fitting clothes. Even the skin color was unreliable. Kendra was a very light-skinned Asian woman. The woman in the elevator had a dark chin, but that could have been caused by the shadow of the hat.

  “This lady sure knew what she was doing,” Viens said. He had walked over to have a look.

  “Darrell figures she cased the hotels before going in,” Hood said.

  “I don’t think so,” Viens said. “At least, not in the way that you’re thinking.”

  “Why not?”

  “She knew where the cameras were, and she apparently knew what kind of lens they were using,” Viens said. “She would not know that simply by eyeballing the cameras, since they were probably behind a two-way mirror.”

  “What kind of lens were they using?” Hood asked.

  “The elevator at the Hay-Adams was using a thirty-seven millimeter wide-angle lens,” Viens told him. “It foreshortens the center of the image and distorts the periphery so you can cover one hundred and eighty degrees of vision.”