Tom Clancy - Op-Center 06 - Divide and Conquer

by Eikeltje

  professional when he arrived. The general had always wanted to run

  Op-Center. If he harbored any resentment about having it handed to him

  and then abruptly pulled away, it did not show. Above all, Rodgers was

  a good man and a team player. General Rodgers had spent most of the day

  overseeing the activities of Op-Center while Paul Hood was involved with

  the president and the UN initiative. As Hood briefed his deputy

  director about Herbert's talk with Fenwick, Herbert wheeled in. The

  intelligence chief was flushed and perspiring slightly. He had hurried

  to get here.

  "How's your relationship with Sergei Orlov at the Russian Op-Center?"

  Herbert asked breathlessly. The question surprised Hood.

  "I haven't spoken to him in about six months. Why?"

  "I just received a message that was forwarded from the U.S. embassy in

  Baku," Herbert said.

  "One of the Cia's people over there, Tom Moore, is now convinced that

  Baku has had a visit from the Harpooner. Moore doesn't know why the

  bastard's there--"

  "It could have something to do with what you were just telling me

  about," Rodgers said to Hood.

  "Bob's conversation with Fenwick--"

  "About Iran fearing terrorist attacks from Azerbaijan," Hood said.

  Rodgers nodded.

  "I agree that that's a possibility," Herbert said.

  "Paul, if it is the Harpooner, Moore wants to catch him going into or

  keep him from getting out of the former USSR. He's hoping that the

  Russian Op-Center can help."

  "How?" Hood asked.

  "Orlov and I shared our files years ago. There was nothing on the

  Harpooner."

  "Orlov's facility was new then," Herbert said.

  "He or his people may have found something in the old KGB files since

  then. Something they might not have told us about."

  "It's possible," Hood agreed. Op-Center was understaffed, and the

  situation at their Russian counterpart was even worse. Keeping up a

  regular flow of information was difficult.

  "In addition to intel on the Harpooner," Herbert said, "Moore was hoping

  that Orlov's people might be able to watch the northern and northwestern

  sections of Russia. He was thinking that the Harpooner might try to

  leave the region through Scandinavia." Hood looked at his watch.

  "It's about three in the morning over there," he said.

  "Can you reach him at home?" Herbert asked.

  "This is important. You know it is." Herbert was right. Regardless of

  the intelligence chief's desire to see the terrorist captured, tried,

  and executed, the Harpooner was a man who deserved to be out of

  circulation.

  "I'll call," Hood said.

  "Before you do, what about President Lawrence?" Rodgers asked.

  "How did things go over there?"

  "I'll fill you in after I talk to Orlov," Hood said as he accessed his

  secure phone list on the computer. He found Orlov's number.

  "But from the look of it, we're facing a lose-lose situation. Either

  the president is suffering from some kind of mental fatigue, or we've

  got a group of top officials running a black ops action of some kind--"

  "Or both," Herbert said.

  "Or both," Hood agreed.

  "I've got Liz Gordon coming in later to talk about what the president

  might be experiencing." Before punching in Orlov's home telephone

  number, Hood called Op-Center's linguistics office. He got Orly Turner

  on the line. Orly was one of Op-Center's four staff translators. Her

  area of expertise was Eastern Europe and Russia. Hood conferenced her

  in to the call. Though Orlov spoke English well enough. Hood wanted to

  make sure there were no misunderstandings, no delays if technical terms

  or acronyms had to be explained.

  "You want to know what my gut tells me?" Herbert said.

  "What?" Hood asked as he punched in Orlov's number.

  "That all of this is related," Herbert said.

  "The president being out of the loop, Fenwick dealing secretly with

  Iran, the Harpooner showing up in Baku. It's all part of a big picture

  that we haven't figured out yet." Herbert left the office. Hood didn't

  disagree with him. In fact, his own gut was willing to go one step

  further. That the big picture was bigger than what they imagined.

  Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 3:58 a.m.

  When Tom Moore went down. Pat Thomas ran toward the hospital door. He

  was halfway out when he saw blood pulsing from the side of Moore's head.

  Thomas stopped and jumped back just as a shot blew out the glass in the

  door. The bullet punched into his left thigh and knocked him down. He

  landed in a sitting position and continued to scuttle back. A second

  bullet chewed up the green tile inches in front of his foot. Thomas

  hurried backward along the floor, propelled by his palms and right heel.

  The wound burned viciously, and each move was agony. He left a long

  smear of blood behind him. It was a few moments before the hospital

  staff realized what had happened. One of the nurses, a young woman, ran

  forward and helped pull Thomas back. Several orderlies followed. They

  dragged him behind the admissions desk. Another nurse called the

  police.

