by Tom Clancy
Corporal Cain hesitated, but only for a moment. He picked up the phone and remained standing as he punched in the extension.
“Mr. Gable?” he said. “I would like to speak with General Burg.”
General Otis Burg was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“No, sir,” Cain said after a moment. “This is a military matter, sir. A security issue.”
There was another pause. Hood tasted something tart in the back of his throat. He realized, after a moment, that it was blood. He was biting his tongue. He relaxed.
A few seconds later, Corporal Cain’s voice and demeanor changed. His posture was stiffer, his tone formal. He was speaking with General Burg.
Cain repeated the request. Several seconds after that, the young Corporal hung up. He looked at the First Lady.
“Your husband will see you both,” he said proudly.
Megan smiled and thanked him.
Hood and Megan turned and hurried down the corridor to the Situation Room.
FIFTY-FIVE
Baku, Azerbaijan
Tuesday, 11:22 A.M.
Unsteadily, David Battat made his way down the stairwell.
Because of the late morning hour, not many people were exiting the hotel. Several of the people who did pass Battat asked if he needed help. The American told them that he had inhaled some smoke but would be all right. Hugging the iron banister, he made his way slowly down the concrete stairs. When Battat reached the lobby, he leaned against a wall near the house phones. He did not want to sit down. He was weak and dizzy and afraid he would not get back up. One of the hotel staff members, an assistant manager, asked him who he was and what room he was staying in. He said he was not a guest but had been visiting a friend. The young woman told him that firefighters wanted everyone to go outside. Battat said he would go out as soon as he caught his breath.
Battat looked across the lobby. It was crowded with people, mostly hotel staff, along with about fifty or sixty guests. The guests were concerned about their belongings and asking questions about security. They did not seem in a hurry to leave. There was no smoke in the lobby, and firefighters were just pulling into the circular drive in front of the hotel.
Battat was concerned about how Odette was making out. He had been proud of her when she left the hotel. If she had been afraid, she did not show it. He wished he were a little steadier. He did not like the idea of her having to face the Harpooner alone.
There was a side exit down the corridor to Battat’s right. The parking lot was to the right, the front of the hotel to the left. Since the fire trucks were out front, he felt he stood a better chance of catching a taxi in the parking lot. If not, there was a major thoroughfare beyond the parking lot. He had seen it from the upstairs window. He could probably catch a bus there.
Pushing himself off the wall, Battat shuffled down the carpeted hallway. He felt feverish again, though he did not feel worse than he had before. His body was fighting whatever he had been injected with. That probably meant it was viral rather than chemical. He could finally get medical attention and start to shake this.
Battat’s vision was misty as he moved past the bank of telephones. There were several shops beyond, their picture windows reflecting each other. There was no one inside, either customers or employees. The displays of shirts and trinkets, of luggage and toys, all seemed to merge as Battat neared. He tried to blink them clear. He could not. The sickness plus the exertion had worn him down much more than he thought. Battat gave serious thought to going back to the lobby and asking the fire department medics for a ride to the hospital. He had been afraid to go there lest someone recognize him from the night before and ask about the dead man in his room. But he was beginning to doubt that he could make it from the hotel, let alone reach the embassy.
Suddenly, someone appeared in Battat’s line of vision. The American stopped and squinted. It was a man wearing jeans and a white shirt. There were straps around his shoulder.
A black backpack.
Oh Christ, Battat thought as the man approached. He knew who it was. And he had no doubt that the man recognized him. And knew why he was in such a weakened condition. After all, it was probably this same man who had injected him with the toxin on the beach.
The Harpooner.
The assassin had just walked in through the side door. He was about twenty feet away. He was holding what looked like a knife in his right hand. Battat would not be able to fight him. He had to try and get back to the lobby.
Battat turned, but he moved too fast. His vision blurred and he stumbled against one of the shop windows. He quickly pushed off with his shoulder. He staggered ahead. If he could just get to the lobby, even if he fell square on his face, someone might get to him before the Harpooner could.
Battat reached the bank of phones. He extended his left arm, used it to move himself along the wall. Push, step, push, step.
He was halfway along the bank when he felt starched fabric slide along the front of his throat. A sleeve. A strong arm pulled back, putting Battat into a choke hold.
“The last time we met, I needed you alive,” the assassin whispered harshly. “Not this time. Unless you tell me who you’re working with.”
“Up yours,” Battat gasped.
Battat felt a knee against the small of his back. If the Harpooner intended to kill him standing up, he was going to be disappointed. Battat’s legs gave out and he dropped to the floor. The Harpooner immediately released Battat and swung around in front of him. He straddled Battat and dropped a knee on his chest. Battat felt a sharp jab in his side and exhaled painfully. One or more of his ribs had been broken. The Harpooner brought the knife to the left side of the American’s throat. He pressed the sharp tip just below the ear.
“No,” the Harpooner hissed as he glared down at Battat. “This is going up yours.”
Battat was too weak to fight. He was aware that he was going to be cut from ear to ear and then left to drown in his own blood. But there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing.
