Viktor had successfully infiltrated the Chechan mujihadin forces. For seven months, Viktor was able to obtain the ever-changing radio frequencies with which different rebel factions communicated. He would write this information down and leave it for a member of the KGB field force to collect and radio to Moscow. Then the idiot KGB officer got sloppy. He confused the frequency he was supposed to use with the one he was reporting about. Instead of communicating with his superiors, he broadcast directly to one of the rebel camps. The KGB officer was captured, tortured for information, and killed. He had not known Viktor’s name but he knew which unit her husband had infiltrated and when he had arrived. The rebel leaders had no trouble figuring out who the Russian agent was. Viktor would always leave his information under a rock which he would chip in a distinctive fashion. While he was out one night, supposedly standing watch, Viktor was brought down by ten men, then taken into the mountains. There, his Achilles tendons were severed and his wrists were slashed. Viktor bled to death before he could crawl to help. His last message to her was painted on a tree trunk with his own blood. It was a small heart with his wife’s initials inside.
Odette’s cell phone beeped softly. She picked it up from the kitchen counter and turned her back toward her guest. The woman spoke softly so she would not wake him.
“Yes?”
“We believe we’ve found the Harpooner.”
That got Odette’s attention. “Where?”
“At a hotel not far from you,” Orlov said. “We’re trying to pinpoint his room now.”
Odette moved quietly toward the bed. She was required to check her service revolver when she left police headquarters every night. But she kept a spare weapon in the nightstand. It was always loaded. A woman living alone had to be careful. A spy at home or abroad had to be even more careful.
“What’s the mission?” Odette asked.
“Termination,” Orlov said. “We can’t take a chance that he’ll get away.”
“Understood,” Odette said calmly. The woman believed in the work she was doing, protecting the interests of her country. Killing did not bother her when doing it would save lives. The man she had terminated just a few hours before meant little more to her than someone she might have passed in the street.
“Once we’ve narrowed down the guests who might be the Harpooner, you’re going to have to make the final call,” Orlov said. “The rest depends on what he does, how he acts. What you see in his eyes. He’s probably going to have showered but still look tired.”
“He’s been a busy bastard,” Odette said. “I can read that in a man.”
“The chances are he won’t open the door to the hotel staff,” Orlov went on. “And if you pretend to be a housekeeper or security officer, that will only put him on guard.”
“I agree,” she said. “I’ll find a way to get in and take him by surprise.”
“I spoke to our profiler,” Orlov said. “If you do get to him, he’ll probably be cool and even pleasant and will appear to cooperate. He might attempt to bribe you or get you to be overconfident. Try to get your guard down so he can attack. Don’t even listen. Make your assessment and do your job. I wouldn’t be surprised if he also has several traps at the ready. A gas canister in an air duct, an explosive device, or maybe just a magnesium flash to blind you. He might have rigged it to a light switch or a remote control in his heel, something he can activate when he ties his shoe. We just don’t know enough about him to say for certain how he secures a room.”
“It’s all right,” Odette assured him. “I’ll make the ID and neutralize him.”
“I wish I could tell you to go in with a squad of police,” Orlov said apologetically. “But that isn’t advisable. A shout, rerouted traffic, anything out of the ordinary can alert him. Or the Harpooner may sense their presence. If he does, he may get away before you can even get to him. I’m sure he has carefully planned his escape routes. Or he may try to take hostages.”
“I understand,” Odette said. “All right. Where is the Harpooner registered?”
“Before I tell you that, how is your guest?” Orlov asked.
“He’s sleeping,” Odette replied. She looked down at the man on the bed. He was lying on his back, his arms at his side. His breathing was slow and heavy. “Whatever he’s suffering from was probably artificially induced,” she said. “Possibly by injection.”
“How is his fever?”
“Down a bit, I think,” she said. “He’ll be okay.”
“Good,” Orlov said. “Wake him.”
“Sir?” The order took her completely by surprise.
“I want you to wake him,” Orlov told her. “You’re bringing him with you.”
“But that’s not possible!” Odette protested. “I don’t even know if the American can stand.”
“He’ll stand,” Orlov said. “He has to.”
“Sir, this is not going to help me—”
“I’m not going to have you face the Harpooner without experienced backup,” Orlov said. “Now, you know the drill. Do it.”
Odetted shook her head. She knew the drill. Viktor had taught it to her. Lit matches were applied to the soles of the feet. It not only woke up the ill or people who had been tortured into unconsciousness, but the pain kept them awake and alert as they walked.
Odette shook her head. By definition, field work was a solo pursuit. What had happened to Viktor underscored the danger of working with someone even briefly. Even if the American were well, she was not sure she wanted a partner. Ill, he would be more of a burden than an asset.
“All right,” Odette said. She turned her back on the American and walked toward the kitchenette. “Where is he?”
“We believe the Harpooner is in the Hyatt,” Orlov told her. “We’re trying to have a look at their computer records now. I’ll let you know if we learn anything from the files.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Odette promised. “Is there anything else, General?”
“Just this,” Orlov said. “I have grave reservations about sending you after this man. I want you both to be careful.”
“We will,” Odette said. “And thank you.”
She hung up and hooked the cell phone on her belt. She removed the gun and ankle holster from the night table and slipped them on. Her long police skirt would cover the weapon. She slipped a silencer in her right pocket. She had brought a switchblade to the hospital. That was still tucked in her left skirt pocket. If she did not need it for self-defense, she would need it as a throwaway. If she were stopped for any reason, perhaps by hotel security, Odette could say that she was visiting a friend—the checkout who, of course, would no longer be there. Odette would be able to say that she knocked on the wrong door and the Harpooner attacked her. With her help—using information provided by Orlov and the Americans—the police would connect the dead man with the terrorist attack.
