by Tom Clancy
“All I want is a few hours,” Hood said.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have a few hours,” the president replied.
For a moment, Megan looked as though she was going to hug her husband. She did not. She looked at Fenwick and then at the joint chiefs. “Thank you for hearing us out,” she said. “I’m sorry to have interrupted.” She turned and started toward the door.
Hood did not know what else to say. He would have to go back to the Cabinet Room and work with Herbert and Orlov. Try to get the proof the president needed and get it quickly.
He turned to follow the First Lady from the Situation Room. As he did, there was a gentle beep from somewhere in the room. A cell phone. The sound had come from the inside pocket of Fenwick’s suit.
He shouldn’t be able to get a signal in here, Hood thought. The walls of the Situation Room were lined with chips that generated random electrical impulses or impedence webs. The IWs were designed to block bugs from broadcasting to anyone on the White House grounds. They also blocked cell phone calls with one exception: transmissions relayed by the government’s Hephaestus satellite array.
Hood turned back as the NSA chief had slipped a hand into his jacket. Fenwick took out the phone and shut off the ringer.
Bingo.
If it got through IW security, it had to be a Hephaestus call. Highest security. Who wouldn’t Fenwick want to talk to right now?
Hood leaned over the NSA chief and pulled the phone from his hand. Fenwick reached for it, but Hood stepped away.
“What the hell are you doing?” Fenwick demanded. He pushed the chair back and rose. He walked toward Hood.
“I’m betting my career on a hunch,” Hood said. He flipped open the cover and answered the call. “Yes?”
“Who is this?” asked the caller.
“This is Jack Fenwick’s line at the NSA,” Hood said. He walked toward the president. “Who’s calling?”
“My name is David Battat,” said the clear voice on the other end.
Hood felt the world slide off his shoulders. He held the cell phone so the president could listen as well. Fenwick stopped beside them. The NSA head did not reach for the phone. He just stood there. Hood saw just where the weight of the world had shifted.
“Mr. Battat, this is Paul Hood of Op-Center,” said Hood.
“Paul Hood?” Battat said. “Why are you answering this line?”
“It’s a long story,” Hood said. “What is your situation?”
“A helluva lot better than Mr. Fenwick’s,” Battat said. “We just took down the Harpooner and recovered his secure phone. This number was the first one that came up on the Harpooner’s instant-dial menu.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, 4:41 A.M.
Paul Hood stepped to a corner of the room to finish speaking with Battat. It was important that he get all the information he could about the Harpooner and what had happened.
While Hood did that, President Lawrence stood. He glanced over at his wife, who was standing by the door. He gave her a little smile. Just a small one to show that he was okay and that she had done the right thing. Then Lawrence turned to Fenwick. The NSA chief was still standing beside him. His arms were stiff at his side and his expression was defiant. The other men remained seated around the table. Everyone was watching Lawrence and Fenwick.
“Why did the Harpooner have your direct number and the Hephaestus access code?” the president asked. There was a new confidence in his voice.
“I can’t answer that,” Fenwick said.
“Were you working with Iran to orchestrate a takeover of Azerbaijani oil deposits?” the president asked.
“I was not.”
“Were you working with anyone to organize a takeover of the Oval Office?” the president asked.
“No, sir,” Fenwick replied. “I’m as puzzled as you are.”
“Do you still believe that Mr. Hood is a liar?”
“I believe that he’s misinformed. I have no explanation for what is going on,” Fenwick said.
The president sat back down. “None at all.”
“No, Mr. President.”
The president looked across the table. “General Burg, I’m going to get the secretary of state and our UN ambassador working on this right away. How would you feel about coordinating a midlevel alert for the region?”
Burg looked at his colleagues in turn. No one voiced a protest. The general looked at the president. “Given the confusion about just who we should be fighting, I’m very comfortable with yellow status.”
The president nodded. He looked at his watch. “We’ll reconvene in the Oval Office at six-thirty. That will give me time to work with the press secretary to get something on the morning news shows. I want to be able to put people at ease about our troops and about the status of our oil supply.” He regarded vice president Cotten and Gable. “I’m going to ask the attorney general to look into the rest of this situation as quietly as possible. I want him to ascertain whether treasonable acts have been committed. Do any of you have any thoughts?”
There was something challenging in the president’s voice. Hood had just finished up with Battat and turned back to the table. He remained in the corner, however. Everyone else was still.
The vice president leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. He said nothing. Gable did not move. Fenwick’s deputy, Don Roedner, was staring at the conference table.
“No suggestions at all?” the president pressed.
The heavy silence lasted a moment longer. Then the vice president said, “There will not be an investigation.”
“Why not?” asked the president.
“Because you will have three letters of resignation on your desk by the end of the morning,” Cotten replied. “Mr. Fenwick‘s, Mr. Gable’s, and Mr. Roedner’s. In exchange for those resignations, there will be no charges, no prosecution, and no explanation other than that members of the administration had a difference of policy opinion.”
Fenwiclc’s forehead flushed. “Three letters, Mr. Vice President?”