  A bald-headed doctor knelt beside Thomas. He was wearing off-white

  surgical gloves and shouted instructions in Azerbaijani to other

  hospital workers who were in front of the counter. As he did, he took a

  pocket knife from his white coat and carefully cut away the fabric

  around the wound. Thomas winced as the khaki fabric came away. He

  watched as the doctor exposed the wound.

  "Will I live?" Thomas asked. The doctor didn't answer. Suddenly, the

  bald man started to rise. But instead of getting up, he straddled the

  American's legs. He sat on the wound, sending fire up through his

  patient's waist. Thomas wanted to scream, but he could not. A moment

  later, the doctor slipped a hand behind the America's head, holding it

  in place, and pushed the knife blade through his throat. The metal

  entered the skin just behind Thomas's chin and pinned his mouth shut.

  The blade continued upward until Thomas could feel the point of the

  blade under his tongue. Thomas choked as he coughed blood into his

  closed mouth. He raised his hands and tried to push the bald man back.

  But he was too weak. Calmly and quickly, the bald man angled the knife

  back. Then he drew the knife down until it reached Thomas's larynx. He

  cut swiftly to the left and right, following the line of the jaw all the

  way to the ears. Then he removed the blade, rose, and allowed Thomas to

  flop to the floor. The doctor pocketed the knife and walked away

  without a glance back. The American lay there, his arms weak and his

  fingers moving aimlessly. He could feel the warm blood flowing from both

  sides of his throat as the flesh around it grew cold. He tried to call

  out, but his voice was a burbling whisper. Then he realized that his

  chest was moving but no air was going to it. There was blood in his

  throat. Thomas's thoughts were confused. His vision swirled black. He

  thought about flying up to Baku, about meeting with Moore. He wondered

  how Moore was. And then he thought about his ch
ildren. For a moment,

  he was back playing ball with them on the front lawn. Then they were

  gone.

  Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 4:01 a.m.

  General Sergei Orlov was standing in the snow in the small town of

  Nar'yan Mar on the Arctic Ocean when a peeping bird caused him to start.

  He turned to look for it and found himself staring at his alarm clock.

  He was back in his one-bedroom apartment in Saint Petersburg.

  "Damn you," Orlov said as the phone rang again. The former cosmonaut

  did not often dream of the town where he grew up. He hated being taken

  away from it and from his loving parents.

  "Sergei?" his wife Masha said groggily beside him.

  "I have it," Orlov told her. He picked up the receiver of the cordless

  phone. He held it to his chest to stifle the ringing.

  "Go back to sleep."

  "All right," she said. Orlov listened enviously to the cozy rustle of

  the sheets as his wife curled up on her side. He got out of bed, pulled

  a bathrobe from the edge of the door, and pulled it on as he stepped

  into the living roomEven if this were a wrong number, Orlov would have

  trouble getting back to sleep. He finally answered the telephone.

  "Hello," Orlov said with a trace of annoyance.

  "General Orlov?" said the voice on the other end. It was a man.

  "Yes?" Orlov said as he nib bed his eyes vigorously with his free hand.

  "Who is this?"

  "General, it's Paul Hood," said the caller. Orlov was suddenly very much

  awake.

  "Paul!" he practically shouted.

  "Paul Hood, my friend. How are you? I heard that you resigned. And I

  heard about what happened in New York. Are you all right?" Orlov walked

  over to an armchair while the woman translated. The general had a

  decent command of English, the result of the years he spent as a

  goodwill ambassador for the Russian space program after his flying days

  were finished. But he let the woman translate to be sure he didn't miss

  anything. Orlov sat down. Standing just under five-foot-seven, he had

  the narrow shoulders and compact build that had made him an ideal

  cosmonaut. Yet he had presence. His striking brown eyes, high

  cheekbones, and dark complexion were, like his adventurous spirit, a

  part of his Manchu heritage. He walked with a significant limp due to a

  left leg and hip badly broken when his parachute failed to deploy in

  what turned out to be his last space mission.

  "I'm fine," Hood said in reply.

  "I withdrew my resignation." While Turner translated, Orlov turned on

  the lamp beside the chair and sat down. He picked up a pen and pad he

  kept on the small end table.

  "Good, good!" Orlov said.

  "Listen, General," Hood went on, "I'm very sorry to be calling you so

  early and at home."

  "It's no bother, Paul," Orlov replied.

  "What can I do for you?"

  "The terrorist who calls himself the Harpooner," Hood said.

  "You and I once spoke about him."

  "I remember," said Orlov.

  "We've been looking for him in connection with the terror bombings in

  Moscow several years ago."

