by Tom Clancy
Each man had become involved for the same reason: patriotism. The creation of an America that led the world community rather than reacted to it. An America that rewarded peace with prosperity and punished warmongers not with a public pummeling and credibility but with quiet, lonely death. Lawrence was not willing to cross the line from legal war to illegal murder, even though lives would be saved. But the dawn of the twenty-first century was not a time for warfare. It bred short-term misery and long-term hatred. The world was becoming too small, too crowded for bombs. As distasteful as this was, a change had to come. For the nation and for the sake of its children. For the sake of his children.
The car moved swiftly through the empty streets. Washington was always so deserted at night. Only the spies and plotters were afoot. It seemed strange to think of himself in that capacity. He had always been a straight shooter. If you felt passionately about something, you spoke your mind. If you didn’t feel passionately, then it probably was not worth doing. But this was different. This operation had to be kept very quiet. Kept only among those who were actively involved in its planning and execution.
Now this was it, Cotten thought. The last leg of the operation. According to the president’s staff, announcing a UN intelligence initiative that did not exist had seriously rattled Lawrence. It had shaken him more than the other canards Fenwick and Gable had fed him and subsequently denied — usually during a cabinet session or meeting in the Oval Office.
“No, Mr. President,” Cotten would say softly, seemingly embarrassed for the confusion of the president, “there was never a Pentagon report that Russia and China exchanged artillery fire over the Amur River. Sir, we had not heard that the FBI director had threatened to resign. When did this happen? Mr. President, don’t you recall? We had agreed that Mr. Fenwick would share this new intelligence with Iran.”
The question of sharing intelligence with Iran had been important to the final stage of the operation. Jack Fenwick had told the Iranian ambassador that according to United States intelligence sources, an attack would come from Azerbaijan. They weren’t sure what the target would be, but it would probably be a terrorist attack in the heart of Teheran. Fenwick had assured Iran that if they retaliated, the United States would stay out of it. This nation wanted to nurture closer ties with the Islamic Republic of Iran, not stand in the way of its self-defense.
Lawrence, of course, would be pushed to behave in a less accommodating manner. And when he realized where his confused perceptions had taken the nation, he would be forced to resign.
The fact that Lawrence had known nothing about the meeting was irrelevant. At tonight’s meeting with the so-called “Eyes Only Group”—Gable, Fenwick, and the vice president — the men would convince the president that he had been kept informed. They would show him memos that he had seen and signed. They would show him the calendar his secretary kept on the computer. The appointment had been added after she left for the day. Then they would jump right into the current crisis. They would trust and the president would lead. By morning, Michael Lawrence would be publicly committed to a path of confrontation with two of the most volatile nations on earth.
The following morning, with the help of unnamed NSA sources, the Washington Post would run a front-page, above-the-fold article about the president’s mental health. Though the newspaper piece would be hooked to the UN fiasco, it would also contain exclusive details about some of the president’s increasingly dramatic and fully documented lapses. The nation would not tolerate instability from the commander-in-chief. Especially as he was about to send the nation to war.
Things would happen very quickly after that. There was no constitutional provision for the president to take a leave of absence. And there was no short-term cure for mental illness. Lawrence would be forced to resign, if not by public pressure then by act of congress. Cotten would become president. The United States military would immediately back down in the Caspian Sea to avoid a confrontation with Iran and Russia. Instead, through intelligence operations, they would prove that Iran had masterminded the entire operation in the first place. Teheran would protest, but the government’s credibility would be seriously compromised. Then, through diplomacy, the United States would find ways to encourage moderates in Iran to seize more power. Meanwhile, spared a pounding from Iran and Russia, Azerbaijan would be in America’s debt.
After the clouds of war drifted away, President Cotten would make certain of something else. That Azerbaijan and America shared in the oil reserves of the Caspian Sea. The Middle East would never again hold the United States hostage. Not in their embassies nor at the gas pump.
With order restored and American influence and credibility at its peak, President Charles Cotten would reach out to the nations of the world. They would be invited to join us in a permanent peace and prosperity. When their people experienced freedom and economic reward for the first time, they would cast those governments out. Eventually, even China would follow suit. They had to. People were greedy, and the old-line Communists would not live forever. If the United States stopped provoking them, providing the government with a public enemy, Beijing would weaken and evolve.
This was the world that Charles Cotten wanted for America. It was the world he wanted for his own children. He had thought about it for years. He had worked to achieve it. He had prayed for it.
And very soon, he would have it.
THIRTY-THREE
Baku, Azerbaijan
Tuesday, 8:09 A.M.
David Battat was lying on a hard twin bed in the small, sparsely furnished studio apartment. There was a window to his left. Though the blinds were drawn, the room brightened as light leaked through the slats.
Battat was shivering but alert. His abductor, hostess, or savior — he had not yet decided which — was in the kitchenette off to the right. She had been making eggs, sausage, and tea when the phone rang.
