fabric on the arm that had been choking him or the smell of the man who
had attacked him. He couldn't remember if the man's cheek had touched
him and whether he was bearded or clean-shaven. Battat had been too
focused on trying to survive.
Battat's eyes remained shut. They stopped looking into the past and
gazed ahead. He would stay in Baku, but not just because the deputy
ambassador had asked.
Until Battat found whoever had attacked him, his confidence was broken
and his life belonged to them.
Which, he realized, could be why he was left alive.
Washington, D.C.
Monday, 11:55 a.m.
It had always amazed Hood how different Washington looked during the
daytime. At night, the white facades were brightly lit and appeared to
stand alone, shining with Olympian grandeur. In the day, situated
between modern office buildings, vending carts, and glossy restaurant
logos, beneath loud and ever-present jet traffic and security barricades
of concrete and steel, the landmarks seemed almost antique instead of
timeless.
Yet both were Washington. They represented an old, increasingly
monolithic bureaucracy that had to be dealt with, and a vision of
greatness that could not be ignored or diminished.
Hood parked in the Ellipse on the southern side of the grounds. He
crossed E Street and walked up East Executive to the East Appointment
Gate. He was buzzed through the iron gate and, after passing through a
metal detector, waited inside the East Wing for one of the First Lady's
aides.
Of all the landmarks in Washington, Hood had always been partial to the
Capitol. For one thing, it was the guts of the government, the place
where Congress put wheels on the president's vision. They were often
square wheels or wheels of different sizes, but nothing could move
without them. For another thing, the building itself was a vast museum
of art and history, with treasures everywhere.
Here a plaque indicating where the desk of Congressman Abraham Lincoln
was located. There a statue of General Lew Wallace, the onetime
governor of the territory of New Mexico and the author of Ben-Hur.
Somewhere else a sign indicating the status of the search for the
cornerstone of the building, which was laid over two hundred years
before in a little-noted ceremony and was somehow buried and then lost
under numerous modifications to the foundation.
The White House wasn't as imposing as the Capitol.
It was a much smaller structure, with peeling paint and warping wood on
the exterior. But its grounds and columns, its rooms and many familiar
angles were intertwined in American memory with images of great leaders
doing great things--or, sometimes, infamous, very human things. It
would always be the symbolic heart of the United States.
A young male assistant to the First Lady arrived. He brought Hood to
the elevator that led to the third floor.
Hood was somewhat surprised that the First Lady wanted to see him
upstairs. She had an office on the first floor and typically received
visitors there.
Hood was taken to the First Lady's sitting room, which adjoined the
presidential bedroom. It was a small room with a main door that led to
the corridor and another, he assumed, that opened into the bedroom.
There was a gold settee against the far wall, two matching wing chairs
across from it, and a coffee table between them.
A tall secretary with a laptop sat on the opposite wall.
The Persian rug was white, red, and gold; the drapes were white, and
they were drawn. A small chandelier threw bright shards of light around
the room.
Hood looked at the two portraits on the wall. One was of Alice
Roosevelt, daughter of Theodore. The other was a painting of Hannah
Simpson, mother of Ulysses S. Grant. He was wondering why they were
here when the First Lady entered. She was dressed casually in beige
slacks and a matching sweater. Her aide shut the door behind her,
leaving the two of them alone.
"Nancy Reagan found them in the basement," Megan said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The portraits," she said.
"She found them personally.
She hated the idea of women being left to gather dust."
Hood smiled. They embraced lightly, and then Megan gestured toward the
settee.
"There are still wonderful things down there," Megan said as they sat.
"Furnishings, books, documents, things like Tad Lincoln's writing slate
and a diary that belonged to Florence Harding."
"I thought most of that memorabilia was in the Smithsonian."
"A lot of it is. But many of the family-related things are still here.
People have gotten jaded by all the scandals over the years," Megan
said.
"They forget how much the White House was and is a home. Children were
born and raised here, there were weddings, birthdays, and holidays."
Coffee arrived, and Megan was silent as it was served.
