by Eikeltje
"Tell him to come in," said the president.
Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 9:56 am.
"We have the Harpooner's location!" Korsov shouted. Orlov looked up as
Korsov rushed into his office. The young intelligence officer was
followed by Boris Grosky, who looked less glum than Orlov had ever seen
him. He did not look happy, but he did not look miserable. Korsov was
holding several papers in his hands.
"Where is he?" Orlov asked. Korsov slapped a computer printout on
Orlov's desk. There was a map and an arrow pointing to a building.
Another arrow pointed to a street several blocks away.
"The signal originated at a hotel in Baku," Korsov said.
"From there it went to Suleyman Ragimov Kuchasi. It's an avenue that
runs parallel to Bakihanov Kuchasi, the location of the hotel."
"Was he calling someone with a cell phone?" Orlov asked.
"We don't believe so," Grosky said.
"We've been monitoring police broadcasts from the area to find out more
about the oil rig explosion. While we were listening, we heard about a
van explosion on Suleyman Ragimov. The blast is being investigated now."
"It doesn't sound like a coincidence," Korsov added.
"No, it doesn't," Orlov agreed.
"Let's assume the Harpooner was behind that," Korsov said.
"He might want to see it from his hotel room--"
"That might not be necessary, as long as he could hear it," Orlov said.
"No. The Harpooner would be worried about security if he were staying
in a hotel room. Do we have any way of fine-tuning the location of the
signal?"
"No," Korsov said.
"It was too brief, and our equipment is not sensitive enough to
determine height in increments under two hundred feet."
"Can we get a diagram of the hotel?" Orlov asked.
"I have that," Korsov said. He pulled a page from the pile he was
holding and laid it beside the map. It showed a ten-story hotel.
"Natasha is trying to break into the reservations list," Grosky said. He
was referring to the Op-Center's twenty-three-year-old computer genius
Natasha Revsky.
"If she can get in, she will give us the names of all single male
occupants."
"Get single females as well," Orlov said.
"The Harpooner has been known to adopt a variety of disguises." Grosky
nodded.
"You feel very confident about this?" Orlov asked. Korsov had been
leaning over the desk. Now he stood like a soldier, his chest puffed.
"Completely," he replied.
"All right," Orlov said.
"Leave the hotel diagram with me. This was very good work. Thank you
both." As Grosky and Korsov left, Orlov picked up the phone. He wanted
to talk to Odette about the hotel and then get her on site. Hopefully,
the American would be strong enough to go with her. The Harpooner was
not a man to tackle alone.
Baku. Azerbaijan Tuesday, 10:07 a.m.
Odette Kolker was cleaning up the breakfast plates when the phone
beeped. It was the apartment phone, not her cell phone. That meant it
was not General Orlov who was calling. She allowed her answering machine
to pick up. It was Captain Kilar. The commander of her police unit had
not been in when she phoned the duty sergeant to let him know that she
would be out sick. Kilar was calling to tell her that she was a good
and hardworking officer, and he wanted her to get well. He said that
she should take whatever time she needed to recuperate. Odette felt bad
about that. She was hardworking. And though the Baku Municipal Police
Department paid relatively well--twenty thousand manats, the equivalent
of eight thousand American dollars--they did not pay overtime. However,
the work Odette did was not always for the BMP and the people of Baku.
The time she spent at her computer or on the street was often for
General Orlov. Baku was a staging area for many of'the arms dealers and
terrorists who worked in Russia and the former Soviet republics.
Checking on visa applications, customs activity, and passenger lists for
boats, planes, and trains enabled her to keep track of many of these
people. After putting away the few dishes, Odette turned and looked back
at her guest. The American had fallen asleep and was breathing evenly.
She had placed a cool washcloth on his head and he was perspiring less
than when she had brought him home. She had seen the bruises on his
throat. They were consistent with choke marks. Obviously, the incident
in the hospital was not the first time someone had tried to kill him.
