Tom Clancy - Op-Center 06 - Divide and Conquer

by Eikeltje

  doing. He only knew that he was being shifted and turned and poked. He

  felt a pinch in his right arm, at the elbow, and then there was no

  further pain. He was also shivering, and he felt cold. Sweat had

  soaked into Battat's pillow. His fever warmed it quickly. His head

  sank into the down, muffling the sounds of the people and whatever it

  was they were doing. He shut his eyes again and allowed his mind to go

  wherever it wanted. Soon it was quiet and dark. Battat began to feel a

  little warmer, more comfortable. He no longer heard drumming in his

  ears. He was awake, but his thoughts were dreamlike. His mind went

  back over the days. He saw short, blurry visions of the embassy in

  Moscow, the trip to Baku, the seashore, the sudden pain of the attack. A

  pinch in his neck. He was unaware of time passing or the hospital room.

  There was just a strange, not unpleasant sense of drifting. There must

  be something in the IV. Something that was relaxing him. Then Battat

  heard something click. It sounded like a gun hammer cocking. He opened

  his eyes. There was a window to the left of the bed, but it was shut. He

  glanced toward the foot of the bed. The last time he had looked, the

  door was ajar. Now it was shut. A doctor or nurse must have closed it.

  The room was even quieter than before. It was nice. He shut his eyes

  again. There were no more visions, only darkness. Battat slipped

  quickly into a dreamless sleep. There was another click. The sound woke

  Battat, and he opened his eyes. The door was still closed. But now

  there was someone in the room. He could see a dark figure standing in

  front of the door. The figure was black against the darkness behind it.

  Battat was not sure he was awake.

  "Hi," he said. He heard his own voice. He was definitely awake.

  Slowly, the shadow moved toward him. Someone must have come to check on

  him.

  "It's all right," Battat said in a soft slur.

  "You can turn on the light. I'm awake." The figure did not speak.

  Battat could not make out whether it was a man or a woman. It appeared

  to be wearing a medical robe of some kind. And it was holding something

  long and slender. Battat could see the silhouette low at its side. It

  looked like a knife.

  "Do you speak English?" Battat asked. There was a monitor on the wall

  behind Battat. The green glow threw a faint light on the figure as it

  stopped beside the bed. It was a man. And he was definitely holding a

  knife. The long blade gleamed in the dull light.

  "What is this?" Battat asked. It was beginning to penetrate his foggy

  mind that the newcomer was not a doctor. Battat tried to move, but his

  arms felt like they were full of wet sand. The man's arm went back.

  "Someone!" Battat said, trying to raise his voice.

  "Help me--" And then the man vanished.

  A moment later, sounds came from the floor. There were low grunts,

  chattering, and then a long, slow groan. They were followed by silence.

  Battat tried to raise himself on an elbow. His arm shook, and he fell

  back down. Suddenly, someone rose beside the bed.

  "There may be others," said the figure.

  "We have to leave." The sharp, thickly accented voice belonged to a

  woman. There were an awful lot of people here.

  "I thought this was a private room," Battat said. With swift, sure

  movements, the woman lowered the gate beside the bed, unhooked the IV,

  and raised Battat to a sitting position. She kept her hand on his back.

  "Can you walk?" she asked.

  "If you let go... I'm not sure I can sit," he replied. The woman lay

  Battat back down and stepped away from the bed. She was a tall, lean

  woman with broad shoulders. He could see now that she was wearing a

  police uniform. The woman went to the window and pulled the curtains

  aside. She turned the latch and raised the window. A cool, salty

  breeze blew in. It made him shiver. The woman looked outside. Then she

  grabbed a bathrobe from a hook behind the door and returned to the bed.

  She sat Battat up again and pulled the robe around his shoulders.

  "What are we doing?" he asked. Without the IV in his arm, he was

  feeling a little more focused. His head was also hurting from sitting

  up.

  "No talk," she said.

  "But wait," he said.

  "They've killed your companions, and they're trying to kill you," she

  snapped.

  "I was sent to get you out."

  "Killed them?"

  "Quiet!" she hissed. Battat stopped talking. His head ached as the

  woman helped him stand. She grabbed Battat's clothes, then slipped his

  left arm around her shoulder and helped him to the window. As they

  hobbled over, Battat tried to focus on what she had just told him. Were

  Moore and Thomas dead? If so, it had to be the Harpooner. Maybe he

  thought they knew more than they did. But if they were dead, who had

  sent this woman to help him? And how did he know that she was not

  working for the Harpooner? She might be taking him somewhere so the

  killer could finish the job. But Battat knew he might as well trust her.

