of war, led there by Fenwick. Lawrence tries to manage the crisis. What
happens next? Does Fenwick undermine him somehow? Make him doubt his
abilities-Or does he make the public doubt his abilities? Hood wondered.
Senator Fox was already concerned about the president. Mala Chatterjee
had no love for him. The secretary-general would certainly give
interviews stating that the president had been completely mistaken about
the United Nations initiative. What if Gable or Fenwick were also to
leak information about bad judgment the president had shown over the
past few weeks? Reporters would swallow it whole. Hood knew. It would
be easy to manipulate the press with a story like that. Especially if
it came from a reliable source like Jack Fenwick. And it wasn't just
Fenwick and Gable who were involved in this. Hood now knew for certain.
The vice president had been on the same page as Fenwick and Gable back
in the Oval Office. Who stood to benefit most if the president himself
and possibly the electorate were convinced that he was unfit to lead the
nation in a time of crisis? The man who would succeed him, of course.
"General Orlov, have we heard from our people tracking the Harpooner?"
Hood asked.
"They're both at the hotel where he is staying," Orlov reported.
"They're moving in on him now."
"To terminate, not capture."
"We don't have the manpower to capture him," Orlov stated.
"The truth is, we may not even have the manpower to complete the mission
at hand. It's a great risk, Paul."
"I understand," Hood said.
"General, are you solid about this information? That the men who
attacked the Iranian rig are Iranian?"
"Until their body parts are collected and identified, an educated guess
is the best I can do," Orlov said.
"All right," Hood said.
"I'm going to take that information to the president. His advisers are
pushing him to a military response. Obviously, we have to get him to
postpone that."
"I agree," Orlov said.
"We're mobilizing as well."
"Call me with any other news," Hood said.
"And thank you, General. Thank you very much." Hood hung up the phone.
He ran from the Cabinet Room and jogged down the carpeted hallway toward
the Oval Office. Canvas portraits of Woodrow Wilson and First Lady
Edith Boiling Wilson looked down from the wall. She had effectively run
the country in 1919 when her husband suffered a stroke. But she was
protecting his health while looking out for the country's best
interests. Not her own advancement. Had we become more corrupt since
then? Or had the line between right and wrong become entirely erased?
Did presumably virtuous ends justify corrupt means? This was maddening.
Hood had information, and he had a strong, plausible scenario. He had
Fenwick turning pale when he said that the Harpooner had been captured.
But Hood did not have proof. And without that, he did not see how he
was going to convince the president to proceed slowly, carefully,
regardless of what Iran did. Nor were the joint chiefs likely to be much
help. The military had been itching for a legitimate reason to strike
back at Teheran for over twenty years. He turned the corner and reached
the Oval Office. The secret service officer stationed at the door
stopped him.
"I have to see the president," Hood told him.
"I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to leave," the young man insisted. Hood
wagged the badge that hung around his neck.
"I have blue-level access," he said.
"I can stand here. Please. Just knock on the door and tell the
president I'm here."
"Sir, my doing that won't help you to see the president," the secret
service agent told him.
"They've moved the meeting downstairs."
"Where?" Hood asked. But he already knew.
was going to keep him from seeing the president. The only way to get
down there was with the next-level access badge, which was red level.
Everyone who had that level would be down there. Being seduced and
controlled by Jack Fenwick. Hood walked back toward the Cabinet Room. He
was still holding his cell phone and tapping it against his open palm.
He felt like throwing the damn thing. He could not phone the president.
Calls to the Situation Room went through a different switchboard than
the rest of the White House. He did not have clearance for direct dial,
and Fenwick would certainly have arranged it so that any calls Hood made
would be refused or delayed. Hood was accustomed to challenges, to
delays. But he always had access to the people he needed to talk to and
persuade. Even when terrorists had seized the United Nations Security
Council, there had been ways to get in. All he needed was the resolve
and manpower to do it. He was not accustomed to being utterly
stonewalled like this. It was miserably frustrating. He stopped
walking. He looked up at the portrait of Woodrow Wilson, then looked at
the painting of Mrs. Wilson.
"Shit," he said. He glanced down at the phone. Maybe he wasn't as
stonewalled as he thought. Jogging again. Hood returned to the Cabinet
Room. He was willing to bet there was one avenue Jack Fenwick hadn't
closed down. He couldn't have, even if he wanted to.
