doing. He only knew that he was being shifted and turned and poked. He
felt a pinch in his right arm, at the elbow, and then there was no
further pain. He was also shivering, and he felt cold. Sweat had
soaked into Battat's pillow. His fever warmed it quickly. His head
sank into the down, muffling the sounds of the people and whatever it
was they were doing. He shut his eyes again and allowed his mind to go
wherever it wanted. Soon it was quiet and dark. Battat began to feel a
little warmer, more comfortable. He no longer heard drumming in his
ears. He was awake, but his thoughts were dreamlike. His mind went
back over the days. He saw short, blurry visions of the embassy in
Moscow, the trip to Baku, the seashore, the sudden pain of the attack. A
pinch in his neck. He was unaware of time passing or the hospital room.
There was just a strange, not unpleasant sense of drifting. There must
be something in the IV. Something that was relaxing him. Then Battat
heard something click. It sounded like a gun hammer cocking. He opened
his eyes. There was a window to the left of the bed, but it was shut. He
glanced toward the foot of the bed. The last time he had looked, the
door was ajar. Now it was shut. A doctor or nurse must have closed it.
The room was even quieter than before. It was nice. He shut his eyes
again. There were no more visions, only darkness. Battat slipped
quickly into a dreamless sleep. There was another click. The sound woke
Battat, and he opened his eyes. The door was still closed. But now
there was someone in the room. He could see a dark figure standing in
front of the door. The figure was black against the darkness behind it.
Battat was not sure he was awake.
"Hi," he said. He heard his own voice. He was definitely awake.
Slowly, the shadow moved toward him. Someone must have come to check on
him.
"It's all right," Battat said in a soft slur.
"You can turn on the light. I'm awake." The figure did not speak.
Battat could not make out whether it was a man or a woman. It appeared
to be wearing a medical robe of some kind. And it was holding something
long and slender. Battat could see the silhouette low at its side. It
looked like a knife.
"Do you speak English?" Battat asked. There was a monitor on the wall
behind Battat. The green glow threw a faint light on the figure as it
stopped beside the bed. It was a man. And he was definitely holding a
knife. The long blade gleamed in the dull light.
"What is this?" Battat asked. It was beginning to penetrate his foggy
mind that the newcomer was not a doctor. Battat tried to move, but his
arms felt like they were full of wet sand. The man's arm went back.
"Someone!" Battat said, trying to raise his voice.
"Help me--" And then the man vanished.
A moment later, sounds came from the floor. There were low grunts,
chattering, and then a long, slow groan. They were followed by silence.
Battat tried to raise himself on an elbow. His arm shook, and he fell
back down. Suddenly, someone rose beside the bed.
"There may be others," said the figure.
"We have to leave." The sharp, thickly accented voice belonged to a
woman. There were an awful lot of people here.
"I thought this was a private room," Battat said. With swift, sure
movements, the woman lowered the gate beside the bed, unhooked the IV,
and raised Battat to a sitting position. She kept her hand on his back.
"Can you walk?" she asked.
"If you let go... I'm not sure I can sit," he replied. The woman lay
Battat back down and stepped away from the bed. She was a tall, lean
woman with broad shoulders. He could see now that she was wearing a
police uniform. The woman went to the window and pulled the curtains
aside. She turned the latch and raised the window. A cool, salty
breeze blew in. It made him shiver. The woman looked outside. Then she
grabbed a bathrobe from a hook behind the door and returned to the bed.
She sat Battat up again and pulled the robe around his shoulders.
feeling a little more focused. His head was also hurting from sitting
up.
"No talk," she said.
"But wait," he said.
"They've killed your companions, and they're trying to kill you," she
snapped.
"I was sent to get you out."
"Killed them?"
"Quiet!" she hissed. Battat stopped talking. His head ached as the
woman helped him stand. She grabbed Battat's clothes, then slipped his
left arm around her shoulder and helped him to the window. As they
hobbled over, Battat tried to focus on what she had just told him. Were
Moore and Thomas dead? If so, it had to be the Harpooner. Maybe he
thought they knew more than they did. But if they were dead, who had
sent this woman to help him? And how did he know that she was not
working for the Harpooner? She might be taking him somewhere so the
killer could finish the job. But Battat knew he might as well trust her.