  He was certainly in no condition to resist. Besides, the woman was

  being gentle with him. And if she had wanted him dead, she could have

  killed him in the bed. Or she could have let the other intruder kill

  him. When they reached the window, the woman told Battat to lean on the

  sill. He did, unsteadily. She kept a hand on him, helping to keep him

  upright as she slipped around him. She landed quietly among the hedges

  outside the window and then helped him down. She put his arm back

  around her shoulder and then crouched. They listened for several

  seconds. Battat was shivering again, his teeth clattering. But at least

  he was more awake than before. After a moment, they were on the move

  again. He felt as if he was being carried through the night. They had

  emerged in back of the hospital and were making their way around to the

  north side. They stopped at a car. To Battat's surprise, it wasn't a

  police car but a small black Hyundai. She probably was not a policewoman

  at all. Battat did not know if that were a good thing or a bad thing.

  But as she laid him across the backseat and climbed behind the wheel, he

  knew one thing for certain. If he remained conscious, he would find out

  very soon.

  Washington, D.C. Monday, 10:03 p.m.

  The red-haired man sat behind his large desk. The office was dark, save

  for the glow of a green-shaded desk lamp and the red light on top of the

  phone. That meant the scrambler function was engaged.

  "People are asking about Fenwick's trip," said the red-haired man.

  "What people?" said the man on the other end of the line.

  "The intelligence unit at Op-Center."

  "Op-Center is well removed from the president," the other man said.

  "They don't have the same clout as the CIA-"

  "I'm not so sure about that," the red-haired man interrupted.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I was told that Director Hood asked for and received a private meeting

  with the president a few hours ago," said the red-haired man.

  "I know."

  "Do you know what they discussed?" asked th
e redhaired man.

  "No. More fallout from the United Nations affair. I'd guess. Do you

  have reason to believe otherwise?" the man asked.

  "Paul Hood spoke briefly with the First Lady last night." the

  red-haired man said.

  "I checked his file. They knew each other in the past."

  "Knew each other in a way we can use?"

  "No," said the red-haired man.

  "It was platonic. Anyway, she might have seen a change in the

  president. Maybe she said something to Hood. I just don't know."

  "I see," said the other. There was a long silence. The red-haired man

  waited. He was concerned about the unexpected presence of Op Center The

  other agencies had all been covered. He and his partners had been

  counting on the transition period between Paul Hood and General Rodgers

  to keep Op Center eyes looking inward. Unfortunately, that had not

  happened. But with H-hour approaching on the foreign operation, they

  could not afford to have anyone watching. Harpooner had seen to it on

  his end. They must see to it on their end.

  "Is the other documentation ready?" the other man finally asked. The

  red-haired man looked at his watch. He really needed glasses to read

  this close, but he was fighting that. He was fighting a lot of things.

  He moved his wrist back slightly.

  "In another hour or so," he replied.

  "All right," said the other man.

  "I don't want to move against Op-Center directly. There isn't time. And

  without careful planning, we might do more harm than good."

  "I agree," said the red-haired man.

  "Let's continue with the plan," said the other man.

  "If Op-Center is watching Fenwick or the president without any real idea

  what we're up to, that should keep them busy enough. Just make sure

  Fenwick doesn't do or say anything that might give them more

  information."

  "Understood," said the red-haired man.

  "I'll let Fenwick know." The other man thanked him and hung up. The

  red-haired man placed the receiver in the cradle. He would call Fenwick

  in a minute. This was serious, unprecedented business. He needed a

  moment to remind himself that this was all being done for a good reason:

  to make sure that the United States survived the new millennium. Despite

  this small setback, everything was still working the way they had

  planned. Reporters had been calling his office to find out about the

  new UN initiative, an initiative that only the president seemed to be

  aware of. Members of the CIOC and even people at the UN apparently had

  not known about it. One very dogged TV reporter had called this evening

  to ask if the president had imagined "this whole thing, too." And Red

  Gable, the president's chief of staff, had answered off the record, "I

  honestly don't know, Sam. I do not know what is wrong with the

  president." Though the quote would be off the record. Gable knew that

  his sentiment would be mentioned in the broadcast. The reporter

  reminded Red that this was the third time in a week the president had

  gotten something seriously wrong. The first time was at a breakfast

  with reporters. The president commented about farm subsidy legislation

  that was supposedly before congress. It was not. The second time, just

  two days ago, was at a press conference. The president's opening

  remarks included comments about a civil rights case that was supposedly

  before the Supreme Court. No such case existed. What Gable did not

  tell the reporter, of course, was that the set of documents the

  president had been given during his daily briefings was different from

  the set of documents that he should have seen. The real ones. Gable

  had slipped those documents into the president's files after he made the

  public misstatements. When the president had the files brought to him,

  he did not understand where the misinformation had come from.

