A black backpack. Oh Christ, Battat thought as the man approached. He knew who it was. And he had no doubt that the man recognized him. And knew why he was in such a weakened condition. After all, it was probably this same man who had injected him with the toxin on the beach.
The Harpooner. The assassin had just walked in through the side door. He was about twenty feet away. He was holding what looked like a knife in his right hand. Battat would not be able to fight him. He had to try and get back to the lobby. Battat turned, but he moved too fast. His vision blurred and he stumbled against one of the shop windows. He quickly pushed off with his shoulder. He staggered ahead. If he could just get to the lobby, even if he fell square on his face, someone might get to him before the Harpooner could. Battat reached the bank of phones. He extended his left arm, used it to move himself along the wall. Push, step, push, step. He was halfway along the bank when he felt starched fabric slide along the front of his throat. A sleeve. A strong arm pulled back, putting Battat into a choke hold.
“The last time we met, I needed you alive,” the assassin whispered harshly.
“Not this time. Unless you tell me who you’re working with.”
“Up yours,” Battat gasped. Battat felt a knee against the small of his back. If the Harpooner intended to kill him standing up, he was going to be disappointed. Battat’s legs gave out and he dropped to the floor.
The Harpooner immediately released Battat and swung around in front of him. He straddled Battat and dropped a knee on his chest. Battat felt a sharp jab in his side and exhaled painfully. One or more of his ribs had been broken. The Harpooner brought the knife to the left side of the American’s throat. He pressed the sharp tip just below the ear.
“No,” the Harpooner hissed as he glared down at Battat.
“This is going up yours.” Battat was too weak to fight. He was aware that he was going to be cut from ear to ear and then left to drown in his own blood. But there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing.
Battat felt a pinch in his throat. A moment later, he heard a soft pop and blood sprayed into his eyes. He thought it would hurt more, having his throat pierced. But there was no pain after the initial pinch. He did not feel the blade moving through his skin. And he was still able to breathe. An instant later, Battat heard a second pop. He blinked hard to clear the blood from his eyes. He watched as the Harpooner just hovered there, crouched on his chest. Blood was pumping from a wound in his throat. There was no drama in his face, no great gesture befitting the size of his crimes. Just a momentary look of confusion and surprise. Then the killer’s eyes shut, the knife fell from his hand, and the Harpooner tumbled to the floor between Battat and the phone bank.
Battat lay there. He did not know exactly what had happened until Odette appeared from behind. She was holding her silenced pistol in front of her and looking down at the Harpooner.
“Are you all right?” she asked Battat. He reached up and felt his throat. Except for a trickle of blood on the left side, it felt intact.
“I think I’m okay,” Battat said.
“Thank you.” Battat managed to half wriggle, half crawl away as Odette bent and examined the Harpooner. The woman kept the gun pointed at the Harpooner’s head as she felt his wrist for a pulse. Then she held her fingers under his nose, feeling for breath. But she had struck him once in the throat and once in the chest. His white shin was already thick and dripping with blood.
“I’m glad you followed him,” Battat said. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his own wound.
“I didn’t,” Odette said as she rose.
“I lost him. But then I thought he might come back to try to cover his tracks. And I knew which one of us he would recognize.” Just then, a housekeeper in the lobby saw the body and screamed. Battat looked back.
She was pointing at them and shouting for help. Odette stepped around the corpse to help Battat to his feet.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” she said urgently.
“Come on. My car isn’t far–”
“Wait,” Battat said. He bent over the Harpooner’s body and began working on the straps of the backpack.
“Help me get this off. There may be evidence we can use to identify his partners.”
“You just get on your feet,” Odette said as she pulled out her knife.
“I’ll do that.” Battat pulled himself up, using the ledge under the phones while Odette cut the backpack free. Then, lending Battat her shoulder, Odette led the American down the hall. They were nearly at the door when someone yelled at them from behind.
“Stop!” a man yelled. Battat and Odette turned. An elderly hotel security officer was standing just beyond the phone bank. Odette let Battat lean against one of the shop windows while she pulled her badge from her back pocket. She held it toward the security officer.
“I’m Odette Kolker of Metropolitan Squad Three,” she said.
“The man on the floor is a wanted terrorist. He started the fire in 310. Make sure the room is sealed off.
I’m taking my partner to the hospital to see that he gets proper care.
Then I’ll be back.” Odette did not wait for the man to answer or for other security personnel to arrive. She turned and helped Battat from the building. She did that well, Battat thought. Gave the man a mission, made him feel important, so he would not interfere with them.
The brisk, clear air and sharp sunshine helped give Battat yet another fresh start. This was the last one, though. He knew that for certain.
The American’s legs were rubbery, and he was having trouble holding his head up. At least his neck was not bleeding badly. And the handkerchief was keeping most of that inside, where it belonged. Only after they had made their way through the parking lot to the rear of the hotel did it hit Battat. Odette had done it. She had not only saved his life but she had stopped the Harpooner. She had killed a terrorist who had eluded all of Europe’s top security agencies. He was proud to have had a small hand in this. The only down side was that Odette probably would not be able to remain in Baku after this. It was going to be tough to explain this to her police superiors. And if the Harpooner had allies, they might come looking for her. It was probably a good time for Odette to assume another identity. Five minutes later, Battat was seated in the passenger’s seat of Odette’s car. They pulled from the curb and headed toward the American embassy. It would be a short ride, but there was something that could not wait. The Harpooner’s backpack was in Battat’s lap. There was a small padlock on the flap. He borrowed Odette’s knife and cut the flap away. He looked inside. There were some documents as well as a Zed-4 phone. He had worked one of those when he was in Moscow. They were more compact and sophisticated than the American Tac-Sats. Battat removed the phone from the case. There was an alphanumeric keypad along with several other buttons. Above them was a liquid crystal display on top. He pushed the menu button to the right of the display. For the Harpooner’s sake, the instructions were in English.
And for the first time since David Battat arrived in Baku, he did something he had missed. He smiled.
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 4:27 am.
The Situation Room was a brightly lit chamber with a low ceiling, white walls, and soft, fluorescent lighting. There was a conference table in the center of the room and chairs along three of the four walls.
Computer monitors were attached to the arms of the chairs. They provided aides with up-to-the-minute information. The fourth wall was fitted with a ten-foot-long high definition TV monitor. The screen was linked to the National Reconnaissance Office. Real-time satellite images could be displayed there with magnification of objects up to three feet long. Most of these high-tech improvements were made within the last four years using over two billion dollars that had been allocated to fixing the White House recreation facilities, including the pool and tennis court. Hood and the First Lady entered through the door that was under the high-definition monitor. The chiefs of the army, navy, and air force and the commandant of the marine corps were sitting along one side of the table with their chairman. General Otis Burg, in the center. Burg was a big, barrel-chested man in his late fifties. He had a shaved head and steel gray eyes that had been hardened by war and political bureaucracy. The joint chiefs’ aides were seated behind them.