State of Siege o-6

by Tom Clancy

  “Mike,” Herbert said, “we’re on pretty shaky ground as far as Striker is concerned.”

  “Shaky in what way?” Rodgers asked.

  Herbert raised and lowered a shoulder. “In a lot of ways—”

  “Spell them out. Morally? Legally? Logistically?”

  “All of the above,” Herbert said.

  “Maybe I’m being a little naive here,” Rodgers said, “but what I see is a strike force with extensive antiterrorist training moving into position to deal with terrorists. Where’s the moral, legal, or logistical shakiness?”

  Attorney Coffey spoke up. “For one thing, Mike, we haven’t been asked to help the United Nations with this situation. That in itself weighs pretty heavily against you.”

  “Granted,” Rodgers said. “Hopefully, I can arrange that when I get there, especially if the terrorists start sending bodies out. Darrell McCaskey’s communicating with Chatterjee’s security staff through Interpol—”

  “At a very low level,” Herbert reminded him. “The UN security commander isn’t going to put a lot of stock in what an aide tells him secondhand through an Interpol guy in Madrid.”

  “We don’t know that,” Rodgers said. “Hell, we don’t know anything about the commander, do we?”

  “My staff is reviewing his file,” Herbert said. “He’s not someone we’ve had any dealings with.”

  “Regardless,” Rodgers said. “He’s in a situation where he’s probably going to have to look outside for help. For real, solid, immediate help, wherever it’s coming from.”

  “But Mike, that’s not the only problem,” Coffey said.

  Rodgers looked down at the computer clock. The chopper would be here in less than twenty minutes. He didn’t have time for this.

  “Countries that have no interest in the outcome of this situation will absolutely not want a covert team of elite, United States forces moving through the Secretariat building.”

  “Since when are we worried about hurting the feelings of Iraqis and the French?” Rodgers asked.

  “It isn’t a matter of feelings,” Coffey pointed out. “It’s a question of international law.”

  “Christ, Lowell — the terrorists broke that law!” Rodgers said.

  “That doesn’t mean we can, too,” Coffey said. “Even if we’re willing to break international law, every Striker action to date has been executed according to Op-Center’s charter — U.S. law. Specifically, we’ve gotten the permission of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee—”

  “I’m not worried about a goddamn court-martial, Lowell,” Rodgers interrupted sharply.

  “This isn’t about personal culpability,” Coffey said. “It’s about Op-Center’s survival.”

  “I agree,” Rodgers said. “Its about our survival as an effective, counterterrorist force—”

  “No,” Coffey said, “as a division of the United States government. We were chartered to act, and I quote, ‘when the threat to federal institutions or any constituents thereof, or to American lives in the service of those institutions, is clear-cut and immediate.’ I don’t see that here. What I do see is that if you go in, whether you succeed or fail is irrelevant—”

  “Not to Paul and the other parents.”

  “This isn’t about them!” Coffey snapped. “It’s about the larger picture. The American public will applaud. Hell, I’ll applaud. But France or Iraq or some member nation will pressure the administration to take us to task for overstepping our mandate.”

  “Especially if the terrorists turn out to be foreigners and any of them are killed,” Herbert said. “American soldiers effectively executing foreign nationals on international territory with every media outlet in the world covering the event will destroy us.”

  “And they’ll do it with American law, not international law,” Coffey added. “Congress will have no choice but to pull everyone in this room in front of the CIOC. Never mind our careers. If they vote to dissolve Op-Center or even just Striker, how many future lives will be lost? How many battles won’t we be able to fight that have a direct influence on the security of the United States?”

  “I can’t believe this,” Rodgers said. “We’re talking about children being held hostage!”

  “Unfortunately,” Herbert said, “as angry as it makes us all, the threat to the delegates and to Paul’s daughter doesn’t fall under those parameters. Saving her is a luxury we may not be able to afford.”

  “A luxury?” Rodgers said. “Jesus, Bob, you’re talking like a goddamned Camp Fire girl!”