Battat felt a pinch in his throat. A moment later, he heard a soft pop and blood sprayed into his eyes. He thought it would hurt more, having his throat pierced. But there was no pain after the initial pinch. He did not feel the blade moving through his skin. And he was still able to breathe.
An instant later, Battat heard a second pop. He blinked hard to clear the blood from his eyes. He watched as the Harpooner just hovered there, crouched on his chest. Blood was pumping from a wound in his throat. There was no drama in his face, no great gesture befitting the size of his crimes. Just a momentary look of confusion and surprise. Then the killer’s eyes shut, the knife fell from his hand, and the Harpooner tumbled to the floor between Battat and the phone bank.
Battat lay there. He did not know exactly what had happened until Odette appeared from behind. She was holding her silenced pistol in front of her and looking down at the Harpooner.
“Are you all right?” she asked Battat.
He reached up and felt his throat. Except for a trickle of blood on the left side, it felt intact.
“I think I’m okay,” Battat said. “Thank you.”
Battat managed to half wriggle, half crawl away as Odette bent and examined the Harpooner. The woman kept the gun pointed at the Harpooner’s head as she felt his wrist for a pulse. Then she held her fingers under his nose, feeling for breath. But she had struck him once in the throat and once in the chest. His white shirt was already thick and dripping with blood.
“I’m glad you followed him,” Battat said. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his own wound.
“I didn’t,” Odette said as she rose. “I lost him. But then I thought he might come back to try to cover his tracks. And I knew which one of us he would recognize.”
Just then, a housekeeper in the lobby saw the body and screamed. Battat looked back. She was pointing at them and shouting for help.
Odette stepped around the corpse to help Battat to his feet. “We’ve got to ge
t out of here,” she said urgently. “Come on. My car isn’t far—”
“Wait,” Battat said. He bent over the Harpooner’s body and began working on the straps of the backpack. “Help me get this off. There may be evidence we can use to identify his partners.”
“You just get on your feet,” Odette said as she pulled out her knife. “I’ll do that.”
Battat pulled himself up, using the ledge under the phones while Odette cut the backpack free. Then, lending Battat her shoulder, Odette led the American down the hall.
They were nearly at the door when someone yelled at them from behind.
“Stop!” a man yelled.
Battat and Odette turned. An elderly hotel security officer was standing just beyond the phone bank. Odette let Battat lean against one of the shop windows while she pulled her badge from her back pocket. She held it toward the security officer.
“I’m Odette Kolker of Metropolitan Squad Three,” she said. “The man on the floor is a wanted terrorist. He started the fire in 310. Make sure the room is sealed off. I’m taking my partner to the hospital to see that he gets proper care. Then I’ll be back.”
Odette did not wait for the man to answer or for other security personnel to arrive. She turned and helped Battat from the building.
She did that well, Battat thought. Gave the man a mission, made him feel important, so he would not interfere with them.
The brisk, clear air and sharp sunshine helped give Battat yet another fresh start. This was the last one, though. He knew that for certain. The American’s legs were rubbery, and he was having trouble holding his head up. At least his neck was not bleeding badly. And the handkerchief was keeping most of that inside, where it belonged.
Only after they had made their way through the parking lot to the rear of the hotel did it hit Battat. Odette had done it. She had not only saved his life but she had stopped the Harpooner. She had killed a terrorist who had eluded all of Europe’s top security agencies. He was proud to have had a small hand in this. The only downside was that Odette probably would not be able to remain in Baku after this. It was going to be tough to explain this to her police superiors. And if the Harpooner had allies, they might come looking for her. It was probably a good time for Odette to assume another identity.
Five minutes later, Battat was seated in the passenger’s seat of Odette’s car. They pulled from the curb and headed toward the American embassy. It would be a short ride, but there was something that could not wait. The Harpooner’s backpack was in Battat’s lap. There was a small padlock on the flap. He borrowed Odette’s knife and cut the flap away. He looked inside.
There were some documents as well as a Zed-4 phone. He had worked one of those when he was in Moscow. They were more compact and sophisticated than the American Tac-Sats.
Battat removed the phone from the case. There was an alphanumeric keypad along with several other buttons. Above them was a liquid crystal display on top. He pushed the menu button to the right of the display. For the Harpooner’s sake, the instructions were in English.
And for the first time since David Battat arrived in Baku, he did something he had missed.
He smiled.
FIFTY-SIX
Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, 4:27 A.M.
The Situation Room was a brightly lit chamber with a low ceiling, white walls, and soft, fluorescent lighting. There was a conference table in the center of the room and chairs along three of the four walls. Computer monitors were attached to the arms of the chairs. They provided aides with up-to-the-minute information. The fourth wall was fitted with a ten-foot-long high-definition TV monitor. The screen was linked to the National Reconnaissance Office. Real-time satellite images could be displayed there with magnification of objects up to three feet long. Most of these high-tech improvements were made within the last four years using over two billion dollars that had been allocated to fixing the White House recreation facilities, including the pool and tennis court.
