by Eikeltje
A few seconds later, Corporal Cain's voice and demeanor changed. His
posture was stiffer, his tone formal. He was speaking with General Burg.
Cain repeated the request. Several seconds after that, the young
Corporal hung up. He looked at the First Lady.
"Your husband will see you both," he said proudly. Megan smiled and
thanked him. Hood and Megan turned and hurried down the corridor to the
Situation Room.
Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 11:22 a.m.
Unsteadily, David Battat made his way down the stairwell. Because of the
late morning hour, not many people were exiting the hotel. Several of
the people who did pass Battat asked if he needed help. The American
told them that he had inhaled some smoke but would be all right. Hugging
the iron banister, he made his way slowly down the concrete stairs. When
Battat reached the lobby, he leaned against a wall near the house
phones. He did not want to sit down. He was weak and dizzy and afraid
he would not get back up. One of the hotel staff members, an assistant
manager, asked him who he was and what room he was staying in. He said
he was not a guest but had been visiting a friend. The young woman told
him that firefighters wanted everyone to go outside. Battat said he
would go out as soon as he caught his breath. Battat looked across the
lobby. It was crowded with people, mostly hotel staff, along with about
fifty or sixty guests. The guests were concerned about their belongings
and asking questions about security. They did not seem in a hurry to
leave. There was no smoke in the lobby, and firefighters were just
pulling into the circular drive in front of the hotel. Battat was
concerned about how Odette was making out. He had been proud of her
when she left the hotel. If she had been afraid, she did not show it. He
wished he were a little steadier. He did not like the idea of her
having to face the Harpooner alone. There was a side exit down the
corridor to Battat's right. The parking lot was to the right, the front
of the hotel to the left. Since the fire trucks were out front, he felt
he stood a better chance of catching a taxi in the parking lot. If not,
there was a major thoroughfare beyond the parking lot. He had seen it
from the upstairs window. He could probably catch a bus there. Pushing
himself off the wall, Battat shuffled down the carpeted hallway. He felt
feverish again, though he did not feel worse than he had before. His
body was fighting whatever he had been injected with. That probably
meant it was viral rather than chemical. He could finally get medical
attention and start to shake this. Battat's vision was misty as he moved
past the bank of telephones. There were several shops beyond, their
picture windows reflecting each other. There was no one inside, either
customers or employees. The displays of shirts and trinkets, of luggage
and toys, all seemed to merge as Battat neared. He tried to blink them
clear. He could not. The sickness plus the exertion had worn him down
much more than he thought. Battat gave serious thought to going back to
the lobby and asking the fire department medics for a ride to the
hospital. He had been afraid to go there lest someone recognize him
from the night before and ask about the dead man in his room. But he was
beginning to doubt that he could make it from the hotel, let alone reach
the embassy. Suddenly, someone appeared in Battat's line of vision. The
American stopped and squinted. It was a man wearing jeans and a white
shirt. There were straps around his shoulder.
A black backpack. Oh Christ, Battat thought as the man approached. He
knew who it was. And he had no doubt that the man recognized him. And
knew why he was in such a weakened condition. After all, it was
probably this same man who had injected him with the toxin on the beach.
The Harpooner. The assassin had just walked in through the side door. He
was about twenty feet away. He was holding what looked like a knife in
his right hand. Battat would not be able to fight him. He had to try
and get back to the lobby. Battat turned, but he moved too fast. His
vision blurred and he stumbled against one of the shop windows. He
quickly pushed off with his shoulder. He staggered ahead. If he could
just get to the lobby, even if he fell square on his face, someone might
get to him before the Harpooner could. Battat reached the bank of
phones. He extended his left arm, used it to move himself along the
wall. Push, step, push, step. He was halfway along the bank when he
felt starched fabric slide along the front of his throat. A sleeve. A
strong arm pulled back, putting Battat into a choke hold.
"The last time we met, I needed you alive," the assassin whispered
harshly.
"Not this time. Unless you tell me who you're working with."
"Up yours," Battat gasped. Battat felt a knee against the small of his
back. If the Harpooner intended to kill him standing up, he was going
to be disappointed. Battat's legs gave out and he dropped to the floor.
The Harpooner immediately released Battat and swung around in front of
him. He straddled Battat and dropped a knee on his chest. Battat felt
a sharp jab in his side and exhaled painfully. One or more of his ribs
had been broken. The Harpooner brought the knife to the left side of
the American's throat. He pressed the sharp tip just below the ear.