  Investigations by Gable and his assistants failed to turn up any

  suspicious activity. Gable did not smile. He could not. The situation

  was too serious. But he was gratified. The reporter and many of his

  colleagues were very concerned about the president's state of mind. By

  tomorrow afternoon, the rest of the nation would also be concerned.

  Events that were about to unfold a world away and in Washington had been

  very carefully orchestrated. Events that would be misinterpreted by

  everyone except the third and most important leader of their team: the

  vice president. The president would insist that Azerbaijan had attacked

  an Iranian oil rig. He would recommend staying out of the conflict

  because it was a local issue. As Iran built up its forces in the

  region, the vice president would publicly" urge a different tack. He

  would say that he did not trust Iran and would strongly advise building

  up an American military presence in the Caspian. Fenwick would back up

  the vice president. He would report that during his meetings with the

  Iranians, they had spoken vaguely of events that were on the horizon. He

  would say that they asked the United States to do nothing while they

  strengthened their hold on oil reserves in the region. The Iranians

  would deny that, of course. But no one in America would believe them.

  The disagreement between the president and vice president would cause a

  very public rift. And when the Harpooner's Iranian cohorts were found

  dead with photographs and other evidence of sabotage on their

  bodies--murdered by the Harpooner himself--the vice president and

  Fenwick would be vindicated. Reporters would then openly discuss the

  president's questionable judgment. Washington would be abuzz with

  rumors that the president was unstable. Senators like Barbara Fox would

  have no choice but to support a motion to impeachment. Sex scandals

  were one thing. Mental illness was something much different. There

  would be calls for Lawrence to step down. For the good of the nation,

  Lawrence would have no choice but to resign. Vice president Gotten would

  become president. He would ask Jack Fenwick to become his new vice

  president. Congress would quickly endorse his selection. Meanwhile, the

  American military would move into the Caspian. They would help the

  Azerbaijanis protect their rigs. In the heat of rising tensions.

  President Gotten would remain strong. And then something else would

  happen. Something that would demand an American response so firm, so

  devastating, that religious fanatics would never again attack a target

  under American protection. In the end. Gable told himself, the career

  of a president was worth that sacrifice.

  Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 6:15 a.m.

  When forty-seven-year-old Ron Friday first arrived in Baku, he felt

  as though he had been dropped into medieval times. It was not a question

  of architecture. Embassy row was in a very modern section of the city.

  The modern buildings could have been lifted whole from Washington, D.C."

  or London, or Tokyo, or any other modern metropolis. But Baku was not

  like those cities where he had spent so much time. Once you moved past

  the embassies and business center of Baku, there was a pronounced sense

  of age. Many of the buildings
had been standing when Columbus reached

  the Americas. No, the architecture was not what made Baku seem so old,

  so feudal. It was a sense of entropy among the people. Azerbaijan had

  been ruled from the outside for so long, now that the people were free

  and independent, they seemed unmotivated, directionless. If it were not

  for petrodollars, they would probably slip deep into the Third World. At

  least, that was Friday's impression. Fortunately, when the former Army

  Ranger and his people were finished with what they were doing here,

  Azerbaijan would not be quite so independent. Friday entered his

  seven-story apartment building. The ten-year-old brick building was

  located two blocks from the embassy. He made his way up the marble

  stairs. Friday lived on the top floor, but he did not like being in

  elevators. Even when he was with the other embassy workers who lived

  here, he took the stairs. Elevators were too confining, and they left

  him vulnerable. Friday walked toward his apartment. He could not

  believe that he had been here nearly six months. It seemed much longer,

  and he was glad his tenure was coming to an end. Not because Deputy

  Ambassador Williamson didn't need him. To the contrary, Friday had

  proven valuable to the diplomat, especially in her efforts to moderate

  Azerbaijani claims on Caspian oil. Friday's years as an attorney for a

  large international oil company served him well in that capacity. But

  Friday's real boss would need him elsewhere, in some other trouble spot.

  He would see to it that Friday was transferred. To India or Pakistan,

  perhaps. That was where Friday really wanted to go. There were oil

  issues to be dealt with there, in the Arabian Sea and on the border