There was also a tiny red spot on his neck. A puncture wound, it looked
like. She wondered if this illness were the result of his having been
injected with a virus. The KGB and other Eastern European intelligence
services used to do that quite a bit, typically with lethal viruses or
poison. The toxin would be placed inside microscopic pellets. The
pellets were sugar-coated metal spheres with numerous holes in their
surface. These would be injected by an umbrella tip, pen point, or some
other sharp object. It would take the body anywhere from several minutes
to an hour or two to eat through the sugar coating. That would give the
assassin time to get away. If this man had been injected, he probably
was not supposed to die by the virus. He had been used to draw his
colleagues out into the open. The hospital ambush had been well
organized. Just like the ambush that killed her husband in Chechnya, she
thought. Her husband, her lover, her mentor, her dearest friend. They
all perished when Viktor died on a cold, dark, and lonely mountainside.
Viktor had successfully infiltrated the Chechan mujihadin forces. For
seven months, Viktor was able to ohtain the ever-changing radio
frequencies with which different rebel factions communicated. He would
write this information down and leave it for a member of the KGB field
force to collect and radio to Moscow. Then the idiot KGB officer got
sloppy. He confused the frequency he was supposed to use with the one
he was reporting about. Instead of communicating with his superiors, he
broadcast directly to one of the rebel camps. The KGB officer was
captured, tortured for information, and killed. He had not known
Viktor's name but he knew which unit her husband had infiltrated and
when he had arrived. The rebel leaders had no trouble figuring out who
the Russian agent was. Viktor would always leave his information under
a rock which he would chip in a distinctive fashion. While he was out
one night, supposedly standing watch, Viktor was brought down by ten
men, then taken into the mountains. There, his Achilles tendons were
severed and his wrists were slashed. Viktor bled to death before he
could crawl to help. His last message to her was painted on a tree
trunk with his own blood. It was a small heart with his wife's initials
inside. Odette's cell phone beeped softly. She picked it up from the
kitchen counter and turned her back toward her guest. The woman spoke
softly so she would not wake him.
"Yes?"
"We believe we've found the Harpooner." That got Odette's attention.
&nb
sp; "Where?"
"At a hotel not far from you," Orlov said.
"We're trying to pinpoint his room now." Odette moved quietly toward the
bed. She was required to check her service revolver when she left
police headquarters every night. But she kept a spare weapon in the
nightstand. It was always loaded. A woman living alone had to be
careful. A spy at home or abroad had to be even more careful.
"What's the mission?" Odette asked. Termination," Orlov said.
"We can't take a chance that he'll get away."
"Understood," Odette said calmly. The woman believed in the work she
was doing, protecting the interests of her country. Killing did not
bother her when doing it would save lives. The man she had terminated
just a few hours before meant little more to her than someone she might
have passed in the street.
"Once we've narrowed down the guests who might be the Harpooner, you're
going to have to make the final call," Orlov said.
"The rest depends on what he does, how he acts. What you see in his
eyes. He's probably going to have showered but still look tired."
"He's been a busy bastard," Odette said.
"I can read that in a man."
"The chances are he won't open the door to the hotel staff," Orlov went
on.
"And if you pretend to be a housekeeper or security officer, that will
only put him on guard."
"I agree," she said.
"I'll find a way to get in and take him by surprise."
"I spoke to our profiler," Orlov said.
"If you do get to him, he'll probably be cool and even pleasant and will
appear to cooperate. He might attempt to bribe you or get you to be
overconfident. Try to get your guard down so he can attack. Don't even
listen. Make your assessment and do your job. I wouldn't be surprised
if he also has several traps at the ready. A gas canister in an air
duct, an explosive device, or maybe just a magnesium flash to blind you.
He might have rigged it to a light switch or a remote control in his
heel, something he can activate when he ties his shoe. We just don't
know enough about him to say for certain how he secures a room."
"It's all right," Odette assured him.
"I'll make the ID and neutralize him."
"I wish I could tell you to go in with a squad of police," Orlov said
apologetically.
"But that isn't advisable.
A shout, rerouted traffic, anything out of the ordinary can alert him.
Or the Harpooner may sense their presence. If he does, he may get away
before you can even get to him. I'm sure he has carefully planned his
escape routes. Or he may try to take hostages."
"I understand," Odette said.
"All right. Where is the Harpooner registered?"
"Before I tell you that, how is your guest?" Orlov asked.
"He's sleeping," Odette replied. She looked down at the man on the bed.
He was lying on his back, his arms at his side. His breathing was slow
and heavy.
"Whatever he's suffering from was probably artificially induced," she
said.
"Possibly by injection."
"How is his fever?"
"Down a bit, I think," she said.
"He'll be okay."