He was certainly in no condition to resist. Besides, the woman was
being gentle with him. And if she had wanted him dead, she could have
killed him in the bed. Or she could have let the other intruder kill
him. When they reached the window, the woman told Battat to lean on the
sill. He did, unsteadily. She kept a hand on him, helping to keep him
upright as she slipped around him. She landed quietly among the hedges
outside the window and then helped him down. She put his arm back
around her shoulder and then crouched. They listened for several
seconds. Battat was shivering again, his teeth clattering. But at least
he was more awake than before. After a moment, they were on the move
again. He felt as if he was being carried through the night. They had
emerged in back of the hospital and were making their way around to the
north side. They stopped at a car. To Battat's surprise, it wasn't a
police car but a small black Hyundai. She probably was not a policewoman
at all. Battat did not know if that were a good thing or a bad thing.
But as she laid him across the backseat and climbed behind the wheel, he
knew one thing for certain. If he remained conscious, he would find out
very soon.
Washington, D.C. Monday, 10:03 p.m.
The red-haired man sat behind his large desk. The office was dark, save
for the glow of a green-shaded desk lamp and the red light on top of the
phone. That meant the scrambler function was engaged.
"People are asking about Fenwick's trip," said the red-haired man.
"What people?" said the man on the other end of the line.
"The intelligence unit at Op-Center."
"Op-Center is well removed from the president," the other man said.
"They don't have the same clout as the CIA-"
"I'm not so sure about that," the red-haired man interrupted.
"What do you mean?"
"I was told that Director Hood asked for and received a private meeting
with the president a few hours ago," said the red-haired man.
"I know."
"Do you know what they discussed?" asked th
e redhaired man.
"No. More fallout from the United Nations affair. I'd guess. Do you
have reason to believe otherwise?" the man asked.
"Paul Hood spoke briefly with the First Lady last night." the
red-haired man said.
"I checked his file. They knew each other in the past."
"Knew each other in a way we can use?"
"No," said the red-haired man.
"It was platonic. Anyway, she might have seen a change in the
president. Maybe she said something to Hood. I just don't know."
"I see," said the other. There was a long silence. The red-haired man
waited. He was concerned about the unexpected presence of Op Center The
other agencies had all been covered. He and his partners had been
counting on the transition period between Paul Hood and General Rodgers
to keep Op Center eyes looking inward. Unfortunately, that had not
happened. But with H-hour approaching on the foreign operation, they
could not afford to have anyone watching. Harpooner had seen to it on
his end. They must see to it on their end.
"Is the other documentation ready?" the other man finally asked. The
red-haired man looked at his watch. He really needed glasses to read
this close, but he was fighting that. He was fighting a lot of things.
He moved his wrist back slightly.
"In another hour or so," he replied.
"All right," said the other man.
"I don't want to move against Op-Center directly. There isn't time. And
without careful planning, we might do more harm than good."
"I agree," said the red-haired man.
"Let's continue with the plan," said the other man.
"If Op-Center is watching Fenwick or the president without any real idea
what we're up to, that should keep them busy enough. Just make sure
Fenwick doesn't do or say anything that might give them more
information."
"Understood," said the red-haired man.
"I'll let Fenwick know." The other man thanked him and hung up. The
red-haired man placed the receiver in the cradle. He would call Fenwick
in a minute. This was serious, unprecedented business. He needed a
moment to remind himself that this was all being done for a good reason:
to make sure that the United States survived the new millennium. Despite
this small setback, everything was still working the way they had
planned. Reporters had been calling his office to find out about the
new UN initiative, an initiative that only the president seemed to be
aware of. Members of the CIOC and even people at the UN apparently had
not known about it. One very dogged TV reporter had called this evening
to ask if the president had imagined "this whole thing, too." And Red
Gable, the president's chief of staff, had answered off the record, "I
honestly don't know, Sam. I do not know what is wrong with the
president." Though the quote would be off the record. Gable knew that
his sentiment would be mentioned in the broadcast. The reporter
reminded Red that this was the third time in a week the president had
gotten something seriously wrong. The first time was at a breakfast
with reporters. The president commented about farm subsidy legislation
that was supposedly before congress. It was not. The second time, just
two days ago, was at a press conference. The president's opening
remarks included comments about a civil rights case that was supposedly
before the Supreme Court. No such case existed. What Gable did not
tell the reporter, of course, was that the set of documents the
president had been given during his daily briefings was different from
the set of documents that he should have seen. The real ones. Gable
had slipped those documents into the president's files after he made the
public misstatements. When the president had the files brought to him,
he did not understand where the misinformation had come from.
