Divide and Conquer o-7

by Tom Clancy

  “I’m sure,” Ann said. “I’ll e-mail you a copy of the press release before it goes out.”

  “Thanks again,” Hood said. “For everything.”

  “Sure.” Ann hesitated. She looked at Hood for a long moment more and then left.

  Hood turned to the computer monitor on his right. He did not want to watch Ann go. Ann Farris was a beautiful, intelligent, very sexual woman. For the five years they had known each other, they had flirted, she more openly than he. Now that Hood was going to be single, he felt uneasy about continuing the game. There was no longer someone between them. Flirting no longer felt like a game.

  But Hood did not have time to think about that now. There was a lot to do. He had to review the daily briefings that had gone to Mike Rodgers during the past week, which included intelligence data collected from around the world as well as ongoing covert operations. He also had to look at reports from the rest of the staff and have a glance at the schedule for the upcoming week before he went to see the First Lady. He noticed that Rodgers was going to be interviewing the final candidates to replace Martha Mackall, the political liaison who had been assassinated in Spain, as well as candidates for the new post of economic adviser. With more and more nations linked together financially—“Siamese megatuplets” was how Lowell Coffey had put it — poli — tics was becoming a troublesome sideshow to the force that really drove the world.

  Hood decided to let Mike make those hires. Not only had he started the process, but Hood was going to be too busy with everything else. But with all that was going on, one thing remained true.

  Paul Hood loved this work, this place.

  It was good to be back.

  EIGHT

  Baku, Azerbaijan

  Monday, 4:00 P.M.

  Azerbaijan is a nation in flux.

  Because of political conflict in the Nagorno-Karabakh region, twenty percent of the country — mostly in the southwest, along the borders with Armenia and Iran — are occupied by rebel forces. Though a cease-fire has been observed since 1994, firefights occur with some regularity. Privately, diplomats fear that the self-proclaimed Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh will become the next Kosovo. Protests, often violent, erupt in Baku and other cities without warning. Some of them pertain to politics, others to general unrest. Since the breakup of the Soviet Union, there has been an extreme shortage of staples such as medical supplies, produce, and new technology. Cash — preferably U.S. dollars — is the only form of exchange recognized in most areas of the country, including the capital.

  The United States has managed to openly support the legitimate government of Azerbaijan without alienating the powerful insurgent forces. Loans have been granted to Baku, while goods have been sold directly to “the people”—primarily the rebels. In the event of widespread revolt, the United States wants to have open lines of communication on both sides.

  Maintaining that balance is the primary task of the small American embassy. Since March 1993, the fifteen employees and ten marine guards have operated from a small stone building at 83 Azadlig Prospect. In the back of that building, in a windowless, wood-paneled room, is the Department of News Services. Unlike the small press department, which issues news releases and arranges for interviews and photo ops with U.S. congress-men, senators, and other government leaders, officially the job of the DNS is to collect news clippings from around Russia and keep them on file for reference.

  Officially.

  In fact, the DNS is staffed by one CIA operative who gathers intelligence from around the nation. Most of the information comes from electronic surveillance that is conducted both from the office via satellite and from vans. Some of it comes from personnel who are paid to watch, listen to, and photograph government officials — sometimes in compromising situations. Some of those situations are also arranged by the DNS.

  Because he was hurt, David Battat did not want to attempt returning to Moscow. Instead, he made his way to the embassy on foot. He was taken to see Deputy Ambassador Dorothy Williamson, who brought in Senior Researcher Tom Moore. Williamson was a large woman with curly black hair. Battat guessed her to be about forty. Moore was a lean giant in his thirties with a long, gaunt face and a lugubrious expression. If Battat had to be stranded in Baku, his expression would be gloomy as well.

  Williamson’s aide was a smart veteran named Ron Friday. He was the only one who gave Battat an encouraging smile. Battat appreciated that.

