“I see,” the deputy ambassador said.
“He left the knife behind,” Moore said.
“He always leaves his weapons behind, from spear guns to bowline stirrups.”
“Sea-related things,” said Williamson.
“Often,” Moore said.
“We suspect he was in the naval service somewhere–not a big leap of faith, though we haven’t been able to trace him. But in all that time, the Harpooner never left a witness. Which means that either it wasn’t the Harpooner who attacked Mr. Battat or the Harpooner wanted him alive.”
The deputy ambassador regarded Battat.
“For what reason?”
“I can’t think of one,” Battat admitted.
The three were silent for a moment. The only sound was the hum of the air vent.
“Mr. Battat, the presence of a man like the Harpooner in this region could have terrible ramifications for all of us,” said the deputy ambassador.
“Which is another reason why we should have been in the loop on this!” Moore said angrily.
“Hell, we know who the undercover guys are that are watching us, and they haven’t been around for days. They’re too busy trying to find a Russian spy who slipped out of jail two days ago.”
“Again, I’m sorry,” said Battat.
“Would you mind staying in Baku while we try to make sense of all this?” the deputy ambassador asked.
“Not at all,” said Battat.
“I want to help.”
“Hopefully, it’s not too late for that,” Moore said.
They rose.
“What about the Rachel?” Battat asked.
“I’ve sent a small plane out to look for it,” Moore told him.
“But they’ve had several hours head start, and God knows which direction they went. I’m not optimistic.”
“Can’t you trace the name?” Battat asked.
“Isn’t there a local registry?”
“There is,” Moore told him, “and the Rachel isn’t in it. We’re checking records in Dagestan, Kalmyk, and other republics on the Caspian, but my guess is she’s a rogue.”
Moore showed Battat to a small guest room on the second floor of the building. There was a cot in the corner, and Battat lay down to think.
The boat, the music they played, the brief glimpse he had of the man on deck–he replayed the sounds and images over and over, looking for more information. Something that might tell him who the crew of the Rachel were, how they were dressed, or where they might have come from. In SD sessions–subconscious debriefing–trained interviewers would walk agents through experiences to help them remember lost details. The interviewers would ask about the color of the sky, the look of the water, the force of the wind and the smells riding it. Once the agent was reimmersed in the scene, the interviewer would move him around, ask him to describe distinctive markings on the hull of the boat or whether there were banners on the stern or mast or sounds coming from the deck or below. It always surprised Battat how much information the brain stored that was not always immediately accessible.
Though Battat closed his eyes and breathed slowly and deeply and went through the SD checklist, he could not remember anything that brought him closer to whoever was on the boat or from what direction his assailant might have come. He could not even remember the feel of the 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.