Hopefully, though, it would not be necessary to explain anything to anyone. With surprise on her side, Odette might be able to catch the Harpooner relatively unprepared.
Odette walked on slightly bent knees and tiptoed to the front door of the apartment. The hardwood floors creaked loudly underfoot. It was strange, Odette thought. It had never been necessary for her to be quiet here before. Until today, there had never been anyone but her in this bed. Not that she regretted that. Viktor had been all she ever wanted.
Odette opened the door. Before leaving, she looked back at the sleeping American.
The woman felt bad about lying to General Orlov. Though the coin of her profession was subterfuge and deceit, she had never lied to Orlov. Fortunately, this was a win-win situation for her. If she succeeded in bringing down the Harpooner, Orlov would be angry with her—but not very. And if she failed, she would not be around to hear Orlov complain.
Odette stepped into the corridor and quietly shut the door behind her. If she blew this assignment, she would probably have to listen to Viktor complain. Listen for all eternity.
She smiled. That, too, was a win situation.
FORTY-FOUR
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 2:08 A.M.
A stoic secret service agent opened the door to the Oval Office and admitted Paul Hood. The large, white door closed with a small click. The sound seemed very loud to Hood as he crossed the carpet toward the president’s desk. So did the sound of Hood’s heart. He had no way of knowing for certain whether Fenwick was a rogue figure or working as part of a team. Either way, convincing others about possible involvement in an international conspiracy of some kind was going to be extremely difficult.
The mood in the room was hostile. Hood could feel that even before he saw the faces of the vice president, Fenwick, and Gable. None of the men looked back at him, and the president’s expression was severe. Mike Rodgers once said that when he first joined the military, he had a commanding officer with a very singular expression of disapproval. He looked at you as though he wanted to tear heads off and use them for punting practice.
The president had that look.
Hood quickly made his way between the armchairs to the president’s desk. The Washington Monument was visible through the windows behind the president. The tower was brightly moonlit in the flat, black night. Seeing it then gave Hood the flash of courage he needed.
“I’m sorry to intrude, Mr. President, gentlemen,” Hood announced. “This couldn’t wait.”
“Things never can wait with you, can they?” Fenwick asked. He glanced back at the green folder in his lap.
A preemptive strike
, Hood thought.
The bastard was good.
Hood turned and looked at the NSA chief. The short, slender man had deep-set eyes beneath a head of thick, curly white hair. The whiteness of his hair emphasized the darkness of his eyes.
“Your team has a history of rushing blindly into evolving crises, Mr. Hood. North Korea, the Bekaa Valley, the United Nations. You’re a lighted match waiting for the wrong tinderbox.”
“We haven’t blown one yet,” Hood pointed out.
“Yet,” Fenwick agreed. He looked at Lawrence. “Mr. President, we need to finish reviewing our data so that you can make a decision about the Caspian situation.”
“What does Maurice Charles have to do with the Caspian situation?” Hood demanded. He was still looking at Fenwick. He was not going to let the man wriggle away.
“Charles? The terrorist?” Fenwick asked.
“That’s right,” Hood said. Hood said nothing else. He wanted to see where this went.
The president looked at Fenwick. “Did the NSA know that Charles was involved with this?”
“Yes, Mr. President, we did,” Fenwick admitted. “But we don’t know what his involvement was. We’ve been looking into that.”
“Maybe I can point you in the right direction, Mr. Fenwick,” Hood said. “Maurice Charles was in touch with the NSA both before and after the attack on the Iranian oil rig.”
“That’s bullshit!” Fenwick charged.
“You seem sure of that,” Hood said.
“I am!” Fenwick said. “No one in my organization would have anything to do with that man!”
Hood had expected Fenwick to 3D the charge: disavow, deny, and delay. But neither the vice president nor Gable had jumped in to defend him. Perhaps because they knew it was true?
Hood turned to the president. “Sir, we have every reason to believe that Charles, the Harpooner, was involved in the destruction of that rig.”
“Evidence from whom?” Fenwick demanded.
“Unimpeachable sources,” Hood replied.
“Who?” Vice President Cotten asked.
Hood faced him. The vice president was a calm and reasonable man. Hood was going to have to bite the bullet on this one. “General Sergei Orlov, commander of the Russian Op-Center.”
Gable shook his head. Fenwick rolled his eyes.
“The Russians,” the vice president said dismissively. “They may have been the ones who sent Cherkassov into the region to attack the rig. His body was found in the water nearby.”
“Moscow has every reason not to want us involved in the region,” Gable said. “If Azerbaijan is chased out of the Caspian, Moscow can lay claim to more of the oil reserves. Mr. President, I suggest we table this side of the problem until we’ve dealt with the larger issue of the Iranian mobilization.”
“We’ve reviewed the data Orlov provided, and we believe it’s accurate,” Hood stated.
“I’d like to see that data,” Fenwick said.
“You will,” Hood promised.
“You wouldn’t also have given General Orlov any secure codes to help him listen in on alleged NSA conversations, would you?”
Hood ignored that. “Mr. President, the Harpooner is an expert at creating and executing complex cover stories. If he’s involved in this operation, we have to look carefully at any evidence that comes in. We should also inform Teheran that this action may have nothing to do with Baku.”
“Nothing?” Fenwick said. “For all we know, they may have hired the Harpooner.”
“You may be right,” Hood said. “What I’m saying is that we have no evidence of anything except the fact that the Harpooner is in the region and was probably involved in the attack.”