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 downside 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.
FIFTY-SIX
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. Along the other side of the table were the president, the vice president, NSA head Fenwick, Chief of Staff Gable, and Deputy National Security adviser Don Roedner. Judging by their tense expressions, either it was a difficult meeting or they did not appreciate the interruption. Or both.
Several members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff registered surprise to see Hood with the First Lady. So did the president. He had been in the process of rising to go into an adjoining study and talk with her. The president froze and looked from Megan to Hood, then back to Megan. The new arrivals stopped at the head of the conference table.
“What’s going on?” the president asked.
Hood glanced at the joint chiefs, who were a wall of impatience. He still did not know whether the frustration was with him or with the issue at hand. All he knew was that he would not have much time to present his case.
“Sir,” Hood said, “there is increasing evidence that the attack on the Iranian oil rig was executed not by Azerbaijanis but by Iranians under the direction of the terrorist known as the Harpooner.”
The president sat back down. “Why?” he asked.
“So that Iran could justify moving ships into the region and seize as many oil resources as possible,” Hood told him.
“And risk a military showdown with the United States?” Lawrence asked.
“No, sir,” Hood replied. He looked at Fenwick. “I believe there is an agreement in place to make sure the United States does not interfere. Then, when the tensions are defused, we simply buy our oil from Teheran.”
“And when was this agreement made?” the president asked.
“Yesterday, in New York,” Hood said. “Probably after many months of negotiations.”
“You’re referring to Jack’s visit to the Iranian mission,” the president said.
“Yes, sir,” Hood replied.
“Mr. Fenwick was not empowered to make such a promise,” the president pointed out. “If he did make one, it would not be valid.”
“It might be if you were not in office,” Hood said.
“This is ridiculous!” Fenwick declared. “I was at the Iranian mission to try and expand our intelligence resources in the Middle East. I’ve explained that, and I can document it. I can tell you who I met with and when.”
“All part of the big lie,” Hood said.
“Mr. Roedner was with me,” Fenwick said. “I have the notes I made, and I’ll be happy to name my contacts. What do you have, Mr. Hood?”
“The truth,” he replied without hesitation. “It’s the same thing I had when you vowed to keep me from seeing the president.”
“What I vowed was to keep you from bothering the president,” Fenwick insisted. “Secret deals with Iran. The president being out of office. This isn’t the truth, Mr. Hood. It’s paranoia!”
The vice president looked at his watch. “Mr. President, forgive me, but we’re wasting time. We need to get on with this meeting.”
“I agree,” said General Burg. “I’m not up to speed on any of this back-and-forth, and it isn’t my job to say which of these gentlemen is full of gravy. But whether we play offense or defense, we have to make some quick decisions if we’re going to match Iran’s deployment.”
The president nodded.
“Then get on with the meeting, Mr. President, General Burg,” Hood said. “But please delay taking military action for as long as possible. Give me time to finish the investigation we’ve begun.”
“I asked for evidence to back your claims,” the president said, his voice extremely calm. “You don’t have that.”
“Not yet,” Hood said.
“And we don’t have the extra time I thought there’d be to investigate. We’ve got to proceed as if the Caspian threat is real,” the president said with finality.
“Which is exactly what they want you to do!” Hood said. He was growing agitated and had to pull himself back. An outburst would undermine his own credibility. “We believe a crisis is being engineered, one that will call into question your ability to govern.”
“People have argued about that for years,” the president said. “They voted me out of office once. But I don’t make decisions based on polls.”
“I’m not talking about a policy debate,” Hood said. “I’m talking about your mental and emotional state. That will be the issue.”