  Herbert glared at Rodgers. “That was my late wife. She was the Camp Fire girl.”

  Rodgers looked at Herbert and then looked down. The ventilators in the ceiling sounded very loud.

  “Since the subject has been raised,” Herbert continued, “my wife was also a victim of terrorists. I know what you’re feeling, Mike. The frustration. I know what Paul and Sharon are feeling. And I also know that Lowell is right. The place for Op-Center in this fight is on the sidelines.”

  “Doing nothing.”

  “Surveillance, tactical assistance, moral support — if we can contribute those, they aren’t nothing,” Herbert said.

  “ ‘They also serve who only stand and wait,’ ” Rodgers said solemnly.

  “Sometimes, yes.” Herbert patted the arms of his wheelchair. “Otherwise, you could end up sitting and waiting. Or worse.”

  Rodgers glanced at his watch. Lowell Coffey had made valid legal points. And Rodgers’s stumble about Yvonne Herbert had given her husband the right to sermonize. But that didn’t make either man right.

  “I’ve got about fifteen minutes to meet the plane,” Rodgers said quietly. “Bob, I’ve already put you in charge. If you want to stop me, you can.” He looked at Liz Gordon. “Liz, you can have me declared mentally unfit, suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, whatever the hell you want. If you do, I won’t fight either of you. But barring that, I won’t stand and wait. I can’t. Not while a band of murderers is holding kids hostage.”

  Herbert shook his head slowly. “This one’s not that black and white, Mike.”

  “That’s no longer the issue,” Rodgers said to him. “Are you going to stop me?”

  Herbert stopped shaking his head. “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

  “May I ask why?” Coffey asked indignantly.

  Herbert sighed. “Yeah. In the CIA, we used to call it respect.”

  Coffey made a face.

  “If a superior wanted to bend the rules, you bent them,” Herbert went on. “All you could do was try not to bend ’em so far that they came around and bit you in the ass.”

  Coffey sat back. “I expect that from the Cosa Nostra, not the lawful government of the United States,” he said unhappily.

  “If we were all so damn virtuous, lawful government wouldn’t be necessary,” Herbert said.

  Rodgers looked at Liz. She was not happy either.

  “Well?” Rodgers said.

  “Well what?” Liz said. “I’m not a brick in Bob’s wall of silence, but I’m not going to stop you. Right now, you’re being headstrong, impatient, and you’re probably acting out, looking to hit someone hard for what your captors did in the Bekaa Valley. But unfit? From a psychological standpoint, not a legal one, I can’t say you’re unfit.”

  Rodgers looked back at Herbert. “Bob, will you try to get me into the CIA shell?”

  Herbert nodded.

  Rodgers looked at Coffey. “Lowell, will you go to the CIOC? See if they’ll call an emergency meeting?”

  Coffey’s thin mouth was tight, and his polished fingernails were tapping the table. But above all, the attorney was a professional. He hooked back his sleeve and looked at his watch.

  “I’ll call Senator Warren on his mobile phone,” Coffey said. “He’s our most sympathetic ear over there. But those people are tough enough to reach on a weekday. On a weekend, at night—”

  “I understand,” Rodgers said. “Thanks. You, too, Bob.”
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  “Sure thing,” Herbert replied.

  Coffey was already looking up the phone number on his electronic pocket directory as Rodgers looked over at Matt Stoll and Ann Farris. The technical genius was staring intently at his folded hands, and the press liaison was quiet, her expression noncommittal. He thought he might get her approval since he was trying to help Paul Hood, but he wasn’t going to ask. He turned toward the door.

  “Mike?” Herbert said.

  Rodgers looked back at him. “Yes?”

  “Whatever you need, you know you’ve got our support back here,” Herbert said.

  “I know.”

  “Just try not to destroy the Secretariat Building, okay?” Herbert said. “And one more thing.”

  “What’s that?” Rodgers asked.