Hood and the First Lady entered through the door that was under the high-definition monitor. The chiefs of the army, navy, and air force and the commandant of the marine corps were sitting along one side of the table with their chairman, General Otis Burg, in the center. Burg was a big, barrel-chested man in his late fifties. He had a shaved head and steel gray eyes that had been hardened by war and political bureaucracy. The joint chiefs’ aides were seated behind them. Along the other side of the table were the president, the vice president, NSA head Fenwick, Chief of Staff Gable, and Deputy National Security adviser Don Roedner. Judging by their tense expressions, either it was a difficult meeting or they did not appreciate the interruption. Or both.
Several members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff registered surprise to see Hood with the First Lady. So did the president. He had been in the process of rising to go into an adjoining study and talk with her. The president froze and looked from Megan to Hood, then back to Megan. The new arrivals stopped at the head of the conference table.
“What’s going on?” the president asked.
Hood glanced at the joint chiefs, who were a wall of impatience. He still did not know whether the frustration was with him or with the issue at hand. All he knew was that he would not have much time to present his case.
“Sir,” Hood said, “there is increasing evidence that the attack on the Iranian oil rig was executed not by Azerbaijanis but by Iranians under the direction of the terrorist known as the Harpooner.”
The president sat back down. “Why?” he asked.
“So that Iran could justify moving ships into the region and seize as many oil resources as possible,” Hood told him.
“And risk a military showdown with the United States?” Lawrence asked.
“No, sir,” Hood replied. He looked at Fenwick. “I believe there is an agreement in place to make sure the United States does not interfere. Then, when the tensions are defused, we simply buy our oil from Teheran.”
“And when was this agreement made?” the president asked.
“Yesterday, in New York,” Hood said. “Probably after many months of negotiations.”
“You’re referring to Jack’s visit to the Iranian mission,” the president said.
“Yes, sir,” Hood replied.
“Mr. Fenwick was not empowered to make such a promise,” the president pointed out. “If he did make one, it would not be valid.”
“It might be if you were not in office,” Hood said.
“This is ridiculous!” Fenwick declared. “I was at the Iranian mission to try and expand our intelligence resources in the Middle East. I’ve explained that, and I can document it. I can tell you who I met with and when.”
“All part of the big lie,” Hood said.
“Mr. Roedner was with me,” Fenwick said. “I have the notes I made, and I’ll be happy to name my contacts. What do you have, Mr. Hood?”
“The truth,” he replied without hesitation. “It’s the same thing I had when you vowed to keep me from seeing the president.”
“What I vowed was to keep you from bothering the president,” Fenwick insisted. “Secret deals with Iran. The president being out of office. This isn’t the truth, Mr. Hood. It’s paranoia!”
The vice president looked at his watch. “Mr. President, forgive me, but we’re wasting time. We need to get on with this meeting.”
“I agree,” said General Burg. “I’m not up to speed on any of this back-and-forth, and it isn’t my job to say which of these gentlemen is full of gravy. But whether we play offense or defense, we have to make some quick decisions if we’re going to match Iran’s deployment.”
The president nodded.
“Then get on with the meeting, Mr. President, General Burg,” Hood said. “But please delay taking military action for as long as possible. Give me time to finish the investigation we’ve begun.”
“I asked for evidence to back your claims,” the president said, his voice extremely calm. “You don’t have that.”
&
nbsp; “Not yet,” Hood said.
“And we don’t have the extra time I thought there’d be to investigate. We’ve got to proceed as if the Caspian threat is real,” the president said with finality.
“Which is exactly what they want you to do!” Hood said. He was growing agitated and had to pull himself back. An outburst would undermine his own credibility. “We believe a crisis is being engineered, one that will call into question your ability to govern.”
“People have argued about that for years,” the president said. “They voted me out of office once. But I don’t make decisions based on polls.”
“I’m not talking about a policy debate,” Hood said. “I’m talking about your mental and emotional state. That will be the issue.”
Fenwick shook his head sadly. “Sir, mental health is the issue. Mr. Hood has been under a great deal of stress these past two weeks. His teenage daughter is mentally ill. He’s going through a divorce. He needs a long vacation.”
“I don’t think Mr. Hood is the one who needs a leave of absence,” the First Lady said. Her voice was clear and edged with anger. It quieted the room. “Mr. Fenwick, I have watched my husband being misled and misinformed for several weeks now. Mr. Hood looked into the situation at my personal request. His investigation has been methodical, and I believe his findings have merit.” She glared at Fenwick. “Or do you intend to call me a liar as well?”
Fenwick said nothing.
The president looked at his wife. Megan was standing straight and stoic at Hood’s side. There was nothing apologetic in her expression. The president looked tired, but Hood thought he also seemed sad. He could not tell whether it was because Megan had run an operation behind his back or because he felt he had let her down. The couple was silent. It was clearly an issue they would settle some other time, in private.
After a moment, the president’s eyes returned to Hood. The sadness remained. “Your concern is noted and appreciated,” the president said. “But I won’t jeopardize the nation’s interests to protect my own. Especially when you have no evidence that they’re at risk.”