A queen always beat a Jack.
Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 11:09 a.m.
As Odette walked down the hall, she had two concerns. One worry was that
she might be making a mistake about the identity of the man in room 310.
That he was not, in fact, the Harpooner. Orlov had given Odette a
general idea what the Harpooner looked like. But he had added that the
Harpooner probably wore disguises. She had a mental picture of someone
tall and aquiline with pale, hateful eyes and long fingers. Would she
hesitate to shoot if someone not-so-tall and heavyset with blue,
welcoming eyes and stubby fingers opened the door? Would that give him a
chance to strike first? An innocent man would come over and say "Hello,"
she told herself. The Harpooner might do that to throw off her guard.
She had to strike first, whoever was in there. Her other concern was a
question of confidence. She had been thinking about the reluctance she
heard in General Orlov's voice. Odette wondered what concerned him
most. That something would happen to her or that the Harpooner might
escape? Probably both. Though she tried to rev up an "I'll show him"
mentality. General Oriov's lack of confidence did not boost her own. It
doesn't matter, she told herself. Focus on the goal and on nothing
else. The mission was all that mattered. The target was just a few
doors down. Odette and David Battat had agreed that she would start
their spat. She was the one who had to open the door and go in. She
should control the timing. The couple passed room 314. Odette was
holding the key in her left hand. She still had the gun in her right
hand, under the jacket, which was draped over her forearm. Battat was
holding the switchblade at his side. He seemed to be somewhat more
focused than he had been when he arrived. Odette was not surprised. She
was, too. They passed room 312. Odette turned to Battat.
"Why are you stopping?" she asked him. Odette made sure not to shout
just so the Harpooner could hear. Her tone was normal, conversational.
"What do you mean, "Why am I stopping?"" he asked right back. Odette
moved ahead several steps. She stopped in front of room 310. Her heart
was speeding.
"Aren't we going inside?"
"Yes," he replied impatiently.
"That's not our room," Odette said.
"Yes it is," Battat said.
"No," Odette said.
"This is our room."
"We're in 312," Battat said confidently. She put the key in the slot of
310. That was the signal for Battat to step over to the room. He
walked over and stopped directly behind her. His right shoulder was
practically touching the door. Odette's fingers were damp with sweat.
She could actually smell the brass of the key. She hesitated. This is
what you'we been waiting for, she reminded herself. An opportunity to
prove herself and to make Viktor proud. She turned the key to the right.
The bolt went with it. The door opened.
"I told you this was our room," she said to Battat. Odette swallowed
hard. The words had caught in her throat and she did not want to show
her fear. The Harpooner might hear it in her voice. With the door open
a sliver, Odette withdrew the key. She slipped it in her pocket and used
that moment to listen. The TV was off and the Harpooner was not in the
shower. Odette was half hoping he had been in the bathroom, cornered.
But she heard nothing. She opened the door a little more. There was a
short, narrow hallway inside. It was cave dark and utterly still. They
had assumed the Harpooner would be hiding in the room, but what if he
were not? He could be out for a late breakfast. Or he might have left
Baku. Perhaps he kept the room as a safe house in case he needed it. But
what if he's waiting for us? she thought then. And she answered her
own question. Then we "II have to handle the situation. Viktor used to
say that nothing was guaranteed.
"What's wrong, honey?" Battat asked. The words startled her. Odette
looked back at her companion. The American's brow was pinched. He was
obviously concerned. She realized that she was probably waiting too
long to go in.
"Nothing's wrong," she said. She opened the door a little farther and
reached in with her left hand.
"I'm just looking for the light." Odette pushed the door until it was
halfway open. She could see the glowing red numbers of the alarm clock
on the night table. There was a jagged line of white light in the
center of the drapes. Its brilliance only made the rest of the room
seem darker. Odette's gun was still hidden under her jacket, still
behind the half-closed door. She found the light switch with her left
hand. She nicked it on. The hall light came on as did the lamps on the
night tables. The walls and furniture brightened with a dull yellow
orange glow. Odette did not breathe as she stepped into the hallway. The
bathroom was to her right. She turned and looked in. There were
toiletries on the counter beside the sink. The soap was opened. She
looked at the bed. It had not been slept in, though the pillows had
been moved around. She saw a suitcase on the luggage stand, but she did
not see the Harpooner's shoes. Maybe he was out.