"No," the Harpooner hissed as he glared down at Battat.
"This is going up yours." Battat was too weak to fight. He was aware
that he was going to be cut from ear to ear and then left to drown in
his own blood. But there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing.
Battat felt a pinch in his throat. A moment later, he heard a soft pop
and blood sprayed into his eyes. He thought it would hurt more, having
his throat pierced. But there was no pain after the initial pinch. He
did not feel the blade moving through his skin. And he was still able
to breathe. An instant later, Battat heard a second pop. He blinked
hard to clear the blood from his eyes. He watched as the Harpooner just
hovered there, crouched on his chest. Blood was pumping from a wound in
his throat. There was no drama in his face, no great gesture befitting
the size of his crimes. Just a momentary look of confusion and
surprise. Then the killer's eyes shut, the knife fell from his hand, and
the Harpooner tumbled to the floor between Battat and the phone bank.
Battat lay there. He did not know exactly what had happened until
Odette appeared from behind. She was holding her silenced pistol in
front of her and looking down at the Harpooner.
"Are you all right?" she asked Battat. He reached up and felt his
throat. Except for a trickle of blood on the left side, it felt intact.
"I think I'm okay," Battat said.
"Thank you." Battat managed to half wriggle, half crawl away as Odette
bent and examined the Harpooner. The woman kept the gun pointed at the
Harpooner's head as she felt his wrist for a pulse. Then she held her
fingers under his nose, feeling for breath. But she had struck him once
in the throat and o
nce in the chest. His white shin was already thick
and dripping with blood.
"I'm glad you followed him," Battat said. He pulled a handkerchief from
his pocket and pressed it to his own wound.
"I didn't," Odette said as she rose.
"I lost him. But then I thought he might come back to try to cover his
tracks. And I knew which one of us he would recognize." Just then, a
housekeeper in the lobby saw the body and screamed. Battat looked back.
She was pointing at them and shouting for help. Odette stepped around
the corpse to help Battat to his feet.
"We've got to get out of here," she said urgently.
"Come on. My car isn't far--"
"Wait," Battat said. He bent over the Harpooner's body and began
working on the straps of the backpack.
"Help me get this off. There may be evidence we can use to identify his
partners."
"You just get on your feet," Odette said as she pulled out her knife.
"I'll do that." Battat pulled himself up, using the ledge under the
phones while Odette cut the backpack free. Then, lending Battat her
shoulder, Odette led the American down the hall. They were nearly at the
door when someone yelled at them from behind.
"Stop!" a man yelled. Battat and Odette turned. An elderly hotel
security officer was standing just beyond the phone bank. Odette let
Battat lean against one of the shop windows while she pulled her badge
from her back pocket. She held it toward the security officer.
"I'm Odette Kolker of Metropolitan Squad Three," she said.
"The man on the floor is a wanted terrorist. He started the fire in
310. Make sure the room is sealed off.
I'm taking my partner to the hospital to see that he gets proper care.
Then I'll be back." Odette did not wait for the man to answer or for
other security personnel to arrive. She turned and helped Battat from
the building. She did that well, Battat thought. Gave the man a
mission, made him feel important, so he would not interfere with them.
The brisk, clear air and sharp sunshine helped give Battat yet another
fresh start. This was the last one, though. He knew that for certain.
The American's legs were rubbery, and he was having trouble holding his
head up. At least his neck was not bleeding badly. And the
handkerchief was keeping most of that inside, where it belonged. Only
after they had made their way through the parking lot to the rear of the
hotel did it hit Battat. Odette had done it. She had not only saved
his life but she had stopped the Harpooner. She had killed a terrorist
who had eluded all of Europe's top security agencies. He was proud to
have had a small hand in this. The only down side was that Odette
probably would not be able to remain in Baku after this. It was going
to be tough to explain this to her police superiors. And if the
Harpooner had allies, they might come looking for her. It was probably
a good time for Odette to assume another identity. Five minutes later,
Battat was seated in the passenger's seat of Odette's car. They pulled
from the curb and headed toward the American embassy. It would be a
short ride, but there was something that could not wait. The Harpooner's
backpack was in Battat's lap. There was a small padlock on the flap. He
borrowed Odette's knife and cut the flap away. He looked inside. There
were some documents as well as a Zed-4 phone. He had worked one of those
when he was in Moscow. They were more compact and sophisticated than the
American Tac-Sats. Battat removed the phone from the case. There was an
alphanumeric keypad along with several other buttons. Above them was a
liquid crystal display on top. He pushed the menu button to the right of
the display. For the Harpooner's sake, the instructions were in English.