Hood watched her as the White House steward quietly and efficiently set
out the silver service, poured the first cup, then left.
The passion in Megan's voice was exactly as Hood remembered. She never
did anything she didn't care deeply about, whether it was addressing a
crowd or advocating greater education spending on TV talk shows or
discussing the White House with an old friend. But there was something
in her expression he had never seen before. The old enthusiasm stopped
short of her eyes.
When he looked in them, they seemed frightened. Confused.
Hood picked up his cup, took a sip of coffee, then turned to Megan.
"I appreciate your coming," the First Lady said. Her cup and saucer
were on her lap, and she was looking down.
"I know you're busy and that you have problems of your own. But this
isn't just about me or the president, Paul." She looked up.
"It's about the nation."
"What's wrong?" Hood asked.
Megan breathed deeply.
"My husband has been behaving strangely over the last few days."
Megan fell silent. Hood didn't push her. He waited while she drank
some of her coffee.
"Over the past week or so, he's been more and more distracted," she
said.
"He hasn't asked about our grandson, which is very unusual. He says
that it's work, and maybe it is. But things got very strange
yesterday." She regarded Hood intently.
"This remains between us."
"Of course."
Megan took a short, reinforcing breath.
"Before the dinner last night, I found him sitting at his dressing
table.
He was running late. He wasn't showered or dressed. He was just
staring at the mirror, flushed and looking as though he'd been crying.
When I asked him about it, he said he'd been exercising. He told me
that his eyes were bloodshot because he hadn't been sleeping. I didn't
believe him, but I let it be. Then, at the pre dinner reception, he was
flat. He smiled and was pleasant, but there was no enthusiasm in him at
all. Until he received a phone call. He took it in his office and
returned about two minutes later. When he came back, his manner was
entirely different. He was outgoing and confident."
"That's certainly how he seemed at dinner," Hood said.
"When you say the president was flat, what exactly do you mean?"
Megan thought for a moment.
"Do you know how someone gets when they're really jet-lagged?" she
asked.
"There's a glassiness in their eyes and a kind of delayed reaction to
whatever is said?"
Hood nodded.
"That's exactly how he was until the call," Megan said.
"Do you know who called?" Hood asked.
"He told me it was Jack Fenwick."
Fenwick was a quiet, efficient man who had been the president's budget
director in his first administration.
Fenwick had joined Lawrence's American Sense think tank, where he added
intelligence issues to his repertoire.
When the president was reelected, Fenwick was named the head of the
National Security Agency, which was a separate intelligence division of
the Department of Defense.
Unlike other divisions of military intelligence, the NSA was also
chartered to provide support for non defense activities of the Executive
Branch.
"What did Fenwick tell the president?" Hood asked.
"That everything had come together," she told Hood.
"That was all he would say."
"You have no idea who or what that is?"
Megan shook her head.
"Mr. Fenwick left for New York this morning, and when I asked his
assistant what the phone call was about, she said something very
strange. She asked me, "What call?"
" "Did you check the log?"
Megan nodded.
"The only call that came into that line at that time was from the
Hay-Adams Hotel."
The elegant old hotel was located on the other side of Lafayette Park,
literally across the street from the White House.
"I had a staff member visit the hotel this morning," Megan went on.
"He got the names of the night staff, went to their homes, and showed
them pictures of Fenwick.
They never saw him."
"He could have come in a back entrance," Hood said.
"Did you run a check of the registry?"
"Yes," she said.
"But that doesn't mean anything.
There could have been any number of aliases. Congressmen often use the
hotel for private meetings."
Hood knew that Megan wasn't just referring to political meetings.
"But that wasn't the only thing," Megan went on.
"When we went downstairs to the Blue Room, Michael saw Senator Fox and
went over to thank her. She seemed very surprised and asked why he was
thanking her. He said, "For budgeting the initiative." I could see
that she had no idea what he was talking about."