  While Battat gave Moore a quick rundown on what had happened, Williamson had the Marine medic take a look at Battat’s wounds. There was swelling in his throat and traces of blood in his saliva, though the damage did not appear to be serious. When the medic was finished with him, Battat was taken to the DNS room. He was given privacy while he called Moscow. He spoke to Pat Thomas, the assistant director of public information at the embassy. Thomas was also an OTR — off the record — field director for the CIA. That meant there was no record of him at agency headquarters. His reports were delivered directly to Washington in the diplomatic pouch.

  Thomas did not take the news well. If Battat had succeeded in identifying the Harpooner, Thomas would have been a hero. Instead, he would have to explain to his counterpart in Baku and his superior in Washington how they had managed to blow the relatively simple job of surveillance.

  Thomas said that he would think about their next step and let him know. Food was brought in. Battat ate, even though he had left his appetite back at the beach, along with his self-esteem, his energy, the mission, and his career. Then he sat in a chair resting until Williamson and Moore arrived for a second, more thorough, conversation. Moore looked grim. This was going to be painful.

  Acoustic devices planted in the walls caused conversations to sound like static to the electronic eavesdropping devices that the Azerbaijanis had placed on surrounding buildings.

  Battat told them that Moscow had suspected the Harpooner was in Baku, and he had been sent to try and identify him. This news did not meet with the approval of the senior researcher.

  “The field office in Moscow obviously didn’t feel it was necessary to involve us in this operation,” Moore complained. “Do you want to tell me why?”

  “They were afraid that our target might have people watching the embassy,” Battat said.

  “Not all of our people are in the embassy,” Moore pointed out. “We have external resources.”

  “I understand,” Battat said. “But Moscow felt that the fewer people who were in the loop, the better our chances of surprising the target.”

  “Which didn’t really help, did it?” Moore said.

  “No.”

  “Whoever attacked you obviously knew you were coming.”

  “Apparently, though I don’t understand how,” Battat said. “I was well hidden, and I wasn’t using anything that gave out an electronic pulse. The camera was one of the digital seventies. No flash, no glass in front to reflect light, no moving parts that clicked.”

  “Couldn’t this Harpooner or his people have done a routine sweep of the shore?” the deputy ambassador asked.

  “I was watching for that,” said Battat. “I got to the site early, at a spot we’d selected through satellite imaging. We chose it specifically so that I could see and hear people coming and going.”

  “Then why didn’t you see or hear the goddamned assailant coming?” asked Moore.

  “Because they hit me just when something started to happen out on the boat I was watching,” he said. “Someone came from below and turned on a radio. It was a perfect distraction.”

  “Which suggests that someone knew you were in that spot, Mr. Battat,” Moore said.

  “Probably.”

  “Possibly even before you got there,” Moore went on.

  “I don’t see how, but I can’t rule it out,” Battat agreed.

  “What I really want to know, though, is whether this was even the Harpooner,” Moore went on.

  “What do you mean?” the deputy ambassador asked.

  �
�The Harpooner has been a terrorist for over two decades,” Moore told her. “He has personally run or been a part of at least fifteen terrorist strikes that we know of and probably many more that we don’t know about. He’s eluded countless efforts to trap him thanks, in large part, to his ability to stay mobile. He has no permanent address that we know of, hires whoever he needs, and rarely uses the same people twice. We only know what he looks like because one of his arms suppliers once snuck a photo to us. The supplier’s body was found a few months later on a sailboat, slit from chin to belly with a fish-gutting knife—after we’d relocated him and given him a new ID.”

  “I see,” the deputy ambassador said.

  “He left the knife behind,” Moore said. “He always leaves his weapons behind, from spearguns to bowline stirrups.”

  “Sea-related things,” said Williamson.

  “Often,” Moore said. “We suspect he was in the naval service somewhere — not a big leap of faith, though we haven’t been able to trace him. But in all that time, the Harpooner never left a witness. Which means that either it wasn’t the Harpooner who attacked Mr. Battat or the Harpooner wanted him alive.”

  The deputy ambassador regarded Battat. “For what reason?”

