Divide and Conquer o-7

by Tom Clancy

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Washington, D.C.

  Tuesday, 2:32 A.M.

  Hood shut the door of the Cabinet Room behind him. There was a coffee machine on a small table in the far comer. The first thing Paul did upon entering was brew a pot using bottled water. He felt guilty doing that in the midst of a crisis, but he needed the caffeine kick. Desperately. Though his mind was speeding, his eyes and body from the shoulders down were crashing. Even the smell of the coffee helped as it began to brew. As he stood watching the steam, he thought back to the meeting he had just left. The shortest way of defusing the crisis on this end was to break Fenwick and whatever cabal he had put together. He hoped he could go back there with information, something to rattle Fenwick or Gable.

  “I need time to think,” he muttered to himself. Time to figure out how best to attack them if he had nothing more than he did now.

  Hood turned from the coffeemaker. He sat on the edge of the large conference table and pulled over one of the telephones. He called Bob Herbert to see if his intelligence chief had any news or sources he could hit up for information about the Harpooner and possible contact with the NSA.

  He did not.

  “Unless no news is news,” Herbert added.

  Herbert had already woken several acquaintances who either worked for or were familiar with the activities of the NSA. Calling them in the middle of the night had the advantage of catching them off guard. If they knew anything, they would probably blurt it out. Herbert asked if any of them had heard about U.S. intelligence overtures to Iran.

  None of them had.

  “Which isn’t surprising,” Herbert said. “Something of that magnitude and delicacy would only be conducted at the highest executive levels. But it’s also true that if more than one person knows about an operation over there, then everyone has heard at least a piece of the story. Not so here.”

  “Maybe more than one person at the NSA doesn’t know about this,” Hood said.

  “That could very well be,” Herbert agreed.

  Herbert said he was still waiting to hear from HUMINT sources in Teheran. They might know something about this.

  “The only solid news we have is from Mike’s people at the Pentagon,” Herbert said. “Military Intelligence has picked up signs of Russian mobilization in the Caspian region. Stephen Viens at the NRO has confirmed that. The Slava-class cruiser Admiral Lobov is apparently aleady heading south and the Udaloy II-class destroyer Admiral Chebanenko is joining it along with several corvettes and small missile craft. Mike expects air cover over the Russian oil installations to commence within a few hours.”

  “All from something that started with the Harpooner — or whoever first hired him,” Hood said.

  “Eisenhower was the first to use the metaphor in 1954,” Herbert said. “He said, ‘You have a row of dominoes set up; you knock over the first one and what will happen to the last one is that it will go over very quickly.’ He was talking about Vietnam, but it applies to this.”

  Herbert was right. You could count on the fact that dominoes not only fell, but they dropped quickly. And the only way to stop dominoes falling was to get far enough ahead of the chain and remove a few tiles.

  After hanging up, Hood poured himself coffee, sat down in one of the leather seats, and called Sergei Orlov. The fresh, black coffee was a lifesaver. In the midst of chaos even a small respite seemed enormous.

  The general brought Hood up to date on the situation with the Harpooner. Hood could hear the tension in the Russian’s voice as he explained what the overall plan was. Hood related to Orlov’s concern completely. There was worry for his operative Odette and a desperate desire to end the career of a notorious terrorist. Hood had been in that place. And he had both won there and lost there. This was not like a film or novel where the hero necessarily won.

  Hood was still on the phone with General Orlov when the door opened. He glanced up.

  It was Jack Fenwick. The time to think was over.

  The NSA head entered the room and shut the door behind him. The Cabinet Room was a large room, but it suddenly seemed small and very close.

  Fenwick walked over to the coffee and helped himself. Hood was nearly finished with the call. He ended the conversation as quickly as possible without seeming to hurry. He did not want Fenwick to hear anything. But he also did not want to show the NSA chief a hint of desperation.

