“I’m pleased to meet you,” Battat said, extending his hand.
“I’m also extremely grateful for everything you’ve done.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. The young woman shook Battat’s hand firmly but perfunctorily. As she did, Battat noticed several small bloodstains on the sleeve of her off-white police blouse. There were no lacerations on her hand or forearm. The blood did not appear to be hers.
“Are you really a policewoman?” Battat asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Were you working the night shift?” he asked.
“No,” she replied.
“I was called in to do this.” She smiled slightly.
“And I cannot collect overtime for it.” Battat sipped more tea and smiled back.
“I’m sorry they had to wake you.” He moved the plate to the night table and started to throw off the cover.
“I probably shouldn’t be taking your bed–”
“No, it’s all right,” she said.
“I’m expected on duty in less than an hour. Besides, I’m accustomed to having unexpected guests.”
“A hazard of the business,” he said.
“Yes,” Odette observed.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to eat. You should do the same.
Eat and then rest.”
“I will,” Battat promised.
“Do you need salt or anything else?”
“No thank you,” he said. Odette turned and walked slowly toward the kitchenette. Less than an hour ago, she had killed a man. Now she was serving Battat breakfast. This was a strange business. A very strange business indeed.
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 12:10 a.m.
“Hello, Paul.” Sharon’s voice was thick and cold on the other end of the phone. Hood glanced at the clock on his computer.
“Hi,” he said warily.
“Is everything okay?”
“Not really,” she replied.
“I just got back from the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“The short version,” she said, “is that Harleigh freaked out about ninety -minutes ago. I called an ambulance–I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You did the right thing,” Hood said.
“How is she?”
“Dr. Basralian sedated her, and she’s sleeping now,” Sharon went on.
“What does he think is wrong?” Hood asked.
“Is it physical–?”
“He isn’t sure,” she said.
“They’re going to run tests in the morning. The doctor said that sometimes a traumatic event can have physical repercussions. It can affect the thyroid, cause it to get hyper, or create a surplus of adrenaline. Anyway, I didn’t call so you’d drop what you’re doing and go to see her. I just wanted you to know.”
“Thank you,” Hood said.
“I’ll still get over as soon as I can.”
“No need for that,” Sharon told him.
“Everything’s quiet. I’ll let you know if there’s a change.”
“All right,” Hood said.
“If that’s what you want.”
“I do. Just some down-time. Tell me, Paul. Is there a problem?” Sharon asked.
“With what?”
“The world,” Sharon said.
“Always,” Hood replied.
“I tried the motel first,” Sharon told him.
“When you weren’t there, I figured you must be putting out a fire somewhere.” Hood was not exactly sure how to take that remark. He tried not to read anything into it..
“There’s a problem in the Middle East,” Hood said.
“Could be a bad one.”
“Then I won’t keep you,” Sharon said.
“Just don’t kill yourself, Paul. You’re not a kid anymore. You need sleep. And the kids need you.”
“I’ll take care of myself,” he promised. Sharon hung up. When Hood and his wife were together, Sharon used to be frustrated and angry whenever he worked long hours. Now that the two of them were apart, she was calm and concerned. Or maybe she was holding it all together for Harleigh’s sake. Whatever the reason, it was a sad, sad joke being played on the Hood family. But Hood did not have time to consider the injustice of it all or even the condition of his daughter. The phone rang a moment after he hung up. The call was from another concerned wife. The president’s.
Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 8:30 a.m.
General Orlov was proud that his operative had been able to save the American. Proud, but not surprised. Odette–Natalia Basov–had been working with him for three years. The thirty-two-year-old was a former decryption expert who had begun her career with the GRU, Soviet military intelligence. Her husband Viktor was an officer in the Spetsnaz, the Russian special forces. When Viktor was killed on a mission in Chechnya, Basov became deeply depressed. She wanted to get out from behind a desk. Because the GRU was being dismantled and its components downsized, Basov was sent to see Orlov. Orlov was happy to put her in the field. Not only was Basov skilled in electronic intelligence, her husband had taught her the self-defense techniques of the systema, the lethal martial arts style of the Spetsnaz. Orlov himself had studied the basics as a way of staying in shape. The systema did not rely on practiced moves or on physical strength. It taught that during an assault, your own defensive motion dictated what the counterattack should be. If you were struck on the right side of the chest, you instinctively turned the right side away to avoid the blow. As a result, your left side automatically came forward. Thus, your attack would be with the left arm. And it would not be a single blow. It would be a trinity. Perhaps a fist to the chin, an elbow to the jaw, and a swipe with the back of the hand, all in quick succession. While that was going on, you were positioning yourself to unleash the next trinity.
Typically, an opponent did not get more than a first chance to strike.
Multiple opponents were too busy avoiding their falling comrades to move in. Basov had mastered the form well. And she had proven to be a valuable asset in Azerbaijan. Orlov’s people had created a false identity for her, and she had obtained a job with the police force. That put her in a job to watch and question people, other officers, guards, and night watchmen at plants and military bases. To learn what was happening in Baku’s corridors of power and in the military. Being a beautiful woman made men more inclined to talk to her, especially in bars. And underestimate her. Basov said that she and her guest were safe, but they were not what bothered Orlov right now. What concerned him was finding the Harpooner. Basov had told Orlov that the Baku police radio was reporting an explosion in the harbor. A boat had blown up, killing everyone on board. Orlov was willing to bet that the boat had belonged to the Harpooner. That was his way–to destroy all the evidence along with some or all of his coworkers. The dead men would probably be blamed for the rig attack. Orlov wondered who they were.
Azerbaijanis? Iraqis? Russians? There were any number of people he could have recruited for a job like that. Just as long as they did not know what usually happened to his employees. Most of Orlov’s staff began arriving at half-past eight. The general had left e-mail for the two key members of his intelligence team, Boris and Piotr, to come and see him as soon as possible. If the Harpooner had been responsible for the attack in the Caspian, he probably would not attempt to leave Baku immediately. In the past, the Harpooner apparently waited a day or two after an attack. And when he finally moved, he often passed through Moscow. No one knew why. Unfortunately, by the time authorities learned he was in the city, he had vanished. General Orlov did not want that to happen again. The question was how to find him. And Paul Hood might have unwittingly given them a clue. Boris Grosky was a sullen, gray-haired intelligence veteran who missed the Cold War. Piotr Korsov was an eager newcomer who had studied at Technion in Haifa, Israel. He was openly thrilled to be working in a field he loved and for a man who had helped pioneer space travel. The men entered the windowless office within a minute of one another. They sat on the couch across from Orlov’s desk, Boris drinking tea and Korsov sitting with a laptop on his knees. Orlov briefed the men. Grosky became noticeably more interested when the general mentioned that the NSA and CIA might somehow be involved in the Caspian operation.
“What I want to know is this,” Orlov said.
“We have eavesdropped on cell phone communications between American intelligence operatives before. We’ve gotten through many of their secure lines.”
“We’ve gotten through most of them,” Grosky pointed out.
“They try to keep you out by altering the signal from second to second,” Korsov said.
“The shifts are all within just a few megahertz in the superhigh frequency. We’ve learned how to ride most of the shifts.”
“The difficult part is decoding the messages, which are scrambled electronically,” Grosky added.
“The American agencies use very complex codes. Our computers aren’t always up to the task of decrypting the calls.”