“Weight is when someone has credibility. Suction is when they have considerable influence. There’s a difference.”
“I see,” Hood said. They smiled at each other. Hood looked away.
“I’d better get to work,” he said.
“There’s a lot of catching up to do.”
“I’m sure,” Ann said.
“I’ll e-mail you a copy of the press release before it goes out.”
“Thanks again,” Hood said.
“For everything.”
“Sure.” Ann hesitated. She looked at Hood for a long moment more and then left.
Hood turned to the computer monitor on his right. He did not want to watch Ann go. Ann Farris was a beautiful, intelligent, very sexual woman. For the five years they had known each other, they had flirted, she more openly than he. Now that Hood was going to be single, he felt uneasy about continuing the game. There was no longer someone between them. Flirting no longer felt like a game.
But Hood did not have time to think about that now.
There was a lot to do. He had to review the daily briefings that had gone to Mike Rodgers during the past week, which included intelligence data collected from around the world as well as ongoing covert operations.
He also had to look at reports from the rest of the staff and have a glance at the schedule for the upcoming week before he went to see the First Lady. He noticed that Rodgers was going to be interviewing the final candidates to replace Martha Mackall, the political liaison who had been assassinated in Spain, as well as candidates for the new post of economic adviser. With more and more nations linked together financially–“Siamese megatuplets” was how Lowell Coffey had put it–politics was becoming a troublesome sideshow to the force that really drove the world.
Hood decided to let Mike make those hires. Not only had he started the process, but Hood was going to be too busy with everything else. But with all that was going on, one thing remained true.
Paul Hood loved this work, this place.
It was good to be back.
Baku, Azerbaijan Monday, 4:00 p.m.
Azerbaijan is a nation in flux.
Because of political conflict in the Nagorno-Karabakh region, twenty percent of the country–mostly in the southwest, along the borders with Armenia and Iran-are occupied by rebel forces. Though a cease-fire has been observed since 1994, firefights occur with some regularity.
Privately, diplomats fear that the selfproclaimed Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh will become the next Kosovo. Protests, often violent, erupt in Baku and other cities without warning. Some of them pertain to politics, others to general unrest. Since the breakup of the Soviet Union, there has been an extreme shortage of staples such as medical supplies, produce, and new technology. Cash–preferably U.S.
dollars–is the only form of exchange recognized in most areas of the country, including the capital.
The United States has managed to openly support the legitimate government of Azerbaijan without alienating the powerful insurgent forces. Loans have been granted to Baku, while goods have been sold directly to “the people”–primarily the rebels. In the event of widespread revolt, the United States wants to have open lines of communication on both sides.
Maintaining that balance is the primary task of the small American embassy. Since March 1993, the fifteen employees and ten marine guards have operated from a small stone building at 83 Azadlig Prospect. In the back of that building, in a windowless, wood-paneled room, is the Department of News Services. Unlike the small press department, which issues news releases and arranges for interviews and photo ops with U.S.
congressmen, senators, and other government leaders, officially the job of the DNS is to collect news clippings from around Russia and keep them on file for reference.
Officially.
In fact, the DNS is staffed by one CIA operative who gathers intelligence from around the nation. Most of the information comes from electronic surveillance that is conducted both from the office via satellite and from vans. Some of it comes from personnel who are paid to watch, listen to, and photograph government officials-sometimes in compromising situations. Some of those situations are also arranged by the DNS.
Because he was hurt, David Battat did not want to attempt returning to Moscow. Instead, he made his way to the embassy on foot. He was taken to see Deputy Ambassador Dorothy Williamson, who brought in Senior Researcher Tom Moore. Williamson was a large woman with curly black hair. Battat guessed her to be about forty. Moore was a lean giant in his thirties with a long, gaunt face and a lugubrious expression. If Battat had to be stranded in Baku, his expression would be gloomy as well.
Williamson’s aide was a smart veteran named Ron Friday. He was the only one who gave Battat an encouraging smile. Battat appreciated that.
While Battat gave Moore a quick rundown on what had happened, Williamson had the Marine medic take a look at Battat’s wounds. There was swelling in his throat and traces of blood in his saliva, though the damage did not appear to be serious. When the medic was finished with him, Battat was taken to the DNS room. He was given privacy while he called Moscow.
He spoke to Pat Thomas, the assistant director of public information at the embassy. Thomas was also an OTR–off the record–field director for the CIA. That meant there was no record of him at agency headquarters.
His reports were delivered directly to Washington in the diplomatic pouch.
Thomas did not take the news well. If Battat had succeeded in identifying the Harpooner, Thomas would have been a hero. Instead, he would have to explain to his counterpart in Baku and his superior in Washington how they had managed to blow the relatively simple job of surveillance.
Thomas said that he would think about their next step and let him know.
Food was brought in. Battat ate, even though he had left his appetite back at the beach, along with his self-esteem, his energy, the mission, and his career. Then he sat in a chair resting until Williamson and Moore arrived for a second, more thorough, conversation.
Moore looked grim. This was going to be painful.
Acoustic devices planted in the walls caused conversations to sound like static to the electronic eavesdropping devices that the Azerbaijanis had placed on surrounding buildings.
Battat told them that Moscow had suspected the Harpooner was in Baku, and he had been sent to try and identify him. This news did not meet with the approval of the senior researcher.
“The field office in Moscow obviously didn’t feel it was necessary to involve us in this operation,” Moore complained.
“Do you want to tell me why?”
“They were afraid that our target might have people watching the embassy,” Battat said.
“Not all of our people are in the embassy,” Moore pointed out.
“We have external resources.”
“I understand,” Battat said.
“But Moscow felt that the fewer people who were in the loop, the better our chances of surprising the target.”
“Which didn’t really help, did it?” Moore said.
“No.”
“Whoever attacked you obviously knew you were coming.”
“Apparently, though I don’t understand how,” Battat said.
“I was well hidden, and I wasn’t using anything that gave out an electronic pulse. The camera was one of the digital seventies. No flash, no glass in front to reflect light, no moving parts that clicked.”
“Couldn’t this Harpooner or his people have done a routine sweep of the shore?” the deputy ambassador asked.
“I was watching for that,” said Battat.
“I got to the site early, at a spot we’d selected through satellite imaging.
We chose it specifically so that I could see and hear people coming and going.”
“Then why didn’t you see or hear the god damned assailant coming?” asked Moore.
“Because they hit me just when something started to happen out on the boat I was watching,” he said.
“Someone came from below and turned on a radio. It was a perfect distraction.”
“Which suggests that someone knew you were in that spot, Mr. Battat,” Moore said.
“Probably.”
“Possibly even before you got there,” Moore went on.
“I don’t see how, but I can’t rule it out,” Battat agreed.
“What I really want to know, though, is whether this was even the Harpooner,” Moore went on.
“What do you mean?” the deputy ambassador asked.
“The Harpooner has been a terrorist for over two decades,” Moore told her.
“He has personally run or been a part of at least fifteen terrorist strikes that we know of and probably many more that we don’t know about.
He’s eluded countless efforts to trap him thanks, in large part, to his ability to stay mobile. He has no permanent address that we know of, hires whoever he needs, and rarely uses the same people twice. We only know what he looks like because one of his arms suppliers once snuck a photo to us. The supplier’s body was found a few months later on a sailboat, slit from chin to belly with a fish-gutting knife–after we’d relocated him and given him a new ID.”