“That’s correct, Mr. Fenwick,” Cotten replied. The vice president did not look at the NSA chief. “In exchange for complete amnesty.”
Hood did not miss the subtext. Nor, he was sure, did the president. The vice president was in on this, too. He was asking the others to take a fall for him — though not a big one. Quitting an administration, high-ranking officials often tumbled upward in the private sector.
The president shook his head. “I have here a group of administration officials who apparently conspired with an international terrorist to steal oil from one nation, give it to another, reap foreign policy benefits, and in the process steal the office of president of the United States. And you sit there anogantly declaring that these men will be given de facto amnesty. And that one of them, it appears, will remain in office, in line for the presidency.”
Cotten regarded Lawrence. “I do declare that, yes,” he said. “The alternative is an international incident in which the United States will be seen as having betrayed Azerbaijan. A series of investigations and trials that will ghost this administration and become its sole legacy. Plus a president who was unaware of what was going on among his closest advisers. A president who his own wife thought might be suffering from a mental or emotional breakdown. That will not boost public confidence in his abilities.”
“Everyone gets off,” the president said angrily. “I’m supposed to agree to that?”
“Everyone gets off,” the vice president repeated calmly.
“Mr. Vice President, sir?” General Burg said. “I just want to say if I had my weapon here, I would shoot you in the ass.”
“General Burg,” the vice president replied, “given the pitiful state of our military, I’m confident you’d miss.” He regarded the president. “There was never going to be a war. No one was going to shoot at anyone or be shot at. Peace would have been reached with Iran, relations would have been norm
alized, and Americans would have had a guaranteed fuel supply. Whatever one may think of the methods, this was all done for the good of the nation.”
“Any time laws are broken, it is not for the good of the nation,” the president said. “You endangered a small, industrious country trying to get its footing in a post-Soviet world. You sought to undo the will of the American electorate. And you betrayed my faith in you.”
Cotten rose. “I did none of those things, Mr. President,” he replied. “Otherwise, I would be resigning. I’ll see you all at the six-thirty meeting.”
“You will not be needed there,” the president said.
“Ah,” said the vice president. “You would prefer I go on the Today Show to discuss administration policy in the Caspian region.”
“No,” the president replied. “I would prefer that you draft your letter of resignation to submit with the others.”
The vice president shook his head. “I won’t do that.”
“You will,” the president replied. “And attribute your resignation to mental exhaustion. I won’t make you a martyr to an anticonstitutional fringe. Find some other line of work, Mr. Cotten.”
“Mr. President, you are pushing the wrong man,” Cotten warned.
“I don’t think so,” the president replied. His eyes and voice grew steely. “You’re correct, Mr. Cotten. I don’t want a national or international scandal. But I’ll suffer those before I leave a traitor in the line of succession to the office of president. Either you resign or, in exchange for that amnesty, I will urge Mr. Fenwick and his associates to tell the attorney general what they know about your involvement in this operation.”
Cotten was silent. Red and silent.
The president reached for the phone in front of him. He pushed a button. “Corporal Cain?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Please have an unarmed detail report to the Situation Room at once,” Lawrence told him. “There are some gentlemen who need to be escorted to their offices and then from the grounds.”
“Unarmed, sir?” Cain repeated.
“That’s right,” Lawrence said. “There won’t be any trouble.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Wait outside the door when you’re finished,” the president added. “The men will be joining you in just a moment.”
“Yes, sir.”
The president hung up. He regarded the four men. “One more thing. Information about your participation in these events must not leave this room. Amnesty will not be based on anything I intend to do for you. Pardoning you would be a sin. It will be based solely on the absence of news.”
The men turned and walked toward the door.
Megan Lawrence stepped aside.
Hood’s eyes met hers. The First Lady was glowing with pride. They were obviously thinking the same thing.
She was the only Lawrence who would be stepping aside this day.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Saint Petersburg, Russia
Tuesday, 12:53 P.M.
In most intelligence agencies it’s often difficult to tell night from day. That’s because conspiracy and espionage never rest, so the counterterrorists and spybusters also work around the clock. Most are usually fully staffed. The distinction is even less noticeable in the Russian Op-Center because the facility is below ground. There are no windows anywhere.
But General Orlov always knew when it was afternoon. He knew because that was when his devoted wife called. She always rang shortly after lunchtime to see how her Sergei’s sandwich was. She phoned even today, when she had not had time to prepare a bag lunch before he left.
Unfortunately, the call was brief. It often was. They usually had longer conversations when he was in space than they did at the Op-Center. Two minutes after Masha called, Orlov received a call from Odette. He told Masha he would have to call her back. She understood. Masha always understood.
Orlov switched lines. “Odette, how are you?” the general asked eagerly.
“I’m very well,” the woman replied. “We accomplished our mission.”
Orlov was unable to speak for a moment. He had been worried about Odette and concerned about the mission. The fact that she was safe and triumphant left him choked with pride.
“We terminated with complications,” Odette went on, “but we got away. There were no other injuries.”