And for the first time since David Battat arrived in Baku, he did
something he had missed. He smiled.
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 4:27 am.
The Situation Room was a brightly lit chamber with a low ceiling, white
walls, and soft, fluorescent lighting. There was a conference table in
the center of the room and chairs along three of the four walls.
Computer monitors were attached to the arms of the chairs. They
provided aides with up-to-the-minute information. The fourth wall was
fitted with a ten-foot-long high definition TV monitor. The screen was
linked to the National Reconnaissance Office. Real-time satellite images
could be displayed there with magnification of objects up to three feet
long. Most of these high-tech improvements were made within the last
four years using over two billion dollars that had been allocated to
fixing the White House recreation facilities, including the pool and
tennis court. Hood and the First Lady entered through the door that was
under the high-definition monitor. The chiefs of the army, navy, and
air force and the commandant of the marine corps were sitting along one
side of the table with their chairman. General Otis Burg, in the
center. Burg was a big, barrel-chested man in his late fifties. He had
a shaved head and steel gray eyes that had been hardened by war and
political bureaucracy. The joint chiefs' aides were seated behind them.
Along the other side of the table were the president, the vice
president, NSA head Fenwick, Chief of Staff Gable, and Deputy National
Security adviser Don Roedner. Judging by their tense expressions,
either it was a difficult meeting or they did not appreciate the
interruption. Or both. Several members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff
registered surprise to see Hood with the First Lady. So did the
president. He had been in the process of rising to go into an adjoining
study and talk with her. The president froze and looked from Megan to
Hood, then back to Megan. The new arrivals stopped at the head of the
conference table.
"What's going on?" the president asked. Hood glanced at the joint
chiefs, who were a wall of impatience. He still did not know whether
the frustration was with him or with the issue at hand. All he knew was
that he would not have much time to present his case.
"Sir," Hood said, "there is increasing evidence that the attack on the
Iranian oil rig was executed not by Azerbaijanis but by Iranians under
the direction of the terrorist known as the Harpooner." The president
sat back down.
"Why?" he asked.
"So that Iran could justify moving ships into the region and seize as
many oil resources as possible," Hood told him.
"And risk a military showdown with the United States?" Lawrence asked.
"No, sir," Hood replied. He looked at Fenwick.
"I believe there is an agreement in place to make sure the United States
does not interfere. Then, when the tensions are defused, we simply buy
our oil from Teheran."
"And when was this agreement made?" the president asked.
"Yesterday, in New York," Hood said.
"Probably after many months of negotiations."
"You're referring to Jack's visit to the Iranian mission," the president
said.
"Yes, sir," Hood replied.
"Mr. Fenwick was not empowered to make suc
h a promise," the president
pointed out.
"If he did make one, it would not be valid."
"It might be if you were not in office," Hood said.
"This is ridiculous!" Fenwick declared.
"I was at the Iranian mission to try and expand our intelligence
resources in the Middle East. I've explained that, and I can document
it. I can tell you who I met with and when."
"All part of the big lie," Hood said.
"Mr. Roedner was with me," Penwick said.
"I have the notes I made, and I'll be happy to name my contacts. What do
you have, Mr. Hood?"
"The truth," he replied without hesitation.
"It's the same thing I had when you vowed to keep me from seeing the
president." ' "What I vowed was to keep you from bothering the
president," Fenwick insisted.
"Secret deals with Iran. The president being out of office. This isn't
the truth, Mr. Hood. It's paranoia!" The vice president looked at his
watch.
"Mr. President, forgive me, but we're wasting time. We need to get on
with this meeting."
"I agree," said General Burg.
"I'm not up to speed on any of this back-and-forth, and it isn't my job
to say which of these gentlemen is full of gravy. But whether we play
offense or defense, we have to make some quick decisions if we're going
to match Iran's deployment." The president nodded.
"Then get on with the meeting, Mr. President, General Burg," Hood said.
"But please delay taking military action for as long as possible. Give
me time to finish the investigation we've begun."
"I asked for evidence to back your claims," the president said, his
