Tom Clancy - Op-Center 06 - Divide and Conquer

by Eikeltje

  and your colleagues up." It took a moment for Battat to process what

  Hood had said.

  "They set us up to be murdered? Why?"

  "I can't tell you that now," Hood replied.

  "What's important is that for the present, you're out of danger." The

  young woman walked over with a cup of tea. She set it on the night

  table beside the bed. Battat used an elbow to drag himself into a

  sitting position. She helped him by putting strong hands under his arm

  and literally lifting him from the bed.

  "What I need to know is this," Hood went on.

  "If we can locate the Harpooner, do you feel up to helping us take him

  down?"

  "If there's a way for me to get the Harpooner, I'm up for it," Battat

  said. Just the thought of that energized him.

  "Good," Hood told him.

  "We're working with a Russian intelligence group on this. I don't know

  when we'll have additional information. But when we do, I'll let you

  and your new partner know." Battat looked over at the young woman. She

  was standing in the kitchenette spooning eggs onto two plates. The last

  time he was in the field, Russians were the enemy. It was a strange

  business they were in.

  "Before I go, is there anything else you can tell us about the

  Harpooner?" Hood asked.

  "Anything you might have seen or heard while you were looking for him?

  Anything Moore or Thomas might have said?"

  "No," Battat said. He took a sip of tea. It was stronger than he was

  used to. It was like a shot of adrenaline.

  "All I know is that someone put me in a choke hold from behind. The

  next thing I knew, I was on the ground. As for Moore and Thomas, they

  were as mystified as I was."

  "Because--?"

  "The Harpooner had let me live," Battat said.

  "Assuming it was the Harpooner," Hood said.

  "Listen. Use the time you have to rest. We don't know where the

  Harpooner may turn up or how much time you may have to get to him. But

  we need you to be ready to move out."

  "I'll be ready," Battat said. Hood thanked him and hung up. Battat

  placed the phone on the night table. Then he took another swallow of

  tea. He still felt weak, but he was trembling a little less than

  before. The young woman walked over with a plate for him. Battat watched

  her as she set the plate on his legs and placed a cloth napkin and

  utensils on the night table. She looked tired.

  "My name is David Battat," he said.

  "I know," she said.

  "And you are--?" he pressed.

  "In Baku, I am Odette Kolker," she said. There was finality in the

  young woman's voice. It told him two things. First, that she was

  definitely not an Azerbaijani recruited by the Russians. And second,

  that Battat would not be getting her real name. Not from her, anyway.

  "I'm pleased to meet you," Battat said, extending his hand.

  "I'm also extremely grateful for everything you've done."

  "You're welcome," she said. The young woman shook Battat's hand firmly

  but perfunctorily. As she did, Battat noticed several small bloodstains

  on the sleeve of her off-white police blouse. There were no lacerations

  on her hand or forearm. The blood did not appear to be hers.

  "Are you really a policewoman?" Battat asked.

  "Yes," she replied.

  "Were you working the night shift?" he asked.

  "No," she replied.

  "I was called in to do this." She smiled slightly.

  "And I cannot collect overtime for it." Battat sipped more tea and

  smiled back.

  "I'm sorry they had to wake you." He moved the plate to the night table

  and started to throw off the cover.

  "I probably shouldn't be taking your bed--"

  "No, it's all right," she said.

  "I'm expected on duty in less than an hour. Besides, I'm accustomed to

  having unexpected guests."

  "A hazard of the business," he said.

  "Yes," Odette observed.

  "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to eat. You should do the same.

  Eat and then rest."

  "I will," Battat promised.

  "Do you need salt or anything else?"

  "No thank you," he said. Odette turned and walked slowly toward the

  kitchenette. Less than an hour ago, she had killed a man. Now she was

  serving Battat breakfast. This was a strange business. A very strange

  business indeed.

  Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 12:10 a.m.

  "Hello, Paul." Sharon's voice was thick and cold on the other end of the

  phone. Hood glanced at the clock on his computer.

  "Hi," he said warily.

  "Is everything okay?"

  "Not really," she replied.

  "I just got back from the hospital."

  "What happened?"

  "The short version," she said, "is that Harleigh freaked out about

  ninety -minutes ago. I called an ambulance--I didn't know what else to

  do."

  "You did the right thing," Hood said.

  "How is she?"

  "Dr. Basralian sedated her, and she's sleeping now," Sharon went on.

  "What does he think is wrong?" Hood asked.

