“I’ve been sitting here collecting intelligence while you were out there, in the field, saving America and the Constitution from a demagogue.”
“Some guys have all the luck,” Hood said dryly.
“Yeah,” Herbert said.
“But you’re not the one I envy.”
“Oh?” Hood thought for a moment. Then, just before Herbert said it.
Hood knew what was coming.
“I wish I had been the one who pulled the plug on the Harpooner,” Herbert said. His voice was a low monotone. His eyes were staring. His mind was somewhere else.
“I’d have done it slowly. Very slowly. I would have made him suffer the way I’ve suffered without my wife.” Hood did not know what to say, so he said nothing. Herbert looked at him.
“I’ve got a lot of vacation time coming, Paul. I’m going to take it.”
“You should,” Hood said.
“I want to go to Baku and meet this woman Odette,” Herbert said.
“I want to see where it happened.”
“I understand,” Hood told him. Herbert smiled. His eyes were damp.
“I knew you would.” His voice cracked.
“Look at me. You’re the one who’s had his ass on the firing line twice in the past two weeks. But I’m the one cracking up.”
“You’ve been carrying this pain and frustration for nearly twenty years,” Hood said.
“It’s got to come out.” He snickered humorlessly.
“I’ll break, too. Bob. One day the UN thing, the White House–it’s all going to hit me and I’ll come apart big time.” Herbert smiled.
“Just hold on till I’m back from vacation so I can pick up all the cogs and wheels.”
“It’s a deal,” Hood said. Herbert wheeled around the desk and hugged Hood warmly. Then he turned his chair around and left the office. Hood put in a quick call to General Orlov, thanking him for everything he had done and suggesting that they work out a way to integrate their two systems on some level. Create an Interpol for crisis management. Orlov was all for the idea. They agreed to talk about it the following day.
After hanging up with Orlov, Hood looked at the computer clock. It was still too early to call home. He decided to go to the hotel and phone Sharon and the kids from his room. There would be no other calls, no distractions. Hood left his office and headed back upstairs. He greeted members of the day team as they arrived: Darrell McCaskey, Matt Stoll, and Liz Gordon. He told them each to go see Bob Herbert for an update.
Hood said he would brief them more fully later in the day. By the time he reached the parking lot, he was starting to crash. The caffeine had made its way through his system. Hood’s body was definitely winding down. As he neared his car, he saw Ann Fan-is. She was just pulling through the gate. The press liaison saw him, waved, and drove over. She rolled down the window.
“Is everything all right?” she asked. Hood nodded.
“Just tired,” he said.
“Bob is still there. He’ll brief you. There’s nothing we have to press release, though. Not yet.”
“Where are you headed?” she asked.
“Back to the hotel,” he said.
“I’ve got to get some rest.”
“Hop in and I’ll run you over,” she said.
“You don’t look like you should be driving.”
“I don’t know when I’ll be coming back,” Hood told her.
“I need the car.”
“You’ll be coming back this afternoon,” Ann said.
“I know you. A two- or three-hour power nap, and then you’ll be back.
Just call when you wake up, and I’ll come and get you.” The offer sounded inviting. He did not feel like driving anymore.
“All right,” Hood said. Hood went to the passenger’s side and slid in.
He shut his eyes and had to be nudged awake when they arrived. He was groggy. Ann left her car out front and walked him to his room. She returned a few minutes later, climbed behind the wheel, and sat there for a moment.
“Screw this,” she said. Instead of driving off, she moved the car to the main lot. Then she went back inside. Hood had just finished his short chat with Sharon. His wife had said that there had been no change in anything. Hood removed his shoes and tie and was unbuttoning his shirt when there was a knock on the door. It had to be a bellboy with a fax from the office or his attorney. No one else knew he was here. He fished a dollar from his wallet and opened the door. He was surprised to see Ann.
“Thanks,” she said, “but I didn’t come back for my tip.” He smiled and let her in. Ann was still wearing her jacket, but she looked different.
There was something more accessible about her. It was in the eyes, he decided. Hood shut the door behind her. As he did, he was surprised by something else. He was glad that she had come back.
EPILOGUE.
Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 3:00 p.m.
Throughout the late morning and early afternoon, the surprises kept coming for Ron Friday, each one more startling than the last. First, Friday was surprised to find David Battat at the embassy.
The CIA operative was being nursed to health by the embassy medic. He looked in remarkably good health and even better spirits. Next, Friday was even more surprised to hear that a local policewoman had been responsible for killing the Harpooner. Friday himself would not have known how to find him or what he looked like. He could not imagine how a policewoman had gotten to him. Maybe it was an accident or they were mistaken. Perhaps someone else had been mistaken for the Harpooner. In any case, authorities were speculating that he had been the man behind the attack on the Iranian oil rig.
Prodded by the United States, military mobilization was being delayed while an investigation was under way. But the biggest surprise was the call from Jack Fenwick’s executive secretary, Don. Her boss, Don Roedner. Red Gable, and the vice president were all resigning later that morning. Don did not know anything about the operation Fenwick had been running and was stunned by the announcement.
Friday was stunned, too. He could not imagine how everything had come unraveled. He could not imagine what his old mentor must be feeling. He wished he could speak with him, say something reassuring. But Friday had not been able to reach Fenwick on his cell phone. Someone else answered, and he quickly hung up. He did not know whether the NSA chief would be investigated and whether that investigation would ever get to him. Friday did not generally report to Fenwick directly. He reported to T. Perry Gord, assistant deputy director of South Asian affairs. There was no reason it should reach him. Gord knew nothing about Fenwick’s other activities. Still, after weighing whether or not to remain in Baku, Friday decided it would be best to leave. He would go somewhere that was a little bit off the radar.
Someplace the international press would not be paying so much attention to over the next few weeks. Fortunately, there was a situation developing on the India-Pakistan border that fell within Gord’s jurisdiction. Rather than send someone over from Washington, Friday arranged to have himself transferred to the embassy in Islamabad in order to do on-site intelligence gathering. There was a Pakistan International Airlines flight leaving Moscow the following morning. He would fly from Baku tonight and make certain that he was on it. It would have been nice, he thought, if it had all worked out for Fenwick. With Cotten in the White House, Fenwick would have had unprecedented access and power. And any one of the few people who had taken part in the changeover would have been rewarded. Not just for their contribution but for their silence. On the other hand, one of the reasons Friday had gone into intelligence work was for the challenge. The danger.
He had done his job. And he had enjoyed doing it, taking out a CIA operative who had CIA swagger. The kind that had helped to keep Friday back his whole life. That swagger did not prevent Thomas Moore from walking into a neat little NSA trap. All right, Friday thought. Things had not worked out. It was on to the next project. That, too, was one of the things Ron Friday enjoyed about intelligence work.
It was never the same. He never knew who he might be working with–or against. In Islamabad, for example, it was not just a question of getting a good man to the flashpoint. It was getting the right man there quickly.
Gord had heard through the grapevine that someone from Op-Center was being brought in to consult on the India-Pakistan situation and was probably going to be sent to the region. Over the past few years, Op-Center had taken over a great deal of the work Fenwick’s team used to handle. That had resulted in ongoing budget and personnel battles at the NSA. Fenwick got the monies he wanted but it had turned a heated rivalry into a ferocious one. Friday carefully disassembled and packed a rifle. He took along two boxes of shells. Because he was going to Islamabad with diplomatic credentials, his luggage would not be checked. Showing up Op-Center was important.