Battat hoped the call was brief. The food smelled good, but the thought of tea was even better. He needed to warm himself inside. Do something to stop the trembling. He felt as though he had the flu. He was weak and everything he saw or heard seemed dreamlike. But his head and chest were also very tight. More than from any sickness he could remember. Hopefully, once he had tea and something to eat, he would be able to focus a little better, try to understand what had happened back at the hospital.
The woman walked over to the bed. She was carrying the phone. She stood about five-foot-nine and had a lean, dark face framed by thick, black, shoulder-length hair. Her cheekbones were pronounced, and her eyes were blue. Battat was willing to bet there was Lithuanian blood in her. She handed the receiver to Battat.
“There is someone who wishes to speak with you,” she said in thickly accented English.
“Thank you,” said Battat. His own voice was a weak croak. He accepted the cordless phone. He did not bother to ask her who it was. He would find out soon enough. “Hello?”
“David Battat?” said the caller.
“Yes—”
“David, this is Paul Hood, the director of Op-Center.”
“Paul Hood?” Battat was confused. Op-Center found him here and was calling him now to ask about — that? “Sir, I’m sorry about what happened,” Battat said, “but I didn’t know that Annabelle Hampton was working with—”
“This isn’t about the United Nations siege,” Hood interrupted. “David, listen to me. We have reason to believe that the NSA set you and your colleagues up.”
It took a moment for Battat to process what Hood had said. “They set us up to be murdered? Why?”
“I can’t tell you that now,” Hood replied. “What’s important is that for the present, you’re out of danger.”
The young woman walked over with a cup of tea. She set it on the night table beside the bed. Battat used an elbow to drag himself into a sitting position. She helped him by putting strong hands under his arm and literally lifting him from the bed.
“What I need to know is this,” Hood went on. “If we ca
n locate the Harpooner, do you feel up to helping us take him down?”
“If there’s a way for me to get the Harpooner, I’m up for it,” Battat said. Just the thought of that energized him.
“Good,” Hood told him. “We’re working with a Russian intelligence group on this. I don’t know when we’ll have additional information. But when we do, I’ll let you and your new partner know.”
Battat looked over at the young woman. She was standing in the kitchenette spooning eggs onto two plates. The last time he was in the field, Russians were the enemy. It was a strange business they were in.
“Before I go, is there anything else you can tell us about the Harpooner?” Hood asked. “Anything you might have seen or heard while you were looking for him? Anything Moore or Thomas might have said?”
“No,” Battat said. He took a sip of tea. It was stronger than he was used to. It was like a shot of adrenaline. “All I know is that someone put me in a choke hold from behind. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. As for Moore and Thomas, they were as mystified as I was.”
“Because—?”
“The Harpooner had let me live,” Battat said.
“Assuming it was the Harpooner,” Hood said. “Listen. Use the time you have to rest. We don’t know where the Harpooner may turn up or how much time you may have to get to him. But we need you to be ready to move out.”
“I’ll be ready,” Battat said.
Hood thanked him and hung up. Battat placed the phone on the night table. Then he took another swallow of tea. He still felt weak, but he was trembling a little less than before.
The young woman walked over with a plate for him. Battat watched her as she set the plate on his legs and placed a cloth napkin and utensils on the night table. She looked tired.
“My name is David Battat,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
“And you are—?” he pressed.
“In Baku, I am Odette Kolker,” she said. There was finality in the young woman’s voice. It told him two things. First, that she was definitely not an Azerbaijani recruited by the Russians. And second, that Battat would not be getting her real name. Not from her, anyway.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Battat said, extending his hand. “I’m also extremely grateful for everything you’ve done.”
“You’re welcome,” she said.
The young woman shook Battat’s hand firmly but perfunctorily. As she did, Battat noticed several small bloodstains on the sleeve of her off-white police blouse. There were no lacerations on her hand or forearm. The blood did not appear to be hers.
“Are you really a policewoman?” Battat asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Were you working the night shift?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. “I was called in to do this.” She smiled slightly. “And I cannot collect overtime for it.”
Battat sipped more tea and smiled back. “I’m sorry they had to wake you.” He moved the plate to the night table and started to throw off the cover. “I probably shouldn’t be taking your bed—”
“No, it’s all right,” she said. “I’m expected on duty in less than an hour. Besides, I’m accustomed to having unexpected guests.”
“A hazard of the business,” he said.
“Yes,” Odette observed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to eat. You should do the same. Eat and then rest.”
“I will,” Battat promised.
“Do you need salt or anything else?”
“No thank you,” he said.
Odette turned and walked slowly toward the kitchenette.
Less than an hour ago, she had killed a man. Now she was serving Battat breakfast. This was a strange business. A very strange business indeed.
THIRTY-FOUR
Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, 12:10 A.M.
“Hello, Paul.”
Sharon’s voice was thick and cold on the other end of the phone. Hood glanced at the clock on his computer. “Hi,” he said warily. “Is everything okay?”