  "Is it physical--?"

  "He isn't sure," she said.

  "They're going to run tests in the morning. The doctor said that

  sometimes a traumatic event can have physical repercussions. It can

  affect the thyroid, cause it to get hyper, or create a surplus of

  adrenaline. Anyway, I didn't call so you'd drop what you're doing and go

  to see her. I just wanted you to know."

  "Thank you," Hood said.

  "I'll still get over as soon as I can."

  "No need for that," Sharon told him.

  "Everything's quiet. I'll let you know if there's a change."

  "All right," Hood said.

  "If that's what you want."

  "I do. Just some down-time. Tell me, Paul. Is there a problem?"

  Sharon asked.

  "With what?"

  "The world," Sharon said.

  "Always," Hood replied.

  "I tried the motel first," Sharon told him.

  "When you weren't there, I figured you must be putting out a fire

  somewhere." Hood was not exactly sure how to take that remark. He tried

  not to read anything into it..

  "There's a problem in the Middle East," Hood said.

  "Could be a bad one."

  "Then I won't keep you," Sharon said.

  "Just don't kill yourself, Paul. You're not a kid anymore. You need

  sleep. And the kids need you."

  "I'll take care of myself," he promised. Sharon hung up. When Hood and

  his wife were together, Sharon used to be frustrated and angry whenever

  he worked long hours. Now that the two of them were apart, she was calm

  and concerned. Or maybe she was holding it all together for Harleigh's

  sake. Whatever the reason, it was a sad, sad joke being played on the

  Hood family. But Hood did not have time to consider the injustice of it

  all or even the condition of his daughter. The phone rang a moment

  after he hung up. The call was from another concerned wife. The

  president's.

  Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 8:30 a.m.

  General Orlov was proud that his operative had been able to save the

  American. Proud, but not surprised. Odette--Natalia Basov--had been

 
working with him for three years. The thirty-two-year-old was a former

  decryption expert who had begun her career with the GRU, Soviet military

  intelligence. Her husband Viktor was an officer in the Spetsnaz, the

  Russian special forces. When Viktor was killed on a mission in

  Chechnya, Basov became deeply depressed. She wanted to get out from

  behind a desk. Because the GRU was being dismantled and its components

  downsized, Basov was sent to see Orlov. Orlov was happy to put her in

  the field. Not only was Basov skilled in electronic intelligence, her

  husband had taught her the self-defense techniques of the systema, the

  lethal martial arts style of the Spetsnaz. Orlov himself had studied

  the basics as a way of staying in shape. The systema did not rely on

  practiced moves or on physical strength. It taught that during an

  assault, your own defensive motion dictated what the counterattack

  should be. If you were struck on the right side of the chest, you

  instinctively turned the right side away to avoid the blow. As a

  result, your left side automatically came forward. Thus, your attack

  would be with the left arm. And it would not be a single blow. It

  would be a trinity. Perhaps a fist to the chin, an elbow to the jaw, and

  a swipe with the back of the hand, all in quick succession. While that

  was going on, you were positioning yourself to unleash the next trinity.

  Typically, an opponent did not get more than a first chance to strike.

  Multiple opponents were too busy avoiding their falling comrades to move

  in. Basov had mastered the form well. And she had proven to be a

  valuable asset in Azerbaijan. Orlov's people had created a false

  identity for her, and she had obtained a job with the police force. That

  put her in a job to watch and question people, other officers, guards,

  and night watchmen at plants and military bases. To learn what was

  happening in Baku's corridors of power and in the military. Being a

  beautiful woman made men more inclined to talk to her, especially in

  bars. And underestimate her. Basov said that she and her guest were

  safe, but they were not what bothered Orlov right now. What concerned

  him was finding the Harpooner. Basov had told Orlov that the Baku police

  radio was reporting an explosion in the harbor. A boat had blown up,

  killing everyone on board. Orlov was willing to bet that the boat had

  belonged to the Harpooner. That was his way--to destroy all the

  evidence along with some or all of his coworkers. The dead men would

  probably be blamed for the rig attack. Orlov wondered who they were.

