Divide and Conquer o-7

by Tom Clancy

  He heard people moving around him. He coughed and opened his eyes. There was a white-haired man looking down at him.

  “Mr. Battat, can you hear me?” the man shouted.

  Battat nodded.

  “We are going to undress you and put you in a gown,” the man said to him. “Then we need to get an IV into you. Do you understand?”

  Battat nodded. “What… happened?”

  “You’re ill,” the doctor told him as a pair of male nurses came over. They began lifting and undressing him. “You have a very high fever. We have to bring it down.”

  “Okay,” Battat said. What else could he say? He could not have resisted if he wanted to. But he did not understand how he could have gotten sick. He had felt fine before.

  The medical team worked on him for several minutes. Battat was not entirely aware of what they were doing. He only knew that he was being shifted and turned and poked. He felt a pinch in his right arm, at the elbow, and then there was no further pain. He was also shivering, and he felt cold. Sweat had soaked into Battat’s pillow. His fever warmed it quickly. His head sank into the down, muffling the sounds of the people and whatever it was they were doing. He shut his eyes again and allowed his mind to go wherever it wanted.

  Soon it was quiet and dark. Battat began to feel a little warmer, more comfortable. He no longer heard drumming in his ears. He was awake, but his thoughts were dreamlike. His mind went back over the days. He saw short, blurry visions of the embassy in Moscow, the trip to Baku, the seashore, the sudden pain of the attack. A pinch in his neck. He was unaware of time passing or the hospital room. There was just a strange, not unpleasant sense of drifting. There must be something in the IV. Something that was relaxing him.

  Then Battat heard something click. It sounded like a gun hammer cocking. He opened his eyes. There was a window to the left of the bed, but it was shut. He glanced toward the foot of the bed. The last time he had looked, the door was ajar. Now it was shut. A doctor or nurse must have closed it. The room was even quieter than before. It was nice. He shut his eyes again. There were no more visions, only darkness. Battat slipped quickly into a dreamless sleep.

  There was another click. The sound woke Battat, and he opened his eyes. The door was still closed. But now there was someone in the room. He could see a dark figure standing in front of the door. The figure was black against the darkness behind it.

  Battat was not sure he was awake.

  “Hi,” he said. He heard his own voice. He was definitely awake.

  Slowly, the shadow moved toward him. Someone must have come to check on him.

  “It’s all right,” Battat said in a soft slur. “You can turn on the light. I’m awake.”

  The figure did not speak. Battat could not make out whether it was a man or a woman. It appeared to be wearing a medical robe of some kind. And it was holding something long and slender. Battat could see the silhouette low at its side. It looked like a knife.

  “Do you speak English?” Battat asked.

  There was a monitor on the wall behind Battat. The green glow threw a faint light on the figure as it stopped beside the bed. It was a man. And he was definitely holding a knife. The long blade gleamed in the dull light.

  “What is this?” Battat asked. It was beginning to penetrate his foggy mind that the newcomer was not a doctor. Battat tried to move, but his arms felt like they were full of wet sand.

  The man’s arm went back.

  “Someone!” Battat said, trying to raise his voice. “Help me—”

  And then the man vanished.

  A moment later, sounds came from the floor. There were low grunts, chattering, and then a long, slow groan. They were followed by silence.

  Battat tried to raise himself on an elbow. His arm shook, and he fell back down.

  Suddenly, someone rose beside the bed.

  “There may be others,” said the figure. “We have to leave.”

  The sharp, thickly accented voice belonged to a woman. There were an awful lot of people here.

  “I thought this was a private room,” Battat said.

  With swift, sure movements, the woman lowered the gate beside the bed, unhooked the IV, and raised Battat to a sitting position. She kept her hand on his back.

  “Can you walk?” she asked.

  “If you let go… I’m not sure I can sit,” he replied.

  The woman lay Battat back down and stepped away from the bed. She was a tall, lean woman with broad shoulders. He could see now that she was wearing a police uniform. The woman went to the window and pulled the curtains aside. She turned the latch and raised the window. A cool, salty breeze blew in. It made him shiver. The woman looked outside. Then she grabbed a bathrobe from a hook behind the door and returned to the bed. She sat Battat up again and pulled the robe around his shoulders.

  “What are we doing?” he asked. Without the IV in his arm, he was feeling a little more focused. His head was also hurting from sitting up.

  “No talk,” she said.

  “But wait,” he said.

  “They’ve killed your companions, and they’re trying to kill you,” she snapped. “I was sent to get you out.”

  “Killed them?”

  “Quiet!” she hissed.

  Battat stopped talking.

  His head ached as the woman helped him stand. She grabbed Battat’s clothes, then slipped his left arm around her shoulder and helped him to the window. As they hobbled over, Battat tried to focus on what she had just told him. Were Moore and Thomas dead? If so, it had to be the Harpooner. Maybe he thought they knew more than they did. But if they were dead, who had sent this woman to help him? And how did he know that she was not working for the Harpooner? She might be taking him somewhere so the killer could finish the job.

