was to tie a nylon rope to one of the legs of the desk. It was located near the window. The room was on the third floor of the ten-story hotel. If Charles were cornered there for any reason, the police would find it difficult to climb from the ground or rappel from the roof without making noise. That left only the door as a means of getting in. And he was prepared to deal with that. He carried cans of shaving cream that were actually filled with highly flammable liquid methanol. Spilled under the doorway and set aflame, it burned hot and fast and drove people back. That would give Charles time to shoot anyone who was waiting for him outside the window, then use the rope to climb out. Methanol was also a fatal poison. The liquid's fumes were so potent that even brief exposure to the vapors could cause blindness. Charles turned on the light beside the bed and drew the heavy drapes. Next, he picked the locks between his room and the adjoining room. That was another route of escape in case he needed it. Then he pulled over the desk chair. He braced the back of the wooden chair under the knob of the door between his room and the next. He would be able to remove the chair quickly to escape. But if anyone on the other side tried the door, they would think it was locked. The security arrangements took under a half hour. When they were finished, Charles sat on the bed. He went to his luggage and took out his.45. He placed it on the floor beside the bed. He pulled a Swiss army knife from his pocket and lay it on the night table. He also brought over a bag of several stuffed animals he had bought when he first came to Baku. All of the animals had costumes. If Charles were ever questioned, the plush toys were for his daughter. There were photos of a young girl in his wallet. It was not his daughter, but that did not matter. Then he opened the Zed-4. There was one last call to make. The call was to the abandoned van. The microchip he had placed in the gas tank was a remote detonator. It had been nicknamed a Kamikaze Cell Phone by its Taiwanese inventor. The KCP had no function other than to pick up the signal, do its job, and then die. This particular KCP had been programmed to heat to 145 degrees Fahrenheit when triggered. Some chips could be programmed to emit high-pitched sounds to interfere with electronic signals or even confuse bloodhounds. Other chips could be used to create magnetic bursts that would cause radar or navigational tools to go haywire. This chip would melt and leave no trace of itself. It would also set the gas tank afire. The police and fire department would be forced to respond at once to calls about a burning van. They would arrive in time to save some of the vehicle along with what little evidence Charles had left for them to find. That included the traces of Charles's blood. The heat of the fire would cause the water content of the blood to evaporate, leaving clear stains on the metal door handle, glove compartment knob, and other sections of the van that had not burned. The police would conclude that the wounded terrorist had tried to destroy the van and the evidence before leaving. They would assume that their quick response had enabled them to save what they were not supposed to see. Charles punched in the number of the KCP. He waited while his signal traveled twenty-five miles into space and bounced back to a street three blocks away. There were two short clicks and then the dial tone returned. That meant the call had been completed. The chip had been designed to disconnect from the Zed-4 as it began to heat up. Charles hung up. He put everything into his backpack except for the 45. As he did, he heard sirens. They stopped exactly where they were supposed to. By the burning van. Comforted by the unparalleled feeling of a job well done, Maurice Charles made the final preparations for his stay. He removed one of the pillows from the bed and put it on the floor between the bed and the window, directly in front of the nightstand. Then he lay down and looked to his right, toward the bed. The hem of the bedspread reached nearly to the floor. Beneath and beyond the bed, he could see the front door. If for some reason anyone came in, Charles would see their feet. That was all he had to see to stop them. Charles kept his clothes and shoes on in case he had to leave in a hurry, but they did not distract him. Nothing did now. This was the time he enjoyed most. When he had earned his rest and his pay. Soon, even the sound of the police and fire sirens did not penetrate his deep, rewarding sleep.
Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 9:31 a.m.
At 9:22 a.m. Piotr Korsov e-mailed General Orlov a brief data file. The file contained a list of the secure calls that had been intercepted between Azerbaijan and Washington during the past few weeks. Most of those calls had been between the American embassy and either the CIA or the NSA. The Russian Op-Center had been unable to decrypt any of the conversations, but Orlov was able to scratch them off his list. Those calls were pretty much routine and not likely suspects for calls made by the Harpooner. Over the past few days, there had also been calls to the NSA from Gobustan, a village to the south of Baku. They were all made before the attack on the oil rig. The calls from the embassy to the United States had a slightly different band with from the Gobustan calls. That meant the calls were made from different secure phones. In a note attached to the file, Korsov said he was watching for new calls made from either line. Orlov was not very hopeful. The Harpooner probably would not signal his allies to tell them he had been successful. Whoever he was in league with would hear about that from their own intelligence sources. The very fact that a secure satellite uplink had played any part in this business was personally disturbing to Orlov. That was the kind of technology his space flights had helped to pioneer--satellite communications. The fact that they were being so expertly abused by terrorists like the Harpooner made him wonder if the technology should have been developed at all. It was the same argument people had made for and against splitting the atom. It had produced plentiful and relatively clean atomic power, but it had also bred the atomic bomb. But Orlov had not had a hand in that work. Just in this. Then again, Orlov thought, as Boris Pasternak wrote in one of his favorite novels. Doctor Zhivago, 'I don't like people who have never fallen or stumbled. Their virtue is lifeless and it isn't of much value. Life hasn't revealed its beauty to them.' Progress had to allow monsters like the Harpooner to surface. That was how it showed the creators where the flaws were. Orlov had just finished reviewing the material when his private internal line beeped. It was Korsov.
'We picked up a ping,' Korsov said excitedly.
'What kind of ping?' Orlov asked. A ping was how his intelligence officers described any kind of electronic communication.
'The same one we recorded as having been sent from Gobustan,' Korsov replied.
'Was the call made from Gobustan?'
'No,' Korsov replied.
'It was made from Baku to a site very close by. A site that was also in Baku.'
'How close?' Orlov asked.
'The caller and receiver were less than a quarter mile,' Korsov told him.
'We can't measure distances less than that.'
'Maybe the Harpooner was calling accomplices who have another secure line,' Orlov suggested.
'I don't think so,' Korsov told him.
'The phone call only lasted three seconds. As far as we can tell there was no verbal communication.'
'What was sent?'
'Just an empty signal,' Krosov said.
'We've fed cartographic al data into the computer. Grosky is overlaying the signal and trying to pinpoint the exact location now.'
'Very good,' Orlov said.