"Something's wrong here," Odette said.
"What do you mean?"
"That's not our bag on the luggage rack," she replied. Battat stepped in
behind her. He looked around.
"So I was right," he said.
"This isn't our room."
"Then why did the key work?" she asked.
"Let's go back downstairs and find out," Battat urged. He was still
looking around.
"Maybe the bellman made a mistake and put someone else in here," Odette
suggested. Battat suddenly grabbed Odette's left shoulder. He roughly
shoved her into the bathroom and followed her in. Odette turned and
glared at Battat. He put a finger to his lips and moved very close.
"What's wrong?" she whispered.
"He's in there," Battat said quietly.
"Where?"
"Behind the bed, on the floor," Battat told her.
"I saw his reflection in the brass headboard."
"Is he armed?" she asked.
"I couldn't tell," Battat said.
"I'm betting he is." Odette put her jacket on the floor. There was no
longer any reason to conceal the gun. Battat was standing a few steps
in front of her, near the door. Just then she saw a small round mirror
and extender arm attached to the wall to his right. She had an idea.
"Hold this," she whispered and handed Battat the gun. Then she walked
around him, popped the mirror from its holder, and moved toward the
door. Crouching, she carefully poked the mirror into the corridor. She
angled it so that she could see under the bed. No one was there.
"He's gone," she said quietly. Odette extended the mirror arm a little
farther so she could see more of the room. She angled it slowly from
side to side. There was no one in the corners, and she could not see a
bulge behind the drapes.
"He's definitely not here," she said. Battat squatted behind her and
looked into the mirror. Odette wondered if the feverish man had really
seen anyone or if he had been hallucinating.
"Wait a second," Battat said.
"Move the mirror so we can see the head of the bed." Odette did as he
asked. The drapes were moving there. It looked as if they were being
stirred by a gentle wind.
"The window's open," Odette said. Battat rose. He entered the room
cautiously and looked around.
"Damn."
"What?" Odette asked as she stood.
"There's a rope under the drape," he said and started toward it.
"The bastard climbed--" Suddenly, Battat turned and hurried back into
the bathroom.
"Down!" he shouted and shoved Odette roughly to the floor. He dove
down beside her, next to the fiberglass bathtub. Quickly, he pulled her
jacket over their heads and lay beside her, his arm across her back.
A moment later, the hotel room was lit by a yellow red flare. There was
a whooshing sound as the air became superheated. The flare died after a
moment, leaving a sickly sweet smell mixed with the stench of burning
fabric and carpet. The room smoke detector was squealing. Odette
whipped her jacket from them and knelt.
"What happened?" she shouted.
"There was a TIC on the desk!" Battat yelled.
"A what?"
"A TIC," Battat said as he jumped to his feet.
"Terrorist in a can. Come on--we've got to get out of here!" Battat
helped Odette up. She grabbed her jacket and the two of them swung into
the hallway. Battat shut the door and staggered over to room 312. He
was obviously having difficulty staying on his feet.
"What's a terrorist in a can?" Odette asked.
"Napalm with a benzene chaser," Battat said.
"It looks like shaving cream and doesn't register on airport X-ray
machines. All you have to do is twist the cap to set the timer, and
blam." The main fire alarm began to clang behind them.
"Give me the master key," he said as they reached 312. Odette handed it
over. Battat opened the door. Smoke was already spilling through the
door that connected the room to 310. Battat hurried past it and ran to
the window. The heavy drapes were open. He edged toward the window,
standing back just enough so that he could see out but not be seen from
below. Odette stepped up behind him. Battat had to lean against the
wall to keep from falling. They looked out at the empty parking lot.
"There," Battat said, pointing. Odette moved closer. She looked out.
"Do you see him?" Battat asked.
"In the white shirt, blue jeans, carrying a black backpack."
"I see him," Odette replied.
"That's the man I saw in the room," Battat said. So that's the
Harpooner, she thought. The monster cut an unimposing figure as he
walked unhurriedly from the hotel. But his easygoing manner only made
him seem even more noxious. People might be dying in the fire he set to
cover his escape. Yet he did not care. Odette wished she could shoot
him from here.
"He's probably going to keep moving slowly so he won't attract
attention," Battat told her. He gave the gun back to her. He was