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.
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
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.
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 made 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."
"Except for the presence of the Harpooner," Norivsky pointed out.
"We know that he has worked for Iran on many occasions. We know that he
can usually be contacted through a series of associates in Teheran. What
I'm saying. General, is, what if Iran organized the attack on its own
oil rig as an excuse to move warships into the area?"
"That wouldn't explain the involvement of the American National Security
Agency," Orlov said.
"But Cherkassov's presence might," Norivsky insisted.
"Consider, sir. Iran threatens Azerbaijan. The United States becomes
involved in that conflict. It has to. American oil supplies are being
threatened. If the foe is only Iran, Americans are not opposed to an
air and sea war. They have wanted to strike back at Teheran for
decades, ever since the hostage crisis in 1979. But imagine that Russia
is brought into the situation. At his trial, Cherkassov admitted
working for the Kremlin. That was how he avoided execution. Suppose
Azerbaijan or Iran retaliates by attacking Russian oil platforms in the
Caspian. Are the people of the United States going to stand for a world
war erupting in the region?"
"I don't think they would," Orlov said. He thought for a moment.
"And maybe they wouldn't have to stand for it."
"What do you mean?" Norivsky asked.
"The Harpooner was working with the NSA, apparently to orchestrate this
showdown," Orlov said.
"What if someone in the American government made a deal with Iran before
it happened?"
"Does the NSA have that kind of authority?" Norivsky asked.
"I don't believe so," Orlov said.
"They would probably need higher-ranking officials working with them.
Paul Hood at Op-Center indicated that contacts of that
type may have taken place. What if the Americans agreed they would back
down at a certain point? Allow Iran to have more of the oil-rich
regions in exchange for American access to that oil?"
"A normalization of relations?" Norivsky suggested.
"Possibly," Orlov said.
"The American military pushed to brinkmanship then pulled back for some
reason. But what reason? That had to have been arranged as well." Orlov
did not know the answer, but he knew who might. Thanking Norivsky,
Orlov rang his translator and put in a call to Paul Hood.
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 3:06 a.m.
After Fenwick left the Cabinet Room, Hood sat alone at the long
conference table. He was trying to figure out what he could tell the
president to convince him that something was wrong with the intelligence
he was receiving, That was going to be difficult without new
information. Hood thought he had convinced him of Fenwick's duplicity
earlier. But in the press of developing crises, crisis managers often
took the advice of trusted and especially passionate friends. Fenwick
was passionate, and Cotten was an old ally. Without hard facts. Hood
would not be able to combat that. But what troubled him nearly as much
was something the NSA head had said to Hood before leaving the Cabinet
Room.
"I'm not going to let you advise the president." This was not just an
international showdown. It was also a territorial fight in the Oval
Office. But for what, exactly? It was not just about access to the
president of the United States. Fenwick had tried to confuse Lawrence,
to embarrass him, to mislead him. Why? Hood shook his head and rose.
Even though he had nothing to add to what he said before. Hood wanted
to hear what the joint chiefs had to say. And Fenwick could not bar him
from the Oval Office. As Hood was leaving the Cabinet Room, his phone
beeped. It was General Orlov.
"Paul, we have some disturbing information," Orlov said.
"Talk to me," Hood replied. Orlov briefed him. When he was finished,
Orlov said, "We have reason to believe that the Harpooner and Iranian
nationals carried out the attack on the Iranian oil rig. We believe the
attack may have been the same Iranians who freed the Russian terrorist
Sergei Cherkassov from prison. This would make it seem as if Moscow was
involved."
"Compelling the United States to lend its support to Azerbaijan as a
counterbalance," Hood said.
"Do you know if Teheran sanctioned the attack?"
"Very possibly," Orlov replied.
"The Iranians appear to have been working for or were trained by VEVAK."
"In order to precipitate a crisis that would allow them to move in
militarily," Hood said.
"Yes," Orlov agreed.
"And the presence of Cherkassov, we think, was designed to give Iran a
reason to threaten our oil facilities. To draw Russia into the crisis.
Cherkassov may have had nothing to do with the attack itself."
"That makes sense," Hood agreed.
"Paul, you said before that members of your own government, of the NSA,
were in contact with the Iranian mission in New
York. That it was a
member of the NSA that was in communication with the Harpooner in Baku.
Could that agency be involved in this?"
"I don't know," Hood admitted.
"Perhaps the mission put them in contact with the Harpooner," Orlov
suggested. That was possible. Hood thought about it for a moment. Why
would Fenwick help Iran to blow up its own rig and then encourage the
president to attack Iran? Was this a plot to sucker Iran into a
showdown? Was that why Fenwick had concealed his whereabouts from the
president? But Fenwick would have known about Cherkassov, Hood thought.
He had to know that Russia would be drawn in as well. And that still did
not explain why Fenwick had made a point of calling the president right
before the United Nations dinner. That was a move designed to humiliate
Lawrence. To erode confidence in the president's-Mental state. Hood
thought suddenly. Hood followed the thread. Wasn't that what Megan
Lawrence was concerned about? Mental instability, apparent or real,
created by a careful pattern of deception and confusion? The president
becomes deeply shaken. The United States finds itself on the precipice