  "General, we believe he is in Azerbaijan." Orlov's full lips tightened.

  "That would not surprise me," he said.

  "We thought we had him located in Moscow two days ago. A guard near

  Lenin's Tomb was very confident in his identification. He summoned

  police assistance, but by the time it had arrived, the suspect had

  disappeared."

  "Do you mean the police lost him, or the suspect knew he was being

  watched and managed to get away?" Hood asked.

  "The police are generally good at surveillance," Orlov replied.

  "The subject went around a corner and was gone. He could have changed

  clothes somehow--I don't know. The Kievskaya metro stop is near where

  he was last seen. It is possible he went down there."

  "It's more than possible," Hood said.

  "That was where one of our embassy people spotted him."

  "Explain, please," Orlov said.

  "We had heard that he was in Moscow," Hood said.

  "The embassy person followed the man he thought was the Harpooner onto

  the metro. They went to a transfer station, and the Harpooner got off.

  He boarded another train, left it at the Paveletskaya stop, then he

  literally vanished." Orlov was now very interested.

  "You're sure it was Paveletskaya?" he asked.

  "Yes," Hood asked.

  "Is that significant?"

  "Perhaps," Orlov said.

  "General Orlov," Hood said, "however the Harpooner left Moscow, it's

  possible that he may be headed back there or toward Saint Petersburg. Do

  you think you could help us try and find him?"

  "I would love to capture that monster," Orlov replied.

  "I will contact Moscow and see what they have. In the meantime, please

  send whatever information you have to my office. I will be there within

  the hour."

  "Thank you. General," Hood said.

  "And again, I'm sorry to have wakened you. I didn't want to lose any

  time."

  "You did the right thing," Orlov assured him.

  "It was good speaking with you. I will talk to you later in the day."

  Orlov rose and went back to the bedroom. He hung up the phone, kissed

  his precious, sleeping Masha on the forehead, then quietly went to the

  closet and removed his uniform. He carried it into the living room.

  Then he went back for the rest of his clothes. He dressed quickly and

  quietly, then left his wife a note. After nearly thirty years, Masha

  was not unaccustomed to his comings and goings in the middle of the

  night. When he had been a fighter pilot, Orlov was often called for

  missions at odd hours. During his spacefaring years, it was common for

  him to suit up while it was still dark. Before his first orbital flight

  he had left her a note that read, "My dearest--I am leaving the earth

  for several days. Can you pick me up at the spaceport on Sunday

  morning? Your loving husband, Sergei. PS: I will try to catch you a

  shooting star." Of course, Masha was there. Orlov left the apartment and

  took the stairs to the basement garage. The government had finally given

  him a car after three years, since the buses were unreliable. And with

  everything that was going on in and around Russia, from restless

  republics to rampant gangsterism in major cities, it was often

  imperative for Orlov to be able to get to his Op-Center's headquarters.

  And it was imperative now. The Harpooner was back in Russia.

  Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:51 p.m.

  Liz Gordon came to Hood's office after his conversation with Orlov. A

  husky woman with sparkling eyes and short, curly brown hair, Gordon was

  chewing nicotine gum and carrying her ever-present cup of coffee. Mike

  Rodgers remained for the talk. Hood told Gordon how the president had

  seemed during their meeting. Hood also gave the woman a brief overview

  of the possible covert activities that might explain what appeared to be

  the president's delusions. When Hood was finished, Gordon refilled her

  coffee cup from a pot in the corner of the office. Though Hood had been

  dubious of psychiatry when he had first come to Op-Center, Go
rdon's

  profiling work had impressed him. He had also been won over by her

  thoroughness. She brought a mathematician's prooflike manner to the

  process. That, coupled with her compassion, had made her an

  increasingly valuable and respected member of the team. Hood did not

  have any trouble entrusting his daughter to her.

  "The president's behavior does not seem extreme," Gordon said, "so we

  can eliminate some very serious dementias, which would indicate a

  complete or near complete loss of intellectual capacity. That leaves us

  with dangerous but more elusive delusions, of which there are basically

  six kinds. First there's organic, which is brought on by illness such

  as epilepsy or brain lesions. Second is substance-induced, meaning

  drugs. Third is somatic, which involves a kind of hyper awareness of

  the body--anorexia nervosa or hypochondria, for example. What you've

  described doesn't sound like any of those. Besides, they certainly would

  have been caught by the president's physician during one of his regular

  checkups. We can also rule out delusions of grandeur--megalomania--since

  that would show up in public. We haven't seen any of that.

  "The only two possibilities are delusions of reference and delusions of

  persecution," she went on.