  But Battat knew he might as well trust her. He was certainly in no condition to resist. Besides, the woman was being gentle with him. And if she had wanted him dead, she could have killed him in the bed. Or she could have let the other intruder kill him.

  When they reached the window, the woman told Battat to lean on the sill. He did, unsteadily. She kept a hand on him, helping to keep him upright as she slipped around him. She landed quietly among the hedges outside the window and then helped him down. She put his arm back around her shoulder and then crouched. They listened for several seconds.

  Battat was shivering again, his teeth clattering. But at least he was more awake than before. After a moment, they were on the move again. He felt as if he was being carried through the night. They had emerged in back of the hospital and were making their way around to the north side. They stopped at a car. To Battat’s surprise, it wasn’t a police car but a small black Hyundai.

  She probably was not a policewoman at all. Battat did not know if that were a good thing or a bad thing. But as she laid him across the backseat and climbed behind the wheel, he knew one thing for certain.

  If he remained conscious, he would find out very soon.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Washington, D.C.

  Monday, 10:03 P.M.

  The red-haired man sat behind his large desk. The office was dark, save for the glow of a green-shaded desk lamp and the red light on top of the phone. That meant the scrambler function was engaged.

  “People are asking about Fenwick’s trip,” said the red-haired man.

  “What people?” said the man on the other end of the line.

  “The intelligence unit at Op-Center.”

  “Op-Center is well removed from the president,” the other man said. “They don’t have the same clout as the CIA—”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” the red-haired man interrupted.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was told that Director Hood asked for and received a private meeting with the president a few hours ago,” said the red-haired man.

  “I know.”

  “Do you know what they discussed?” asked the red-haired man.

  “No. More fallout from the United Na
tions affair. I’d guess. Do you have reason to believe otherwise?” the man asked.

  “Paul Hood spoke briefly with the First Lady last night.” the red-haired man said. “I checked his file. They knew each other in the past.”

  “Knew each other in a way we can use?”

  “No,” said the red-haired man. “It was platonic. Anyway, she might have seen a change in the president. Maybe she said something to Hood. I just don’t know.”

  “I see,” said the other.

  There was a long silence. The red-haired man waited. He was concerned about the unexpected presence of Op-Center. The other agencies had all been covered. He and his partners had been counting on the transition period between Paul Hood and General Rodgers to keep Op-Center’s eyes looking inward. Unfortunately, that had not happened. But with H-hour approaching on the foreign operation, they could not afford to have anyone watching. Harpooner had seen to it on his end. They must see to it on their end.

  “Is the other documentation ready?” the other man finally asked.

  The red-haired man looked at his watch. He really needed glasses to read this close, but he was fighting that. He was fighting a lot of things. He moved his wrist back slightly. “In another hour or so,” he replied.

  “All right,” said the other man. “I don’t want to move against Op-Center directly. There isn’t time. And without careful planning, we might do more harm than good.”

  “I agree,” said the red-haired man.

  “Let’s continue with the plan,” said the other man. “If Op-Center is watching Fenwick or the president without any real idea what we’re up to, that should keep them busy enough. Just make sure Fenwick doesn’t do or say anything that might give them more information.”

  “Understood,” said the red-haired man. “I’ll let Fenwick know.”

  The other man thanked him and hung up.

  The red-haired man placed the receiver in the cradle. He would call Fenwick in a minute. This was serious, unprecedented business. He needed a moment to remind himself that this was all being done for a good reason: to make sure that the United States survived the new millennium.

  Despite this small setback, everything was still working the way they had planned. Reporters had been calling his office to find out about the new UN initiative, an initiatve that only the president seemed to be aware of. Members of the CIOC and even people at the UN apparently had not known about it. One very dogged TV reporter had called this evening to ask if the president had imagined “this whole thing, too.” And Red Gable, the president’s chief of staff, had answered off the record, “I honestly don’t know, Sam. I do not know what is wrong with the president.”

  Though the quote would be off the record, Gable knew that his sentiment would be mentioned in the broadcast. The reporter reminded Red that this was the third time in a week the president had gotten something seriously wrong. The first time was at a breakfast with reporters. The president commented about farm subsidy legislation that was supposedly before congress. It was not. The second time, just two days ago, was at a press conference. The president’s opening remarks included comments about a civil rights case that was supposedly before the Supreme Court. No such case existed. What Gable did not tell the reporter, of course, was that the set of documents the president had been given during his daily briefings was different from the set of documents that he should have seen. The real ones. Gable had slipped those documents into the president’s files after he made the public misstatements. When the president had the files brought to him, he did not understand where the misinformation had come from. Investigations by Gable and his assistants failed to turn up any suspicious activity.