  “I don’t want to find myself running this goddamned place,” Herbert said with the hint of a smile. “So make sure you get your headstrong, impatient, acting-out self back here.”

  “I’ll try,” Rodgers said, smiling slightly himself as he opened the door.

  It wasn’t exactly the endorsement Rodgers had hoped for but, as he hurried through the cubicles toward the elevator, at least he didn’t feel like Gary Cooper in High Noon—alone. And right now, that was something.

  SEVENTEEN

  New York, New York

  Saturday, 10:11 P.M.

  The short-lived but legendary Office of Strategic Services was formed in June of 1942. Under the leadership of World War I hero William Joseph “Wild Bill” Donovan, the OSS was responsible for collecting military intelligence. After the war, in 1946, President Truman established the Central Intelligence Group, which was chartered to gather foreign intelligence pertaining to national security. A year later, the National Security Act renamed the CIG the Central Intelligence Agency. The act also broadened the scope of the CIA charter to allow it to conduct counterintelligence activities.

  Thirty-two-year-old Annabelle “Ani” Hampton had always enjoyed being a spy. There were so many mental and emotional levels to it, so many sensations. There was danger and there was reward proportionate to the danger. There was a sense of being invisible or, if you were caught, of being more naked than naked. There was a feeling of having power over others, of risking punishment and death. There was also a great deal of planning involved, of positioning yourself just so, of patience, of catching someone in the right frame of mind, of seducing emotionally and sometimes physically.

  It was, in fact, a lot like sex only better, she thought. In spying, if you grew tired of someone you could have them killed. Not that she ever had. Not yet, anyway.

  Ani had enjoyed being a spy because she’d always been a loner. Other children had no curiosity. She did. As a child, she liked to find out where squirrels made their homes or watch birds as they laid their eggs or, depending on her mood, help wild rabbits escape from red foxes or help red foxes snare the hares. She liked to eavesdrop on her father’s pinochle games or on her grandmother’s teas or on her older brother’s dates. She even made a journal of the news she picked up while spying on her family. Which neighbor was “a prick.” Which aunt was “a bitch on wheels.” Which mother-in-law “should learn to keep her mouth shut.” Ani’s mother once found the journal and took it away, but that was all right. Ani had been smart enough to keep a duplicate book.

  Ani’s parents, Al and Ginny, had owned a women’s clothing store in Roanoke, Virginia. Ani used to work at Hampton’s Fashions after school and on weekends. Whenever possible, she would study everything about the people who came in to browse. She attempted to hear what they were saying, tried to guess what they were going to look at based on how they were dressed or how well they spoke. And then she moved in to make the sale. If she’d been careful and smart, she got it. Usually, she was.

  The spying ended when her parents’s store went bankrupt, driven out of business by larger discount chains. Her parents were forced to go to work for one of those chains. But Ani’s fascination with understanding and then carefully manipulating people did not die. She won a full scholarship to Georgetown University in Washington. She majored in political science and minored in Asian affairs since, at the time, it looked like Japan and the Pacific Rim were going to be the hot spots of the twenty-first century. Though her parents’ own hopes had died, Ani never saw them prouder than when she graduated from college summa cum laude. That was when she set herself a goal to make them prouder still. Ani resolved that she would not only become a CIA agent, but before she was forty years old, she would be running the agency.

  Upon graduating, the slender, five-foot-ten-inch-tall blonde applied to the CIA. She was hired — partly because of her exemplary academic record and partly, she later learned, because equal opportunity guidelines found the notoriously chauvinistic agency short on women. The reasons didn’t matter then. Ani was in. Officially, she served as a visa consultant in a succession of U.S. embassies in Asia. Unofficially, she used her downtime to develop contacts in the government and military. Dissatisfied officials and officers. Men and women who were hurt by the Asian financial collapse of the mid-1990s. People who might be persuaded to provide information for money.

