The two walked the rest of the way in silence. Martha was not one for small talk in any language, unless it was with the high and mighty. Increasingly, Ann had the feeling that if there was anyone who coveted Hood’s job, it wasn’t Mike Rodgers.
Mike Rodgers, Bob Herbert, Matt Stoll, Phil Katzen, and Liz Gordon were already sitting around the large, oval conference table in the Tank when Ann and Martha arrived. Ann noted that Bob Herbert appeared drawn. She assumed that he and his old friend Rodgers had spent the night working on the Striker mission-and dealing with some of the emotions the bombing had to have brought out in the wheelchair-bound Intelligence Officer.
The women were followed in by Paul Hood and a hustling Lowell Coffey. Even before the attorney was in, Rodgers had pressed a button in the side of the table and the heavy door had begun to shut.
The small room was lit by fluorescent lights; on the wall across from where Rodgers was sitting, the large, digital countdown clock was frozen at zero. Whenever there was a crisis with a timetable, the clock was set and a similar read-out appeared in every office-just so there was no mistake about when things had to be done.
The walls, floor, door, and ceiling of the Tank were all covered with mottled gray and black, soundabsorbing Acoustix. Behind this were several layers of cork, a foot of concrete, and more Acoustix. Buried in the concrete, on all six sides of the room, were wire grids that generated vascillating audio waves; no electronic information could enter or leave the room without being completely and irreparably distorted.
Hood sat at the head of the table. To his right, on a small extension, were a monitor and computer keyboard and telephone hookup. A tiny fiber-optic camera was attached to the top of the monitor and allowed him to see anyone on-screen who had a similar setup.
When the door was shut, Paul said, “I know we all feel sick about what happened yesterday, so there’s no need to comment further about that. I want to thank Mike for the incredible job he did. He’ll be telling you about that. In case you haven’t already heard, there’s more to this story than has been on the news. I’ve come straight from a plane flight and a quick shower, so I’m as eager to hear what he has to say as you are. I’d like to point out, though, that everything you’ll be hearing is Priority One clearance. When we leave here, both Mike and I or Mike and Martha have to sign off on anyone less than that who needs to be told.” Hood looked at Rodgers. “Mike?”
Rodgers thanked Hood, then briefed the team on what had happened in the Oval Office. He told them that Striker had departed from Andrews at 4:47 A.m. and would arrive in Helsinki around 8:50 P.m., local time.
“Lowell,” he said, “where are we on the Finnish Ambassador?”
“He’s given me a temporary okay,” the attorney said. “He just needs a rubber stamp from the President.”
“When will we have that?”
“This morning,” Coffey replied.
Rodgers looked at his watch. “It’s already four in the afternoon over there. Are you sure?”
‘I’m sure. They start late and work late over there. No one makes any high-level decisions until after lunch.”
Rodgers looked from Coffey to Darrell McCaskey. “Assuming that we get what we want from the Finnish government, is there any way Interpol can help us with intelligence from St. Petersburg?”
“That depends. You mean the Hermitage?”
Rodgers nodded.
“Do I tell them about the English agent who was killed there the other day?”
Rodgers looked at Hood-“D16 lost a man there trying to eavesdrop on the TV studio.”
“Are we asking Interpol to do essentially the same kind of reconnaissance?” Hood asked.
Rodgers nodded again.
“Then tell them about the Englishman,” Hood said.
“I’m sure there’s a hotdog who’ll be willing to take them on.”
“Whatt about at the border?” Rodgers asked. “If we have to go by land, is there any way the Finns can sneak our team across?”
“I know someone in the Ministry of Defense,” McCaskey said, “and I’ll see what I can wangle. Just understand, Mike, there are less than four thousand effectives in the border guard. They don’t exactly want to go pissing-off the Russians.”
“Understood,” the Deputy Director said, then turned to Matt Stoll. The portly computer expert was tapping his steepled fingers together.
“Matt,” Rodgers said, “I want you to use your computer contacts to find out if the Russians have been ordering or stockpiling anything out of the ordinary. Or if any of their top tech people have relocated to St. Petersburg in the last year.”