Investigations by Gable and his assistants failed to turn up any
suspicious activity. Gable did not smile. He could not. The situation
was too serious. But he was gratified. The reporter and many of his
colleagues were very concerned about the president's state of mind. By
tomorrow afternoon, the rest of the nation would also be concerned.
Events that were about to unfold a world away and in Washington had been
very carefully orchestrated. Events that would be misinterpreted by
everyone except the third and most important leader of their team: the
vice president. The president would insist that Azerbaijan had attacked
an Iranian oil rig. He would recommend staying out of the conflict
because it was a local issue. As Iran built up its forces in the
region, the vice president would publicly" urge a different tack. He
would say that he did not trust Iran and would strongly advise building
up an American military presence in the Caspian. Fenwick would back up
the vice president. He would report that during his meetings with the
Iranians, they had spoken vaguely of events that were on the horizon. He
would say that they asked the United States to do nothing while they
strengthened their hold on oil reserves in the region. The Iranians
would deny that, of course. But no one in America would believe them.
The disagreement between the president and vice president would cause a
very public rift. And when the Harpooner's Iranian cohorts were found
dead with photographs and other evidence of sabotage on their
bodies--murdered by the Harpooner himself--the vice president and
Fenwick would be vindicated. Reporters would then openly discuss the
president's questionable judgment. Washington would be abuzz with
rumors that the president was unstable. Senators like Barbara Fox would
have no choice but to support a motion to impeachment. Sex scandals
were one thing. Mental illness was something much different. There
would be calls for Lawrence to step down. For the good of the nation,
Lawrence would have no choice but to resign. Vice president Gotten would
become president. He would ask Jack Fenwick to become his new vice
president. Congress would quickly endorse his selection. Meanwhile, the
American military would move into the Caspian. They would help the
Azerbaijanis protect their rigs. In the heat of rising tensions.
President Gotten would remain strong. And then something else would
happen. Something that would demand an American response so firm, so
devastating, that religious fanatics would never again attack a target
under American protection. In the end. Gable told himself, the career
of a president was worth that sacrifice.
Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 6:15 a.m.
When forty-seven-year-old Ron Friday first arrived in Baku, he felt
as though he had been dropped into medieval times. It was not a question
of architecture. Embassy row was in a very modern section of the city.
The modern buildings could have been lifted whole from Washington, D.C."
or London, or Tokyo, or any other modern metropolis. But Baku was not
like those cities where he had spent so much time. Once you moved past
the embassies and business center of Baku, there was a pronounced sense
of age. Many of the buildings
had been standing when Columbus reached
the Americas. No, the architecture was not what made Baku seem so old,
so feudal. It was a sense of entropy among the people. Azerbaijan had
been ruled from the outside for so long, now that the people were free
and independent, they seemed unmotivated, directionless. If it were not
for petrodollars, they would probably slip deep into the Third World. At
least, that was Friday's impression. Fortunately, when the former Army
Ranger and his people were finished with what they were doing here,
Azerbaijan would not be quite so independent. Friday entered his
seven-story apartment building. The ten-year-old brick building was
located two blocks from the embassy. He made his way up the marble
stairs. Friday lived on the top floor, but he did not like being in
elevators. Even when he was with the other embassy workers who lived
here, he took the stairs. Elevators were too confining, and they left
him vulnerable. Friday walked toward his apartment. He could not
believe that he had been here nearly six months. It seemed much longer,
and he was glad his tenure was coming to an end. Not because Deputy
Ambassador Williamson didn't need him. To the contrary, Friday had
proven valuable to the diplomat, especially in her efforts to moderate
Azerbaijani claims on Caspian oil. Friday's years as an attorney for a
large international oil company served him well in that capacity. But
Friday's real boss would need him elsewhere, in some other trouble spot.
He would see to it that Friday was transferred. To India or Pakistan,
perhaps. That was where Friday really wanted to go. There were oil
issues to be dealt with there, in the Arabian Sea and on the border