'We will,' Odette said.
'And thank you.' She hung up and hooked the cell phone on her belt. She removed the gun and ankle holster from the night table and slipped them on. Her long police skirt would cover the weapon. She slipped a silencer in her right pocket. She had brought a switchblade to the hospital. That was still tucked in her left skirt pocket. If she did not need it for self-defense, she would need it as a throwaway. If she were stopped for any reason, perhaps by hotel security, Odette could say that she was visiting a friend--the checkout who, of course, would no longer be there. Odette would be able to say that she knocked on the wrong door and the Harpooner attacked her. With her help--using information provided by Orlov and the Americans--the police would connect the dead man with the terrorist attack. Hopefully, though, it would not be necessary to explain anything to anyone. With surprise on her side, Odette might be able to catch the Harpooner relatively unprepared. Odette walked on slightly bent knees and tiptoed to the front door of the apartment. The hardwood floors creaked loudly underfoot. It was strange, Odette thought. It had never been necessary for her to be quiet here before. Until today, there had never been anyone but her in this bed. Not that she regretted that. Viktor had been all she ever wanted. Odette opened the door. Before leaving, she looked back at the sleeping American. The woman felt bad about lying to General Orlov. Though the coin of her profession was subterfuge and deceit, she had never lied to Orlov. Fortunately, this was a win-win situation for her. If she succeeded in bringing down the Harpooner, Orlov would be angry with her-but not very. And if she failed, she would not be around to hear Orlov complain. Odette stepped into the corridor and quietly shut the door behind her. If she blew this assignment, she would probably have to listen to Viktor complain. Listen for all eternity. She smiled. That, too, was a win situation.
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 2:08 a.m.
A stoic secret service agent opened the door to the Oval Office and admitted Paul Hood. The large, white door closed with a small click. The sound seemed very loud to Hood as he crossed the carpet toward the president's desk. So did the sound of Hood's heart. He had no way of knowing for certain whether Fenwick was a rogue figure or working as part of a team. Either way, convincing others about possible involvement in an international conspiracy of some kind was going to be extremely difficult. The mood in the room was hostile. Hood could feel that even before he saw the faces of the vice president, Fenwick, and Gable. None of the men looked back at him, and the president's expression was severe. Mike Rodgers once said that when he first joined the military, he had a commanding officer with a very singular expression of disapproval. He looked at you as though he wanted to tear heads off and use them for punting practice. The president had that look. Hood quickly made his way between the armchairs to the president's desk. The Washington Monument was visible through the windows behind the president. The tower was brightly moonlit in the flat, black night. Seeing it then gave Hood the flash of courage he needed.
'I'm sorry to intrude, Mr. President, gentlemen,' Hood announced.
'This couldn't wait.'
'Things never can wait with you, can they?' Fenwick asked. He glanced back at the green folder in his lap.
A preemptive strike. Hood thought. The bastard was good. Hood turned and looked at the NSA chief. The short, slender man had deep-set eyes beneath a head of thick, curly white hair. The whiteness of his hair emphasized the darkness of his eyes.
'Your team has a history of rushing blindly into evolving crises, Mr. Hood. North Korea, the Bekaa Valley, the United Nations. You're a lighted match waiting for the wrong tinderbox.'
'We haven't blown one yet,' Hood pointed out.
'Yet,' Fenwick agreed. He looked at Lawrence.
'Mr. President, we need to finish reviewing our data so that you can make a decision about the Caspian situation.'
'What does Maurice Charles have to do with the Caspian situation?' Hood demanded. He was still looking at Fenwick. He was not going to let the man wriggle away.
'Charles? The terrorist?' Fenwick asked.
'That's right,' Hood said. Hood said nothing else. He wanted to see where this went. The president looked at Fenwick.
'Did the NSA know that Charles was involved with this?'
'Yes, Mr. President, we did,' Fenwick admitted.
'But we don't know what his involvement was. We've been looking into that.'
'Maybe I can point you in the right direction, Mr. Fenwick,' Hood said.
'Maurice Charles was in touch with the NSA both before and after the attack on the Iranian oil rig.'
'That's bullshit!' Fenwick charged.
'You seem sure of that,' Hood said.
'I am!' Fenwick said.
'No one in my organization would have anything to do with that man!' Hood had expected Fenwick to 3D the charge: disavow, deny, and delay. But neither the vice president nor Gable had jumped in to defend him. Perhaps because they knew it was true? Hood turned to the president.
'Sir, we have every reason to believe that Charles, the Harpooner, was involved in the destruction of that rig.'
'Evidence from whom?' Fenwick demanded.
'Unimpeachable sources,' Hood replied.
'Who?' Vice President Cotten asked. Hood faced him. The vice president was a calm and reasonable man. Hood was going to have to bite the bullet on this one.
'General Sergei Orlov, commander of the Russian Op-Center.' Gable shook his head. Fenwick rolled his eyes.