  Ani was singularly effective as a CIA recruiter. Ironically, she found that her greatest asset was not her knowledge of Asian culture or government. It wasn’t even the fact that she’d seen her parents lose their slice of the American Dream and knew how to talk to people who felt disconnected. Her greatest asset was her ability to remain emotionally uninvolved with her recruits. There had been times when it was necessary to sacrifice people for information, and she had not hesitated to do so. She understood from school, from life, from reading history, that people were the coin of governments and armies and that you couldn’t be afraid to spend them. In a way, it was no different from telling women they’d looked good in coats or slacks or blouses when she knew they didn’t. The store needed their money, and she was determined to get it.

  Unfortunately, Ani found that talent and drive weren’t enough. When she accomplished what she’d been sent abroad to do, the young woman wasn’t given a promotion or higher security clearance. Now the antifemale bias mattered: The good jobs went to her male colleagues. Ani was sent to Seoul to collect data submitted by the contacts she’d established. Most of it was transmitted electronically, and she was not even involved in interpreting what came in. That was done by ELINT teams back at Company headquarters. After six months of sitting at a computer, working as an intel shuffler, she asked to be transferred to Washington. Instead, she was transferred to New York. As an intel shuffler.

  Because of her overseas experience, Ani had been sent to work at the Doyle Shipping Agency. The CIA front operated from the shell office on the fourth floor of 866 United Nations Plaza. Their mission was to spy on key United Nations officials. The DSA consisted of a small reception area with a secretary — who was off today, since it was Saturday — an office for field office director David Battat, and another office for Ani. There was also a small office for the two floaters who were shared by this office and another in the financial district. The floaters trailed diplomats who were suspected of trying to meet with spies or prospective spies in this country. The office also stocked arms, from guns to C-4, which could be used by the floaters or carried to agents abroad in diplomatic pouches. Ani’s small, East River-view office was really the heart of the operation. It was filled with fake DSA files, books of shipping schedules and tax regulations, along with a computer linked to high-tech equipment locked in a broom closet at the end of the small corridor.

  Ani’s job was to monitor the activities of key United Nations personnel. She did this by using bugs developed by the CIA’s research and sciences group and being field-tested in the UN for the first time—“to work the bugs out,” as Battat had put it. The bugs were literally mechanical bugs the size of a large beetle. Made of titanium and extremely lightweight piezoelectric ceramics — materials that caused very little drain on the batteries, allowing them to run for years witho
ut being recalled — the bugs are electronically attuned to the voice of a subject. After being set loose inside a building, they required no further maintenance. The fleet, six-legged devices could reach any point in the building within twenty minutes and followed their individual targets by moving behind walls and through air ducts; hooklike feet allowed them to travel vertically along most surfaces. The voices were transmitted from the bugs to the receiver attachment to Ani’s computer, which was nicknamed “the hive.” Ani typically listened to the broadcast with headphones to keep out extraneous office and street noises.

  Seven mobile bugs inside the United Nations complex enabled the CIA to eavesdrop on influential ambassadors as well as on the secretary-general. Because all the bugs operated on the same very narrow audio frequency, Ani could only access one at a time. She was able to shuttle between them using the computer. The bugs also contained sound generators that emitted an ultrasonic ping once every few seconds. The pulse was designed to frighten potential predators. At two million dollars apiece, the CIA did not want the bugs to be eaten by hungry bats or other insect eaters.

  Though Ani deeply resented the transfer and the grunt work she was doing, there were three bright spots. First, though the work tended to be uneventful, she was spying as clandestinely as possible. The voyeur in her enjoyed that. Second, her superior spent most of his time in Washington or at the CIA office at the American embassy in Moscow — which was where he was now — so she effectively ran this small office. And finally, being held back by the “Chauvinists Institute of America” had reminded her that whether you’re selling women’s clothes or selling information, you have to find ways of making yourself happy. Since coming to New York, she had developed an appreciation for art and music, for fine restaurants and elegant clothes, for good living and pampering herself. For the first time in her life, she had been setting goals that had nothing to do with her career or making someone proud. It felt good.

  Very good.