  Gable did not smile. He could not. The situation was too serious. But he was gratified. The reporter and many of his colleagues were very concerned about the president’s state of mind. By tomorrow afternoon, the rest of the nation would also be concerned. Events that were about to unfold a world away and in Washington had been very carefully orchestrated. Events that would be misinterpreted by everyone except the third and most important leader of their team: the vice president. The president would insist that Azerbaijan had attacked an Iranian oil rig. He would recommend staying out of the conflict because it was a local issue. As Iran built up its forces in the region, the vice president would publicly urge a different tack. He would say that he did not trust Iran and would strongly advise building up an American military presence in the Caspian. Fenwick would back up the vice president. He would report that during his meetings with the Iranians, they had spoken vaguely of events that were on the horizon. He would say that they asked the United States to do nothing while they strengthened their hold on oil reserves in the region.

  The Iranians would deny that, of course. But no one in America would believe them.

  The disagreement between the president and vice president would cause a very public rift.

  And when the Harpooner’s Iranian cohorts were found dead with photographs and other evidence of sabotage on their bodies — murdered by the Harpooner himself — the vice president and Fenwick would be vindicated.

  Reporters would then openly discuss the president’s questionable judgment. Washington would be abuzz with rumors that the president was unstable. Senators like Barbara Fox would have no choice but to support a motion to impeachment. Sex scandals were one thing. Mental illness was something much different. There would be calls for Lawrence to step down. For the good of the nation, Lawrence would have no choice but to resign.

  Vice president Cotten would become president. He would ask Jack Fenwick to become his new vice president. Congress would quickly endorse his selection. Meanwhile, the American military would move into the Caspian. They would help the Azerbaijanis protect their rigs.

  In the heat of rising tensions, President Cotten would remain strong.

  And then something else would happen. Something that would demand an American response so firm, so devastating, that religious fanatics would never again attack a target under American protection.

  In the end, Gable told himself, the career of a president was worth that sacrifice.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Baku, Azerbaijan

  Tuesday, 6:15 A.M.

  When forty-seven-year-old Ron Friday first arrived in Baku, he felt as though he had been dropped into medieval times.

  It was not a question of architecture. Embassy row was in a very modern section of the city. The modern buildings could have been lifted whole from Washington, D.C., or London, or Tokyo, or any other modern metropolis. But Baku was not like those cities where he had spent so much time. Once you moved past the embassies and business center of Baku, there was a pronounced sense of age. Many of the buildings had been standing when Columbus reached the Americas.

  No, the architecture was not what made Baku seem so old, so feudal. It was a sense of entropy among the people. Azerbaijan had been ruled from the outside for so long, now that the people were free and independent, they seemed unmotivated, directionless. If it were not for petrodollars, they would probably slip deep into the Third World.

  At least, that was Friday’s impression. Fortunately, when the former Army Ranger and his people were finished with what they were doing here, Azerbaijan would not be quite so independent.

  Friday entered his seven-story apartment building. The ten-year-old brick building was located two blocks from the embassy. He made his way up the marble stairs. Friday lived on the top floor, but he did not like being in elevators. Even when he was with the other embassy workers who lived here, he took the stairs. Elevators were too confining, and they left him vulnerable.

  Friday walked toward his apartment. He could not believe that he had been here nearly six months. It seemed much longer, and he was glad his tenure was coming to an end. Not because Deputy Ambassador Williamson didn’t need him. To the contrary, Friday had proven valuable to the diplomat, especially in her efforts to moderate Azerbaijani claims on Caspian oil. Friday’s years as an attorney
for a large international oil company served him well in that capacity. But Friday’s real boss would need him elsewhere, in some other trouble spot. He would see to it that Friday was transferred.

  To India or Pakistan, perhaps. That was where Friday really wanted to go. There were oil issues to be dealt with there, in the Arabian Sea and on the border between the Great Indian Desert in the Rajasthan province of India and the Thar Desert in Pakistan. But more than that, the Indian subcontinent was the place where the next big war would begin, perhaps triggered by a nuclear exchange. Friday wanted to be in there, helping to manipulate the politics of the region. It had been a dream of his ever since he was in college. Since the day when he had first gone to work for the National Security Agency.

  Friday put the key in the door and listened. He heard the cat cry. Her mewing was a normal welcome. That was a very good indication that no one was waiting for him inside.

  Friday had been recruited by the NSA when he was in law school. One of his professors, Vincent Van Heusen, had been an OSS operative during World War II. After the war, Van Heusen had helped draft the National Security Act of 1947, the legislation that led to the founding of the Central Intelligence Agency.

  Professor Van Heusen saw in Friday some of the same qualities he himself had possessed as a young man. Among those was independence. Friday had learned that growing up in the Michigan woods where he attended a one-room schoolhouse and went hunting with his father every weekend — not only with a rifle but with a long-bow. After graduating from NYU, Friday spent time at the NSA as a trainee. When he went to work for the oil industry a year later, he was also working as a spy. In addition to making contacts in Europe, the Middle East, and the Caspian, Friday was given the names of CIA operatives working in those countries. From time to time, he was asked to watch them — to spy on the spies, to make certain that they were working only for the United States.