  “I can’t think of one,” Battat admitted.

  The three were silent for a moment. The only sound was the hum of the air vent.

  “Mr. Battat, the presence of a man like the Harpooner in this region could have terrible ramifications for all of us,” said the deputy ambassador.

  “Which is another reason why we should have been in the loop on this!” Moore said angrily. “Hell, we know who the undercover guys are that are watching us, and they haven’t been around for days. They’re too busy trying to find a Russian spy who slipped out of jail two days ago.”

  “Again, I’m sorry,” said Battat.

  “Would you mind staying in Baku while we try to make sense of all this?” the deputy ambassador asked.

  “Not at all,” said Battat. “I want to help.”

  “Hopefully, it’s not too late for that,” Moore said.

  They rose. “What about the Rachel?” Battat asked.

  “I’ve sent a small plane out to look for it,” Moore told him. “But they’ve had several hours head start, and God knows which direction they went. I’m not optimistic.”

  “Can’t you trace the name?” Battat asked. “Isn’t there a local registry?”

  “There is,” Moore told him, “and the Rachel isn’t in it. We’re checking records in Dagestan, Kalmyk, and other republics on the Caspian, but my guess is she’s a rogue.”

  Moore showed Battat to a small guest room on the second floor of the building. There was a cot in the corner, and Battat lay down to think. The boat, the music they played, the brief glimpse he had of the man on deck — he replayed the sounds and images over and over, looking for more information. Something that might tell him who the crew of the Rachel were, how they were dressed, or where they might have come from. In SD sessions — subconscious debriefing — trained interviewers would walk agents through experiences to help them remember lost details. The interviewers would ask about the color of the sky, the look of the water, the force of the wind and the smells riding it. Once the agent was reimmersed in the scene, the interviewer would move him around, ask him to describe distinctive markings on the hull of the boat or whether there were banners on the stern or mast or sounds coming from the deck or below. It always surprised Battat how much information the brain stored that was not always immediately accessible.

  Though Battat closed his eyes and breathed slowly and deeply and went through the SD checklist, he could not remember anything that brought him closer to whoever was on the boat or from what direction his assailant might have come. He could not even remember the feel of the fabric on the arm that had been choking him or the smell of the man who had attacked him. He couldn’t remember if the man’s cheek had touched him and whether he was bearded or clean-shaven. Battat had been too focused on trying to survive.

  Battat’s eyes remained shut. They stopped looking into the past and gazed ahead. He would stay in Baku, but not just because the deputy ambassador had asked. Until Battat found whoever had attacked him, his confidence was broken and his life belonged to them.

  Which, he realized, could be why he was left alive.

  NINE

  Washington, D.C.

  Monday, 11:55 A.M.

  It had always amazed Hood how different Washington looked during the daytime. At night, the white facades were brightly lit and appeared to stand alone, shining with Olympian grandeur. In the day, situated between modern office buildings, vending carts, and glossy restaurant logos, beneath loud and ever-present jet traffic and security barricades of concrete and steel, the landmarks seemed almost antique instead of timeless.

  Yet both were Washington. They represented an old, increasingly monolithic bureaucracy that had to be dealt with, and a vision of greatness that could not be ignored or diminished.

  Hood parked in the Ellipse on the southern side of the grounds. He crossed E Street and walked up East Executive to the East Appointment Gate. He was buzzed through the iron gate and, after passing through a metal detector, waited inside the East Wing for one of the First Lady’s aides.

  Of all the landmarks in Washington, Hood had always been partial to the Capitol. For one thing, it was the guts of the government, the place where Congress put wheels on the president’s vision. They were often square wheels or wheels of different sizes, but nothing could move without them. For another thing, the building itself was a vast museum of art and history, with treasures everywhere. Here a plaque indicating where the desk of Congressman Abraham Lincoln was located. There a statue of General Lew Wallace, the onetime governor of the territory of New Mexico and the author of Ben-Hur. Somewhere else a sign indicating the status of the search for the cornerstone of the building, which was laid over two hundred years before in a little-noted ceremony and was somehow buried and then lost under numerous modifications to the foundation.