"Good," Orlov said.
"Wake him."
"Sir?" The order took her completely by surprise.
"I want you to wake him," Orlov told her.
"You're bringing him with you."
"But that's not possible!" Odette protested.
"I don't even know if the American can stand."
"He'll stand," Orlov said.
"He has to."
"Sir, this is not going to help me--"
"I'm not going to have you face the Harpooner without experienced
backup," Orlov said.
"Now, you know the drill. Do it." Odetted shook her head. She knew the
drill. Viktor had taught it to her. Lit matches were applied to the
soles of the feet. It not only woke up the ill or people who had been
tortured into unconsciousness, but the pain kept them awake and alert as
they walked. Odette shook her head. By definition, field work was a
solo pursuit. What had happened to Viktor underscored the danger of
working with someone even briefly. Even if the American were well, she
was not sure she wanted a partner. I'll, he would be more of a burden
than an asset.
"All right," Odette said. She turned her back on the American and
walked toward the kitchenette.
"Where is he?"
"We believe the Harpooner is in the Hyatt," Orlov told her.
"We're trying to have a look at their computer records now. I'll let
you know if we learn anything from the files."
"I'll be there in ten minutes," Odette promised.
"Is there anything else. General?"
"Just this," Orlov said.
"I have grave reservations about sending you after this man. I want you
both to be careful."
"We will," Odette said.
"And thank you." She hung up and hooked the cell phone on her belt. She
removed the gun and ankle holster from the night table and slipped them
on. Her long police skirt would cover the weapon. She slipped a
silencer in her right pocket. She had brought a switchblade to the
hospital. That was still tucked in her left skirt pocket. If she did
not need it for self-defense, she would need it as a throwaway. If she
were stopped for any reason, perhaps by hotel security, Odette could say
that she was visiting a friend--the checkout who, of course, would no
longer be there. Odette would be able to say that she knocked on the
wrong door and the Harpooner attacked her. With her help--using
information provided by Orlov and the Americans--the police would
connect the dead man with the terrorist attack. Hopefully, though, it
would not be necessary to explain anything to anyone. With surprise on
her side, Odette might be able to catch the Harpooner relatively
unprepared. Odette walked on slightly bent knees and tiptoed to the
front door of the apartment. The hardwood floors creaked loudly
underfoot. It was strange, Odette thought. It had never been necessary
for her to be quiet here before. Until today, there had never been
anyone but her in this bed. Not that she regretted that. Viktor had
been all she ever wanted. Odette opened the door. Before leaving, she
looked back at the sleeping American. The woman felt bad about lying to
General Orlov. Though the coin of her profession was subterfuge and
deceit, she had never lied to Orlov. Fortunately, this was a win-win
situation for her. If she succeeded in bringing down the Harpooner,
Orlov would be angry with her-but not very. And if she failed, she
would not be around to hear Orlov complain. Odette stepped into the
corridor and quietly shut the door behind her. If she blew this
assignment, she would probably have to listen to Viktor complain. Listen
for all eternity. She smiled. That, too, was a win situation.
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 2:08 a.m.
A stoic secret service agent opened the door to the Oval Office and
admitted Paul Hood. The large, white door closed with a small click.
The sound seemed very loud to Hood as he crossed the carpet toward the
>
president's desk. So did the sound of Hood's heart. He had no way of
knowing for certain whether Fenwick was a rogue figure or working as
part of a team. Either way, convincing others about possible
involvement in an international conspiracy of some kind was going to be
extremely difficult. The mood in the room was hostile. Hood could feel
that even before he saw the faces of the vice president, Fenwick, and
Gable. None of the men looked back at him, and the president's
expression was severe. Mike Rodgers once said that when he first joined
the military, he had a commanding officer with a very singular
expression of disapproval. He looked at you as though he wanted to tear
heads off and use them for punting practice. The president had that
look. Hood quickly made his way between the armchairs to the president's
desk. The Washington Monument was visible through the windows behind the
president. The tower was brightly moonlit in the flat, black night.
Seeing it then gave Hood the flash of courage he needed.
"I'm sorry to intrude, Mr. President, gentlemen," Hood announced.
"This couldn't wait."
"Things never can wait with you, can they?" Fenwick asked. He glanced
back at the green folder in his lap.
A preemptive strike. Hood thought. The bastard was good. Hood turned