“Where are you now?” Orlov asked.
“At the U.S. embassy,” she said. “Mr. Battat is getting medical care. Then I’ll be going to the police station. I had to show my badge to a hotel worker, but I think I’ll be able to work it out with my superior. The Harpooner set a fire. I can tell the captain that I went there to see if I could help.”
“So you don’t want to leave, then?” Orlov asked.
“I think there will be some interesting problems because of all this,” she said. “I’d like to stay for a while.”
“We’ll talk about it,” Orlov said. “I’m proud of you, Odette. And I know someone else would be, too.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I think Viktor was looking out for me today. So was David Battat. I’m glad you asked him to come along.”
Odette gave Orlov additional information about what had happened. They arranged to talk again in six hours. If it became necessary for Odette to leave Baku, there was an Aeroflot flight she could catch at eight P.M.
Orlov took a moment to savor the victory’s many rewards. First, having won the battle against a tenacious enemy. Second, having made the right decision to send Odette and Battat into the field together. And finally, having been able to help Paul Hood. Not only did it repay an old debt, but it hopefully opened the door to future close collaborations.
Odette said that Battat had spoken with Paul Hood. There was nothing Orlov could add to that. Orlov would call him in a few minutes. First, however, he wanted to brief the staff members who had been involved in the hunt.
He was about to send for Grosky and Kosov when the men came to his office door. Kosov was carrying a rolled-up blueprint.
“General,” said the outgoing Kosov, “we have some news.”
“Good news?” Orlov asked.
“Yes, sir,” Kosov said. “That information the Americans gave us about the Harpooner’s Russian identity has proved very useful.”
“In what way?” Orlov asked.
“It suggested to us how he has been able to come to Moscow and disappear without ever being seen,” Kosov said. He stepped forward and unrolled the blueprint on Orlov’s desk. “This is a map of the old Soviet army railroad routes,” he said. “As you know, they go underground well outside of Moscow and stop at various points beneath the city.”
“It was designed that way so troops could be moved into place clandestinely, to put down riots or even foreign attacks,” Grosky added.
“I know about these,” Orlov said. “I’ve traveled in them.”
“But what you may not know about is this one,” Kosov said.
The intelligence analyst used a pen to point to a faint red line. It led from Kievskaya metro stop to several other stations around the city. Kosov was right. Orlov did not know what it was.
“This is unmarked, as you can see, even though it links up to the main trunk,” Kosov continued. “We thought it might be a service tunnel of some kind, but we looked at an older map from the GRU files just to make certain. It was the old Stalin tunnel. If the German army had ever reached Moscow during World War II, Stalin would have been evacuated through this system. Only his closest military advisers know that it existed.” Kosov stepped back and folded his arms. “We believe, sir, that all we need to do to catch our rat is to put video cameras at the entrance and exit. Sooner or later, the Harpooner is certain to show up there.”
Orlov looked at the map for a moment, then sat back. “You may have solved a very perplexing riddle,” he said. “Excellent work.”
“Thank you, sir,” Kosov beamed.
“Fortunately,” Orlov went on, “the Harpooner was killed e
arlier today. The only rats that will be using the tunnel are the four-legged kind.”
Grosky’s mouth twisted slightly at one end. Kosov’s expression seemed to fall entirely.
“But we could not have taken him without you, and I will say so in my report to the president’s director of intelligence review,” Orlov promised. He rose and extended his hand to each man in turn. “I am proud of you both and deeply grateful.”
Kosov’s disappointment evaporated quickly. Grosky’s mouth remained bent. But even Grosky’s perpetual sourness couldn’t spoil the moment. An inexperienced woman, a sick man, and two former enemies had joined forces to win a big one.
It was an extraordinary feeling.
FIFTY-NINE
Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, 5:04 A.M.
After the vice president and his team had been ushered away, the president asked Hood to wait for him. Hood stepped outside the Situation Room as the president and Megan stood alone behind the conference table, talking. The president took his wife’s hands in his. He seemed composed, once again in control.
The Joint Chiefs of Staff filed out quickly after Cotten’s group had been led off. They headed quickly toward the elevator. Before leaving, General Burg paused and turned to Hood. He shook the intelligence leader’s hand.
“What you did in there was good work, smart work,” the general said. “It was also ballsy. My congratulations, Mr. Hood. I’m proud to be associated with you. Proud to be an American.”
Coming from anyone else under almost any other circumstance, that sentiment might have sounded corny. But the system had worked, despite the formidable forces and pressures rallied against it. General Burg had every reason to feel proud. Hood did.
“Thank you, General,” Hood said sincerely.
After the Joint Chiefs left, the hall was quiet, save for the whispered conversation of the president and First Lady. Hood was relieved but still a little shell-shocked by everything that had just happened. He did not believe that the press would accept the given explanations for a mass resignation of the vice president and top administration officials. But that was a battle for other warriors and another day. Hood and his team had saved the presidency and defeated the Harpooner. Right now, all he wanted to do was hear what the president wanted to say, get back to the hotel, and go to sleep.