  Hood hung up. He took a swallow of coffee and glanced over at Fenwick. The man’s dark eyes were on Hood.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Fenwick said. He indicated the coffee.

  “Why should I?” Hood asked.

  “I don’t know, Paul,” Fenwick shrugged. “People can get protective about things. Good coffee, by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  Fenwick perched himself on the edge of the table. He was just a few feet from Hood. “We’ve taken a little break,” Fenwick told him. “The president is waiting for the joint chiefs and secretary of state before making any decisions about the Caspian situation.”

  “Thanks for the update.”

  “You’re welcome,” Fenwick said. “I can give you more than an update,” he went on. “I can give you a prediction.”

  “Oh?”

  Fenwick nodded confidently. “The president is going to respond militarily. Emphatically. He has to.”

  Both Op-Center and the NSA had access to photographic reconnaissance from the NRO. No doubt Fenwick knew about the Russians as well.

  Hood got up to freshen his coffee. As he did, he remembered what he had been thinking just a few minutes before.

  The only way to stop the dominoes falling was to get far enough ahead of the chain and remove a few tiles.

  “The question is not what the president will do, what the nation will do. The question is what are you going to do?” Fenwick said.

  “Is that why you came here? To pick my brains?”

  “I came here to stretch my legs,” Fenwick said. “But now that we’ve gone there, I am curious. What are you going to do?”

  “About what?” Hood asked as he poured more coffee. The dance was on. They were each watching their words.

  “About the current crisis,” Fenwick replied. “What part are you going to play?”

  “I’m going to do my job,” Hood said. He was either being interviewed or threatened. He had not yet decided which. Nor did he care.

  “And how do you see that?” Fenwick asked.

  “The job description says ‘crisis management,’ ” Hood said. He looked back at Fenwick. “But at the moment, I see it as more than that. I see it as learning the truth behind this crisis and presenting the facts to the president.”

  “What truth is that?” Fenwick asked. Though his expression did not change, there was condescension in his voice. “You obviously don’t agree with what Mr. Gable, the vice president, and I were telling him.”

  “No, I don’t,” Hood said. He had to be cautious. Part of what he was about to say was real, part of it was bluff. If he were wrong it would be the equivalent of crying wolf. Fenwick would not be concerned about anything Hood had to say. And Fenwick could use this to undermine Hood’s credibility with the president.

  But that was only if he were wrong.

  “I’ve just been informed that we captured the Harpooner at the Hyatt Hotel in Baku,” Hood said. He had to present it as a fait accompli. He did not want Fenwick calling the hotel and warning the terrorist.

  “Then it’s definitely the Harpooner?” Fenwick said.

  Fenwick took a sip of coffee and held it in his mouth. Hood let the silence hang there. After a long moment, Fenwick swallowed.

  “I’m glad,” Fenwick said without much enthusiasm. “That’s one less terrorist Americans have to worry about. How did you get him? Interpol, the CIA, the FBI — they’ve all been trying for over twenty years.”

  “We’ve been following him for several days,” Hood went on. “We were observing him and listening to his phone calls.”

&
nbsp; “Who are we?”

  “A group comprised of Op-Center, CIA, and foreign resources,” Hood replied. “We pulled it together when we heard the Harpooner was in the region. We managed to lure him out using a CIA agent as bait.”

  Hood felt safe revealing the CIA’s role since it was probably Fenwick who had given the information about Battat to the Harpooner.

  Fenwick continued to regard Hood. “So you’ve got the Harpooner,” Fenwick said. “What does all this have to do with the truth about what’s going on? Do you know something that I don’t?”

  “The Harpooner apparently had a hand in what happened in the Caspian,” Hood said.

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Fenwick said. “The Harpooner will work for anyone.”

  “Even us,” Hood said.

  Fenwick started when he heard that. Just a little, but enough so that Hood noticed. “I’m tired, and I don’t have time for guessing games,” Fenwick complained. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re talking to him now,” Hood went on. “He seems willing to tell us who hired him in exchange for limited amnesty.”

