'Is that what this meeting is about?'
'No,' Hood said.
'What makes you ask a question like that?'
'People close to him are worried,' Hood said.
'And you're the one who's been asked to bell the cat?' she asked.
'Nothing that calculated,' Hood said as his cell phone beeped. He reached into his jacket pocket and answered the phone.
'This is Paul.'
'Paul, it's Mike.'
'Mike, what's up?' If Rodgers was calling him here, now, it had to be important.
'The target was seen leaving the Iranian mission to the UN about three minutes ago.'
'Any idea where he was the rest of the time?' Hood asked.
'Negative,' said Rodgers.
'We're working on that. But apparently, the car didn't show up at the embassies of any of our top allies.'
'Thanks,' Hood said.
'Let me know if you find out anything else.' Hood hung up. He put the phone back in his pocket. That was strange. The president had announced an intelligence initiative involving the United Nations, and one of the first missions the national security adviser visits belongs to Iran. As a sponsor of the kind of terrorism the United Nations opposed, that did not make sense. The door to the Oval Office opened.
'Mrs. Leigh, would you do me a favor?' Hood said.
'Yes.'
'Would you get me Jack Fenwick's itinerary in New York?'
'Fenwick? Why?'
'He's one of the reasons I asked you the question I did,' Hood replied. Mrs. Leigh looked at Hood.
'All right. Do you want it while you're with the president?'
'As soon as possible,' Hood said.
'And when you get the file number, let me know what else is in the file. I don't need specific documents, just dates when they were filed.'
'All right,' she said.
'And Paul--what you asked before?
I have noticed a change.' He smiled at her.
'Thanks. If there's a problem, we're going to try and fix it quickly and quietly, whatever it is.' She nodded and sat at her computer as the vice president emerged from the Oval Office. Charles Gotten was a tall, stout man with a thin face and thinning gray hair. He greeted Paul Hood with a warm handshake and a smile but didn't stop to talk. Mrs. Leigh punched the phone intercom. The president answered. She told him that Paul Hood was here, and the president asked her to send him in. Hood went around the desk and walked into the Oval Office.
Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 12:07 a.m.
David Battat lay on the flimsy cot and stared at the dark ceiling of the damp basement storehouse. Pat Thomas slept on his back in a cot on the other side of the small room, breathing softly, regularly. But Battat couldn't sleep. His neck still ached, and he was angry at himself for having gotten cold-cocked, but that wasn't what was keeping him awake. Before going to sleep, Battat had reviewed the original data the CIA had received about the Harpooner. He could not put it out of his mind. All signs, including a reliable eyewitness, pointed to it having been the terrorist that was being met by the Rachel. And if that were so, if the Harpooner had passed through Baku on his way to somewhere else, Battat was deeply troubled by one question: Why am I still alive? Why would a terrorist with a reputation for scorched earth attacks and homicidal behavior leave an enemy alive? To mislead them? To make them think it wasn't the Harpooner who was there? That had been his initial reaction. But maybe the terrorist had left him alive for another reason. And Battat lay there, trying to figure out what that reason could be. The only reason he could think of would be to carry misinformation back to his superiors. But he had not carried any information back, other than what was already known: that the Rachel was where it was supposed to be. And without knowing who got on or where it went, that information did them no good. Battat's clothes had been gone over carefully for an electronic bug or a radioactive tracer of some kind. Nothing had been found, and the clothes were subsequently destroyed. If one had been located, it would have been used to spread disinformation or to misdirect the enemy. Moore had gone through Battat's hair, checked under his fingernails, looked in his mouth and elsewhere for a micro transmitter that could be used to locate Battat or eavesdrop on any conversations he might have. Nothing had been found. There wasn't a damn thing, he thought. And it gnawed at him because he didn't think this was a screw-up. He was alive for a reason. He shut his eyes and turned on his side. Thinking about this while he was dead tired would get him nowhere. He had to sleep. He forced himself to think about something pleasant: what he would do when he found the Harpooner. The thought relaxed him. As he lay there, Battat began to feel warm. He attributed that to the poor ventilation in the room and the distress he was feeling over everything that had happened.
A few minutes later, he was asleep.
A few minutes after that, he began to perspire.
A few minutes after that, he was awake and gasping for breath.
Washington, D.C. Monday, 4:13 p.m.
The president was writing on a white legal pad when Hood entered. The president told Hood to have a