“Those guys are pretty tight-lipped,” Stoll said. -I mean, it’s not like they have a lot of options in private industry if the government stops trusting them. But I’ll try
‘Don’t try-do, ” Rodgers snapped, Almost at once, he looked down and rolled his lips together. “Sorry,” he said after a moment. “It’s been a long night. Matt, I may have to send my team into Russia, and that won’t be a day at the beach. I want them to know everything they can about their target and who they might encounter. Knowing something about the electronics will help a great deal.”
“I understand,” Stoll said stiffly. “I’ll do some hacking, internetting see what I can find.”
“Thank you,” Rodgers said.
Ann watched as the Deputy Director turned to Liz Gordon. She reacted with surprise when he spoke. Un like Hood, who put little faith in psychological profiles of foreign leaders, Rodgers trusted their validity.
“Liz,” he said, “I want you to put Russian Interior Minister Dogin through the computer. Factor in his loss of the presidency to Zhanin, as well as the influence of General Mikhail Kosigan. Bob has information on the General if you need it.”
“His name rings a bell,” Martha says. “I’m sure he’s in my file.”
Rodgers turned to Environmental Officer Phil Katzen, who had his laptop open and ready. “Phil, I need a workup on the Gulf of Finland into the Neva, and the Neva where it passes the Hermitage. Temperature, speed, wind factor
The computer to Hood’s right beeped. He hit F6 to answer, then pushed Control to hold the call.
Rodgers continued, “And I want whatever you’ve got on the composition of the soil under the museum. I want to know how deep the Russians may have dug there.”
Katzen nodded as he finished typing.
Hood hit Control again. The face of his Executive Assistant, Stephen “Bugs” Benet, appeared on the screen.
“Sir,” said Bugs, “there’s an urgent call from Commander Hubbard at D16. It pertains to this matter, so I thought-”
“Thanks,” said Hood. “Put it through.”
Hood snapped on the phone’s speaker button, then waited. The bloodhound face appeared on the monitor a moment later.
“Good morning, Commander,” Hood said. “I’m with the rest of my team, so I took the liberty of putting you on the speakerphone.”
“Fine,” Hubbard said, his thickly accented voice
deep and raspy, “I’ll do the same. Mr. Hood, let me get straight to the matter. We have an operative here who would like to be part of the team you’ve sent to Helsinki.”
Rodgers’s expression soured. He shook his head.
Hood said, “Commander, ours is a carefully balanced unit-”
“I understand,” Hubbard said, “but hear me out. I’ve lost two agents and a third is hiding. My staff wants me to send our own Bengal unit in, but it wouldn’t do to have our two groups stumbling one over the other.”
“Could your Bengal unit put me on the phone with the head of this new operation in St. Petersburg?”
“Pardon me?” said Hubbard.
“What I’m saying,” said Hood, “is that you’re not offering me anything I can’t get myself. We’ll share what we find out, as always.”
“Of course,” said Hubbard. “But I disagree. We can offer you one thing. Miss Peggy James.”
Hood quickly input Control/F5 on his keyboard to access agent files. He hit D16, typed James, and her dossier appeared.
Rodgers got up and stood behind Hood as he scanned the file, which was filled with data from D16 as well as independent information collected by Op-Center, the CIA, and other U.S. agencies.
“She has quite a record,” Hood said. “The granddaughter of a lord, three years in the field in South Africa, two in Syria, seven at headquarters. Special forces training, speaks six languages, holds four commendations. Rebuilds and races vintage motorcycles.”
He stopped when Mike Rodgers pointed to a crossreference to another file.
“Commander Hubbard, this is Mike Rodgers,” he
said. “I see that Ms. James also recruited Mr. Fields-Hutton. ”
“Yes, General,” Hubbard admitted. “They were very close.”
“Watch out for grudge matches,” Liz muttered, shaking her head.
“Did you hear, Commander?” Hood asked. “That was our staff psychologist.”