  Azerbaijanis? Iraqis? Russians? There were any number of people he

  could have recruited for a job like that. Just as long as they did not

  know what usually happened to his employees. Most of Orlov's staff began

  arriving at half-past eight. The general had left e-mail for the two key

  members of his intelligence team, Boris and Piotr, to come and see him

  as soon as possible. If the Harpooner had been responsible for the

  attack in the Caspian, he probably would not attempt to leave Baku

  immediately. In the past, the Harpooner apparently waited a day or two

  after an attack. And when he finally moved, he often passed through

  Moscow. No one knew why. Unfortunately, by the time authorities learned

  he was in the city, he had vanished. General Orlov did not want that to

  happen again. The question was how to find him. And Paul Hood might

  have unwittingly given them a clue. Boris Grosky was a sullen,

  gray-haired intelligence veteran who missed the Cold War. Piotr Korsov

  was an eager newcomer who had studied at Technion in Haifa, Israel. He

  was openly thrilled to be working in a field he loved and for a man who

  had helped pioneer space travel. The men entered the windowless office

  within a minute of one another. They sat on the couch across from

  Orlov's desk, Boris drinking tea and Korsov sitting with a laptop on his

  knees. Orlov briefed the men. Grosky became noticeably more interested

  when the general mentioned that the NSA and CIA might somehow be

  involved in the Caspian operation.

  "What I want to know is this," Orlov said.

  "We have eavesdropped on cell phone communications between American

  intelligence operatives before. We've gotten through many of their

  secure lines."

  "We've gotten through most of them," Grosky pointed out.

  "They try to keep you out by altering the signal from second to second,"

  Korsov said.

  "The shifts are all within just a few megahertz in the superhigh

  frequency. We've learned how to ride most of the shifts."

  "The difficult part is decoding the messages, which are scrambled

  electronically," Grosky added.

  "The American agencies use very complex codes. Our computers aren't

  always up to the task of decrypting the calls."

  "Do the same callers usually use the same signals, the same patterns?"

  Orlov asked Korsov.

  "Usually," Korsov told him.

  "Otherwise, there would be audio crossover. Callers would keep bumping

  into one another."

  "Do we keep records of the calls?" Orlov asked.

  "The conversations?" Grosky asked.

  "Yes. We keep working on them, trying to decode--"

  "I mean the signals," Orlov interrupted.

  "Absolutely," said Grosky.

  "We send them up to the Laika so it can keep a lookout for those

  signals." The Laika was the Russian Op-Center's sentry satellite. Named

  for the pioneering Soviet space dog, the Laika was in a high

  geostationary orbit over Washington, D.C. It could intercept signals

  from the United States, all of Europe, and parts of Asia.

  "So, if the Harpooner spoke with an intelligence unit in Washington, we

  might have picked up the signal if not the content," Orlov said.

  "That's right," said Kosov.

  "Very good," said Orlov.

  "Go to the computer records for the past two weeks. Look up communiques

  between Azerbaijan and the National Security Agency in Washington Get

  me all the information you have."

  "Even if we haven't decrypted them," said Kosov.

  "Yes," Orlov replied.

  "I want to know exactly where the Harpooner or his people might have

  been calling from."

  "When you know that, what will you do?" Grosky asked.

  "I'll call the American Op-Center and ask them to go through any

  satellite imaging they have for the region," Orlov said.

  "The Harpooner had to move explosives and personnel into position. If

  we can pinpoint his location, there may be a photographic record of

  it--"

  "And clues to where he might be," Grosky said. Orlov nodded.

  "We'll have that information for you as soon as possible," Kosov said

  eagerly.

  "It would be a coup if we could catch that monster."

  "It would be," Orlov agreed. The men left. Orlov put in a call to Paul

  Hood to bring him up to date. Catching the Harpooner would be a

  highlight of his career. But more than that, he wondered if this close

  cooperation between Op-Centers could become increasingly routine. If

  the trust and sharing could lead to less suspicion and greater

  international s
ecurity. That would be the real coup.

  Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 12:30 a.m.

  "Paul, I'm glad I found you," Megan Lawrence said.

  "I think you should come here. There's something going on." The First

  Lady's voice was steady when she got on the line, but Hood knew her well

  enough to know that it was Megan's "I have to be strong" voice. He had

  heard that voice during the campaign when there were hard questions from

  the press about an abortion she had had before she met the president. As

  she had years before, Megan was pulling this strength from deep inside.

  She would crash only when it was safe to do so.

  "Talk to me," Hood said. He was drawing on his own emotional and

  psychological reserves to deal with the First Lady's problem. The call

  from Sharon had shaken him.

  "We were just getting into bed when Michael received a call from Jack

  Fenwick," Megan said.

  "Whatever Fenwick said rattled my husband very much. His voice was calm

  while they talked and then afterward, but I watched this look come over