Divide and Conquer (30 page)
Read Divide and Conquer Online
Authors: Tom Clancy,Steve Pieczenik,Jeff Rovin
Tags: #Traitors, #Crisis Management in Government - United States, #Action & Adventure, #Intrigue, #Fiction - Espionage, #Modern & contemporary fiction (post c 1945), #Fiction, #United States, #Espionage, #Suspense, #Adventure Fiction, #Executive Power, #General & Literary Fiction, #Men's Adventure, #Crisis Management in Government, #Thriller
“We’ve been following him for several days,” Hood went on. “We were observing him and listening to his phone calls.”
“Who are
we
?”
we
?”
“A group comprised of Op-Center, CIA, and foreign resources,” Hood replied. “We pulled it together when we heard the Harpooner was in the region. We managed to lure him out using a CIA agent as bait.”
Hood felt safe revealing the CIA’s role since it was probably Fenwick who had given the information about Battat to the Harpooner.
Fenwick continued to regard Hood. “So you’ve got the Harpooner,” Fenwick said. “What does all this have to do with the truth about what’s going on? Do you know something that I don’t?”
“The Harpooner apparently had a hand in what happened in the Caspian,” Hood said.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Fenwick said. “The Harpooner will work for anyone.”
“Even us,” Hood said.
Fenwick started when he heard that. Just a little, but enough so that Hood noticed. “I’m tired, and I don’t have time for guessing games,” Fenwick 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.
FORTY-EIGHT
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 backed toward the concrete steps and leaned on the iron banister with 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.
FORTY-NINE
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.
FIFTY
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.
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