  The White House wasn’t as imposing as the Capitol. It was a much smaller structure, with peeling paint and warping wood on the exterior. But its grounds and columns, its rooms and many familiar angles were intertwined in American memory with images of great leaders doing great things — or, sometimes, infamous, very human things. It would always be the symbolic heart of the United States.

  A young male assistant to the First Lady arrived. He brought Hood to the elevator that led to the third floor. Hood was somewhat surprised that the First Lady wanted to see him upstairs. She had an office on the first floor and typically received visitors there.

  Hood was taken to the First Lady’s sitting room, which adjoined the presidential bedroom. It was a small room with a main door that led to the corridor and another, he assumed, that opened into the bedroom. There was a gold settee against the far wall, two matching wing chairs across from it, and a coffee table between them. A tall secretary with a laptop sat on the opposite wall. The Persian rug was white, red, and gold; the drapes were white, and they were drawn. A small chandelier threw bright shards of light around the room.

  Hood looked at the two portraits on the wall. One was of Alice Roosevelt, daughter of Theodore. The other was a painting of Hannah Simpson, mother of Ulysses S. Grant. He was wondering why they were here when the First Lady entered. She was dressed casually in beige slacks and a matching sweater. Her aide shut the door behind her, leaving the two of them alone.

  “Nancy Reagan found them in the basement,” Megan said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The portraits,” she said. “She found them personally. She hated the idea of women being left to gather dust.”

  Hood smiled. They embraced lightly, and then Megan gestured toward the settee.

  “There are still wonderful things down there,” Megan said as they sat. “Furnishings, books, documents, things like Tad Lincoln’s writing slate and a diary that belonged to F
lorence Harding.”

  “I thought most of that memorabilia was in the Smithsonian.”

  “A lot of it is. But many of the family-related things are still here. People have gotten jaded by all the scandals over the years,” Megan said. “They forget how much the White House was and is a home. Children were born and raised here, there were weddings, birthdays, and holidays.”

  Coffee arrived, and Megan was silent as it was served. Hood watched her as the White House steward quietly and efficiently set out the silver service, poured the first cup, then left.

  The passion in Megan’s voice was exactly as Hood remembered. She never did anything she didn’t care deeply about, whether it was addressing a crowd or advocating greater education spending on TV talk shows or discussing the White House with an old friend. But there was something in her expression he had never seen before. The old enthusiasm stopped short of her eyes. When he looked in them, they seemed frightened. Confused.

  Hood picked up his cup, took a sip of coffee, then turned to Megan.

  “I appreciate your coming,” the First Lady said. Her cup and saucer were on her lap, and she was looking down. “I know you’re busy and that you have problems of your own. But this isn’t just about me or the president, Paul.” She looked up. “It’s about the nation.”

  “What’s wrong?” Hood asked.

  Megan breathed deeply. “My husband has been behaving strangely over the last few days.”

  Megan fell silent. Hood didn’t push her. He waited while she drank some of her coffee.

  “Over the past week or so, he’s been more and more distracted,” she said. “He hasn’t asked about our grand-son, which is very unusual. He says that it’s work, and maybe it is. But things got very strange yesterday.” She regarded Hood intently. “This remains between us.”

  “Of course.”

  Megan took a short, reinforcing breath. “Before the dinner last night, I found him sitting at his dressing table. He was running late. He wasn’t showered or dressed. He was just staring at the mirror, flushed and looking as though he’d been crying. When I asked him about it, he said he’d been exercising. He told me that his eyes were bloodshot because he hadn’t been sleeping. I didn’t believe him, but I let it be. Then, at the predinner reception, he was flat. He smiled and was pleasant, but there was no enthusiasm in him at all. Until he received a phone call. He took it in his office and returned about two minutes later. When he came back, his manner was entirely different. He was outgoing and confident.”