  “Of course he does,” Fenwick said dismissively. “That bastard would probably say anything to save his hide.”

  “He might,” Hood agreed. “But why lie when only the truth can save his life?”

  “Because he’s a twisted bastard,” Fenwick said angrily. The NSA chief threw his cup into the wastebasket beneath the coffeemaker and got up from the table. “I’m not going to let you advise the president based on the testimony of a terrorist. I suggest you go home. Your work here is finished.”

  Before Hood could say anything else, Fenwick left the Cabinet Room. He pulled the door shut behind him. The room seemed to return to its former size.

  Hood did not believe that Fenwick was concerned about the president getting misinformation. Nor did he believe that Fenwick was overworked and simply venting. Hood believed that he had come very close to exposing a relationship that Fenwick had worked hard to conceal.

  A relationship between a high-ranking adviser to the president and the terrorist who had helped him to engineer a war.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Baku, Azerbaijan

  Tuesday, 10:47 A.M.

  When David Battat was six years old, he came down with the mumps and was extremely sick. He could barely swallow and his belly and thighs ached whenever he moved. Which was not so much of a problem because David had been too weak to move.

  Battat felt too weak to move now. And it hurt when he did move. Not just in his throat and abdomen but in his legs, arms, shoulders, and chest. Whatever that bastard Harpooner had injected him with was debilitating. But it was also helpful, in a way. The pain kept him awake and alert. It was like a dull toothache all over his body. Whatever energy Battat had now was coming from anger. Anger at having been ambushed and debilitated by the Harpooner. And now anger at having been indirectly responsible for the deaths of Thomas and Moore.

  Battat’s hearing was muffled and he had to blink to see clearly. Yet he was extremely aware of his surroundings. The elevator was polished brass with green carpet. There were rows of small bright lightbulbs in the ceiling. There was a trapdoor in the back, and a fish-eye video lens beside it.

  The elevator was empty except for Battat and Odette. When they reached the third floor, they stepped out. Odette took Battat’s hand, like they were a young couple looking for their room. They checked the room numbers posted on the wall in front of them: 300 to 320 were to the right. That put 310 in the center of a long, brightly lit corridor. They started toward it.

  “What are we doing?” Battat asked.

  “Checking the stairwell first,” Odette said. “I want to make sure the other killer isn’t watching the room from there.”

  “And after that?” Battat asked.

  “How would you feel about being married?” she asked.

  “I tried it once and didn’t like it,” Battat said.

  “Then you’ll probably like this less,” she replied. “I’ll tell you what I’m thinking when we reach the stairwell.”

  They headed toward the stairwell, which was located at the opposite end of the corridor. As they neared 310, Battat felt his heart speed up. The “Do Not Disturb” sign was hanging from the door handle. There was something dangerous about the place. Battat felt it as they passed. It was not a physical sensation but a spiritual one. Battat was not prepared to go so far as to say it was palpable evil, but the room definitely had the feel of an animal’s lair.

  Odette released his hand when they reached the stairwell. She removed the gun from her holster and screwed on the silencer. Then she stepped ahead of Battat and cautiously peered through the window at the top of the door. No one was there. Odette turned the knob and stepped inside. Battat followed. He backed toward the concrete steps and leaned on the iron banister with one arm. It felt good not to have to move. Odette kept a heel in the door so it would not close and lock them out. She faced Battat.

  “I’m sure the Harpooner has his room heavily protected from the inside,” she said. “Since we probably won’t be able to break in, we’re going to have to try and draw him out.”

  “Agreed,” Battat said. He was tired and dizzy and had to force himself to focus. “What do you propose?”

  “You and I are going to have a lovers’ quarrel,” she said.

  That got his attention. “About what?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “As long as we end up arguing about which room is ours.”

