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.'
'I see,' the deputy ambassador said.
'He left the knife behind,' Moore said.
'He always leaves his weapons behind, from spear guns to bowline stirrups.'
'Sea-related things,' said Williamson.
'Often,' Moore said.
'We suspect he was in the naval service somewhere--not a big leap of faith, though we haven't been able to trace him. But in all that time, the Harpooner never left a witness. Which means that either it wasn't the Harpooner who attacked Mr. Battat or the Harpooner wanted him alive.'
The deputy ambassador regarded Battat.
'For what reason?'
'I can't think of one,' Battat admitted.
The three were silent for a moment. The only sound was the hum of the air vent.
'Mr. Battat, the presence of a man like the Harpooner in this region could have terrible ramifications for all of us,' said the deputy ambassador.
'Which is another reason why we should have been in the loop on this!' Moore said angrily.
'Hell, we know who the undercover guys are that are watching us, and they haven't been around for days. They're too busy trying to find a Russian spy who slipped out of jail two days ago.'
'Again, I'm sorry,' said Battat.
'Would you mind staying in Baku while we try to make sense of all this?' the deputy ambassador asked.
'Not at all,' said Battat.
'I want to help.'
'Hopefully, it's not too late for that,' Moore said.
They rose.
'What about the Rachel?' Battat asked.
'I've sent a small plane out to look for it,' Moore told him.
'But they've had several hours head start, and God knows which direction they went. I'm not optimistic.'
'Can't you trace the name?' Battat asked.
'Isn't there a local registry?'
'There is,' Moore told him, 'and the Rachel isn't in it. We're checking records in Dagestan, Kalmyk, and other republics on the Caspian, but my guess is she's a rogue.'
Moore showed Battat to a small guest room on the second floor of the building. There was a cot in the corner, and Battat lay down to think. The boat, the music they played, the brief glimpse he had of the man on deck--he replayed the sounds and images over and over, looking for more information. Something that might tell him who the crew of the Rachel were, how they were dressed, or where they might have come from. In SD sessions-- subconscious debriefing--trained interviewers would walk agents through experiences to help them remember lost details. The interviewers would ask about the color of the sky, the look of the water, the force of the wind and the smells riding it. Once the agent was reimmersed in the scene, the interviewer would move him around, ask him to describe distinctive markings on the hull of the boat or whether there were banners on the stern or mast or sounds coming from the deck or below. It always surprised Battat how much information the brain stored that was not always immediately accessible.
Though Battat closed his eyes and breathed slowly and deeply and went through the SD checklist, he could not remember anything that brought him closer to whoever was on the boat or from what direction his assailant might have come. He could not even remember the feel of the fabric on the arm that had been choking him or the smell of the man who had attacked him. He couldn't remember if the man's cheek had touched him and whether he was bearded or clean-shaven. Battat had been too focused on trying to survive.
Battat's eyes remained shut. They stopped looking into the past and gazed ahead. He would stay in Baku, but not just because the deputy ambassador had asked.
Until Battat found whoever had attacked him, his confidence was broken and his life belonged to them.
Which, he realized, could be why he was left alive.
Washington, D.C.
Monday, 11:55 a.m.
It had always amazed Hood how different Washington looked during the daytime. At night, the white facades were brightly lit and appeared to stand alone, shining with Olympian grandeur. In the day, situated between modern office buildings, vending carts, and glossy restaurant logos, beneath loud and ever-present jet traffic and security barricades of concrete and steel, the landmarks seemed almost antique instead of timeless.
Yet both were Washington. They represented an old, increasingly monolithic bureaucracy that had to be dealt with, and a vision of greatness that could not be ignored or diminished.
