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 can 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.
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.
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.
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.
Multiple 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. Boris Grosky was a sullen,
gray-haired intelligence veteran who missed the Cold War. Piotr Korsov
was an eager newcomer who had studied at Technion in Haifa, Israel. He
was openly thrilled to be working in a field he loved and for a man who
had helped pioneer space travel. The men entered the windowless office
within a minute of one another. They sat on the couch across from
Orlov's desk, Boris drinking tea and Korsov sitting with a laptop on his
knees. Orlov briefed the men. Grosky became noticeably more interested
when the general mentioned that the NSA and CIA might somehow be
involved in the Caspian operation.
"What I want to know is this," Orlov said.
"We have eavesdropped on cell phone communications between American
intelligence operatives before. We've gotten through many of their
secure lines."
"We've gotten through most of them," Grosky pointed out.
"They try to keep you out by altering the signal from second to second,"
Korsov said.
"The shifts are all within just a few megahertz in the superhigh
frequency. We've learned how to ride most of the shifts."
"The difficult part is decoding the messages, which are scrambled
electronically," Grosky added.
"The American agencies use very complex codes. Our computers aren't
always up to the task of decrypting the calls."
"Do the same callers usually use the same signals, the same patterns?"
Orlov asked Korsov.
"Usually," Korsov told him.
"Otherwise, there would be audio crossover. Callers would keep bumping
into one another."
"Do we keep records of the calls?" Orlov asked.
"The conversations?" Grosky asked.
"Yes. We keep working on them, trying to decode--"
"I mean the signals," Orlov interrupted.
"Absolutely," said Grosky.
"We send them up to the Laika so it can keep a lookout for those
signals." The Laika was the Russian Op-Center's sentry satellite. Named
for the pioneering Soviet space dog, the Laika was in a high
geostationary orbit over Washington, D.C. It could intercept signals
from the United States, all of Europe, and parts of Asia.
"So, if the Harpooner spoke with an intelligence unit in Washington, we
might have picked up the signal if not the content," Orlov said.
"That's right," said Kosov.
"Very good," said Orlov.
"Go to the computer records for the past two weeks. Look up communiques
between Azerbaijan and the National Security Agency in Washington Get
me all the information you have."
"Even if we haven't decrypted them," said Kosov.
"Yes," Orlov replied.
"I want to know exactly where the Harpooner or his people might have
been calling from."
"When you know that, what will you do?" Grosky asked.
"I'll call the American Op-Center and ask them to go through any
satellite imaging they have for the region," Orlov said.
"The Harpooner had to move explosives and personnel into position. If
we can pinpoint his location, there may be a photographic record of
it--"
"And clues to where he might be," Grosky said. Orlov nodded.
"We'll have that information for you as soon as possible," Kosov said
eagerly.
"It would be a coup if we could catch that monster."
"It would be," Orlov agreed. The men left. Orlov put in a call to Paul
Hood to bring him up to date. Catching the Harpooner would be a
highlight of his career. But more than that, he wondered if this close
cooperation between Op-Centers could become increasingly routine. If
the trust and sharing could lead to less suspicion and greater
international s
ecurity. That would be the real coup.
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 12:30 a.m.
"Paul, I'm glad I found you," Megan Lawrence said.
"I think you should come here. There's something going on." The First
Lady's voice was steady when she got on the line, but Hood knew her well
enough to know that it was Megan's "I have to be strong" voice. He had
heard that voice during the campaign when there were hard questions from
the press about an abortion she had had before she met the president. As
she had years before, Megan was pulling this strength from deep inside.
She would crash only when it was safe to do so.
"Talk to me," Hood said. He was drawing on his own emotional and
psychological reserves to deal with the First Lady's problem. The call
from Sharon had shaken him.
"We were just getting into bed when Michael received a call from Jack
Fenwick," Megan said.
"Whatever Fenwick said rattled my husband very much. His voice was calm
while they talked and then afterward, but I watched this look come over