  “One of us will say it’s 312 and the other will insist it’s 310,” Battat said.

  “Exactly,” Odette replied. “Then we’ll open the door to 310.”

  “How?”

  Odette reached into her pocket.

  “With this,” she said as she pulled out the master key she had taken from the housekeeper. “If we’re lucky, the Harpooner will only want to chase us away.”

  “What if someone else comes from their room or calls hotel security?” Battat asked.

  “Then we argue more quickly,” Odette said as she took off her jacket and slipped it over her forearm, concealing the gun.

  The woman seemed to be growing impatient, a little anxious. Not that Battat blamed her. They were facing both the Harpooner and the unknown. If it were not for the dullness caused by whatever was afflicting him, he would have been experiencing fear on top of his lingering anger.

  “This is not a science,” she added. “The point of what we’re doing is to distract the Harpooner long enough to kill him.”

  “I understand,” Battat said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “When I open the door, I want you to push it back hard,” she said. “That should startle the Harpooner and also give me a moment to aim and fire. When we’re finished, we come back to the stairwell and leave.”

  “All right,” Battat said.

  “Are you sure you feel up to this?” Odette asked.

  “I’ll be able to do what you want me to,” he said.

  She nodded and gave him a reassuring half smile. Or maybe she was trying to reassure herself.

  A moment later, they headed down the hall.

  FORTY-NINE

  Saint Petersburg, Russia

  Tuesday, 11:02 A.M.

  Josef Norivsky was the Russian Op-Center’s liaison between the country’s other intelligence and investigative agencies as well as Interpol. He was a young, broad-shouldered man with short black hair and a long, pale face. He strode into General Orlov’s office wearing an expression that was somewhere between fury and disbelief.

  “Something is wrong,” he said. Norivsky did not disseminate information unless he was sure of it. As a result, when he spoke, he had a way of making any statement seem like a pronouncement.

  The intelligence liaison handed Orlov a set of eight-by-ten photographs. Orlov looked quickly at the eleven blurry black-and-white pictures. The shots showed five men in ski masks moving a sixth, unmasked man through a corridor mad
e of cinder blocks.

  “These photographs were taken by security cameras at the Lenkoran high-security prison in Azerbaijan,” Norivsky explained. “We received them two days ago. The man without the mask is Sergei Cherkassov. The SIS was hoping we could help to identify the others.”

  The SIS was Azerbaijan’s State Intelligence Service. They still maintained relatively close, cooperative relations with Russian intelligence groups.

  “What have you come up with?” Orlov asked as he finished going through the photographs.

  “The weapons they’re carrying are IMI Uzis,” said Norivsky. “They’re based on the submachine guns Iran bought from Israel before the Islamic revolution. In and of themselves, they don’t necessarily mean anything. Iranian arms dealers could have sold them to anyone. But look how the men are moving.”

  Orlov went back through the pictures. “I don’t follow,” he said.

  Norivsky leaned over the desk and pointed to the fourth picture. “The men in the ski masks have formed a diamond shape around the Cherkassov. The point man covers the package, the escapee, the man in the rear watches their flank, and the men on the sides cover right and left. The fifth man, the only one who appears in pictures one and two, is ahead of the group, securing the escape route. Probably with a rocket launcher, according to reports.” Norivsky stood. “This is the standard evacuation procedure used by VEVAK.”

  VEVAK was Vezarat-e Etella’at va Amniat-e Keshvar. The Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and Security.

  “Why would Iran want to free a Russian terrorist from Azerbaijan?” Norivsky asked. The intelligence chief answered the question himself. “To use his talents? It’s possible. But another possibility is that they wanted to dump his body at the attack site. How many bodies were found in the harbor at Baku? Four to six, depending on how the pieces eventually fit together.”

  “The same number of people who helped him to escape,” Orlov said.

  “Yes,” Nirovsky replied.

  “Which may mean they were all working together,” Orlov said. “Nothing more than that.”