Hood nodded. That would explain the confusion he had noticed when
Senator Fox entered the room. Things were beginning to fall into place
a little. Senator Fox was a member of the Congressional Intelligence
Oversight Committee. If any kind of intelligence operation had been
approved, she would have to have known about it. Apparently, she was as
surprised to learn about the international intelligence-sharing
operation as Hood had been. Yet the president either assumed or had
been told, possibly by Jack Fenwick, that she had helped make it happen.
"How was the president after the dinner?" Hood asked.
"That's actually the worst of it," Megan said. Her composure began to
break. She set her coffee cup aside and Hood did likewise. He moved
closer.
"As we were getting ready for bed, Michael received a call from Kirk
Pike."
The former chief of Navy Intelligence, Pike was the newly appointed
director of the CIA.
"He took the call in the bedroom," Megan went on.
"The conversation was brief, and when Michael hung up, he just sat on
the bed, staring. He looked shellshocked."
"What did Pike tell him?"
"I don't know," Megan told him.
"Michael didn't say.
It may have been nothing, just an update that got his mind working. But
I don't think he slept all night. He wasn't in bed when I got up this
morning, and he's been in meetings all day. We usually talk around
eleven o'clock, even if it's just a quick hello, but not today."
Megan shook her head.
"If Dr. Smith can't find any thing wrong with my husband, he might
recommend that Michael see Dr. Benn."
"The psychiatrist at Walter Reed," Hood said.
"Correct," Megan said.
"Dr. Smith and he work closely together. Paul, you know what will
happen if the president of the United States goes to see a psychiatrist.
As much as we might try to keep something like that a secret, the risks
are much too high."
"The risks are higher if the president isn't well," Hood said.
"I know," Megan said, "which is why I wanted to see you. Paul, there
are too many things going on that don't make sense. If there's
something wrong with my husband, I'll insist that he see Dr. Benn and
to hell with the political fallout. But before I ask Michael to submit
to that, I want to know whether something else is going on."
"Glitches in the communications system or a hacker playing tricks," Hood
said.
"Maybe more Chinese spies."
"Yes," Megan said.
"Exactly."
He could see Megan's expression, her entire mood, lighten when he said
that. If it were something from the outside, then it could be fixed
without hurting the president.
"I'll see what I can find out," Hood promised.
"Quietly," Megan said.
"Please, don't let this get out."
"I won't," Hood assured her.
"In the meantime, try and talk to Michael. See if you can get him to
open up somehow. Any information, any names other than what you've told
me, will be a big help."
"I'll do that," Megan said. She smiled.
"You're the only one I can trust with this, Paul. Thank you for being
there."
He smiled back.
"I get to help an old friend and my country. Not a lot of people get
that chance."
Megan rose. Hood stood, and they shook hands.
"I know this is not an easy time for you, either," the First Lady said.
"Let me know if there's anything you need."
"I will," Hood promised.
The First Lady left, and her aide returned to show Hood out.
Baku, Azerbaijan Monday, 9:21 p.m.
Pat Thomas experienced two miracles in one day.
First, the Aeroflot TU-154 that was scheduled to leave Moscow at six
p.m. did so. On time. With the possible exception of Uganda Royal
Airways, Aeroflot was the most notoriously late carrier Thomas had ever
flown on.
Second, the airplane landed in Baku at 8:45 p.m.--five minutes ahead of
schedule. During his five years of service at the American embassy in
Moscow, Thomas had never experienced either of those events. What was
more, despite a relatively full aircraft, the airline had not double- or
; triple-booked his seat.
The slim, nearly six-foot-tall, forty-two-year-old Thomas was assistant
director of public information at the embassy. What the title of ADPI
really meant was that Thomas was a spy: a diplomatic private
investigator was how he viewed the acronym. The Russians knew that, of
course, which was the reason one or two Russian agents always shadowed
Thomas in public. He was certain that someone in Baku would be waiting
to tail him as well. Technically, of course, the KGB was finished. But
the personnel and the infrastructure of the intelligence operation were
still very much in place and very much in use as the Federal Security
Service and other "services."
Thomas was dressed in a three-piece gray winter suit that would keep him
warm in the heavy cold that always rolled in from the Bay of Baku.