“Not really,” she replied.
“I just got back from the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“The short version,” she said, “is that Harleigh freaked out about ninety minutes ago. I called an ambulance — I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You did the right thing,” Hood said. “How is she?”
“Dr. Basralian sedated her, and she’s sleeping now,” Sharon went on.
“What does he think is wrong?” Hood asked. “Is it physical—?”
“He isn’t sure,” she said. “They’re going to run tests in the morning. The doctor said that sometimes a traumatic event can have physical repercussions. It can affect the thyroid, cause it to get hyper, or create a surplus of adrenaline. Anyway, I didn’t call so you’d drop what you’re doing and go to see her. I just wanted you to know.”
“Thank you,” Hood said. “I’ll still get over as soon as I can.”
“No need for that,” Sharon told him. “Everything’s quiet. I’ll let you know if there’s a change.”
“All right,” Hood said. “If that’s what you want.”
“I do. Just some down-time. Tell me, Paul. Is there a problem?” Sharon asked.
“With what?”
“The world,” Sharon said.
“Always,” Hood replied.
“I tried the motel first,” Sharon told him. “When you weren’t there, I figured you must be putting out a fire somewhere.”
Hood was not exactly sure how to take that remark. He tried not to read anything into it.
“There’s a problem in the Middle East,” Hood said. “Could be a bad one.”
“Then I won’t keep you,” Sharon said. “Just don’t kill yourself, Paul. You’re not a kid anymore. You need sleep. And the kids need you.”
“I’ll take care of myself,” he promised.
Sharon hung up. When Hood and his wife were together, Sharon used to be frustrated and angry whenever he worked long hours. Now that the two of them were apart, she was calm and concerned. Or maybe she was holding it all together for Harleigh’s sake. Whatever the reason, it was a sad, sad joke being played on the Hood family.
But Hood did not have time to consider the injustice of it all or even the condition of his daughter. The phone rang a moment after he hung up. The call was from another concerned wife.
The president’s.
THIRTY-FIVE
Saint Petersburg, Russia
Tuesday, 8:30 A.M.
General Orlov was proud that his operative had been able to save the American. Proud, but not surprised.
Odette — Natalia Basov — had been working with him for three years. The thirty-two-year-old was a former decryption expert who had begun her career with the GRU, Soviet military intelligence. Her husband Viktor was an officer in the Spetsnaz, the Russian special forces. When Viktor was killed on a mission in Chechnya, Basov became deeply depressed. She wanted to get out from behind a desk. Because the GRU was being dismantled and its components downsized, Basov was sent to see Orlov. Orlov was happy to put her in the field. Not only was Basov skilled in electronic intelligence, her husband had taught her the self-defense techniques of the systema, the lethal martial arts style of the Spetsnaz. Orlov himself had studied the basics as a way of staying in shape. The systema did not rely on practiced moves or on physical strength. It taught that during an assault, your own defensive motion dictated what the counterattack should be. If you were struck on the right side of the chest, you instinctively turned the right side away to avoid the blow. As a result, your left side automatically came forward. Thus, your attack would be with the left arm. And it would not be a single blow. It would be a trinity. Perhaps a fist to the chin, an elbow to the jaw, and a swipe with the back of the hand, all in quick succession. While that was going on, you were positioning yourself to unleash the next trinity. Typically, an opponent did not get more than a first chance to strike. Mult
iple opponents were too busy avoiding their falling comrades to move in.
Basov had mastered the form well. And she had proven to be a valuable asset in Azerbaijan. Orlov’s people had created a false identity for her, and she had obtained a job with the police force. That put her in a job to watch and question people, other officers, guards, and night watchmen at plants and military bases. To learn what was happening in Baku’s corridors of power and in the military. Being a beautiful woman made men more inclined to talk to her, especially in bars. And underestimate her.
Basov said that she and her guest were safe, but they were not what bothered Orlov right now. What concerned him was finding the Harpooner. Basov had told Orlov that the Baku police radio was reporting an explosion in the harbor. A boat had blown up, killing everyone on board. Orlov was willing to bet that the boat had belonged to the Harpooner. That was his way — to destroy all the evidence along with some or all of his coworkers. The dead men would probably be blamed for the rig attack. Orlov wondered who they were. Azerbaijanis? Iraqis? Russians? There were any number of people he could have recruited for a job like that. Just as long as they did not know what usually happened to his employees.
Most of Orlov’s staff began arriving at half-past eight. The general had left e-mail for the two key members of his intelligence team, Boris and Piotr, to come and see him as soon as possible. If the Harpooner had been responsible for the attack in the Caspian, he probably would not attempt to leave Baku immediately. In the past, the Harpooner apparently waited a day or two after an attack. And when he finally moved, he often passed through Moscow. No one knew why. Unfortunately, by the time authorities learned he was in the city, he had vanished. General Orlov did not want that to happen again. The question was how to find him. And Paul Hood might have unwittingly given them a clue.
