Acts of War

Hood clicked off. After saying that he was going to find out what other intelligence agencies had on the dam attack, Herbert also excused himself.

When the ROC team was alone, Katzen rubbed his hands together.

'All right, then,' he said. 'Mary Rose, would you kindly print out the map? You're going to drive. Sondra, Walter — we three are going to have a strategy session with input from the NRO.' He turned and offered Coffey his hand. 'As for you, wish us luck and then go finish my chicken for me.'

Coffey looked at the four and smiled. 'Good luck,' he said. 'You're really, really going to need it.'

'Why is that?' Katzen said.

'Because I can deal with the Turks just as well by phone.' He took a long, anxious breath. 'I'm coming with you.'

SIXTEEN

Monday, 12:01 p.m.,

Washington, D. C.

Paul Hood was preoccupied with Mike Rodgers's plight when he received a call from Deputy Chief of Staff Stephanie Klaw at the White House. Hood was being ordered to report to the Situation Room by one o'clock to discuss the crisis on the Euphrates. He left at once, telling his assistant Bugs Benet to notify him immediately if there were any developments in Turkey. In the absence of both Hood and Mike Rodgers, Martha Mackall would be in charge of Op-Center. Bob Herbert wouldn't be happy about that. She was the kind of career politician he disliked and distrusted. But he'd have to live with it. Martha knew her way around the corridors of power both domestically and abroad.

At this time of day it would take an hour for him to drive from Op-Center headquarters at Andrews Air Force Base to the White House. Op-Center usually had a helicopter at its disposal for quick, fifteen minute trips into the capital. However, there had been trouble with the rotor heads in other Sikorsky CH53E Super Stallions and the entire government fleet had been grounded. That was fine with Hood. He preferred to drive.

Hood hopped right onto Pennsylvania Avenue, which was located just a short distance northeast of the base. Though most government officials had private cars and drivers to take them around the city, Hood eschewed the privilege. He'd also refused it when he was Mayor of Los Angeles. The idea of being chauffeured was just too ostentatious for him. Security didn't concern Hood. No one wanted to kill him. Or if they did, he'd rather have someone try to do him harm instead of going after his wife or children or mother. Besides, driving himself, he could still conduct business by phone. He also had the opportunity to listen to music and think. And what he was thinking about now was Mike Rodgers.

Hood and his second-in-command were very different types of men. Mike was a benevolent autocrat. Hood was a thinking-man's bureaucrat. Mike was a career soldier. Hood had never even fired a gun. Mike was a fighter by nature. Hood was a diplomat by temperament. Mike quoted Lord Byron and Erich Fromm and William Tecumseh Sherman. Hood occasionally remembered lyrics from Hal David and Alfred E. Neuman's quotes from his son's copies of Mad magazine. Mike was an intense introvert. Hood was a guarded extrovert. The two men often disagreed, sometimes passionately. But it was because they disagreed, it was because Mike Rodgers had the courage to say what was on his mind, that Hood trusted and respected him. Hood also liked the man. He truly did.

Hood maneuvered patiently through the thick lunch-time traffic. His suit jacket was folded across the seat and his cellular phone lay on top of it. He wanted it to ring. God, how he wanted to know what was going on. At the same time, he dreaded finding out.

Hood stayed in his lane in the slow-moving traffic. As he did, he ruminated over the fact that death was an inescapable part of intelligence work. This was something Bob Herbert had pounded into him during the early days of Op-Center. Undercover operatives in domestic as well as foreign situations were frequently discovered, tortured, and killed. And sometimes the reverse was true. Often, operatives had to kill to keep from being discovered.

Then there was Striker, the military wing of Op-Center. Elite teams lost members on secret missions. Op- Center's own Striker had lost two so far. Bass Moore in North Korea and Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Squires in Russia. Sometimes officers were murdered at home and sometimes they were ambushed abroad. Hood's own life had been in jeopardy recently when he and French undercover operatives had helped to break up a ring of neo-Nazis in Europe.

But while death was an understood risk, it was brutal on the survivors. Several Strikers had suffered serious reactive depression due to the death of Commander Squires. For several weeks they had been unable to perform even simple duties. Not only had the survivors shared the lives and dreams of their dead coworkers, they also felt that they'd failed the victims in some way. Was the intelligence as reliable as it should have been? Were our backup plans and exit strategy sufficiently well thought out? Did we take reasonable precautions? Merciless, unforgiving guilt was also the price of doing business.

Hood reached the White House at exactly 12:55, though it took him a few minutes to park and get through the security check. Upon finally being admitted, he was met by the slender, gray-haired Stephanie Klaw. Side by side, they walked briskly down the corridor.

'They've just started the meeting,' Stephanie said, her voice as soft as the green carpet underfoot. 'I gather, Mr. Hood, that you're still motoring around Washington by yourself?'

'I am.'

'You really ought to get a driver,' she said. 'I assure you, the General Accounting Office will not think that you're taking advantage of your position.'

'You know I don't believe in them, Mrs. Klaw.'

'I am very much aware of that,' she said. 'And part of me thinks that's charming. But you know, Mr. Hood, those drivers know the traffic patterns and how to maneuver through them. They also have these really loud sirens to help them get around. Besides, using drivers helps keep the unemployment statistics down. And we like it here when those figures look good.'

Hood looked at her. The handsome, wrinkled face was deadpan. He could tell that Mrs. Klaw wasn't making fun of him, but of everyone else who took government limousines.

'How would you like to become my driver?' he asked.

'No, thank you,' she replied. 'I'm Type A when I get behind a wheel. I'd abuse the siren.'

Paul smiled slightly. 'Mrs. Kiaw, you've been the one bright spot in my morning. Thanks.'

'You're welcome,' she said. 'Your lack of pretension is always a bright spot in mine.'

They stopped at an elevator. Mrs. Klaw wore a card on a chain around her neck. It had a magnetic stripe on the back and a photo ID on the front. She inserted it into a slot to the left of the door. The door opened and Hood stepped in. Mrs. Klaw leaned in and pressed a red button. The button read her thumbprint and turned green. She kept her finger on the button.

'Please don't make the President cross,' she said.

'I'll try not to.'

'And do your best to keep the others from fighting with Mr. Burkow,' she added. 'He's in a mood over all of this and you know how that affects the President.' She leaned closer to Hood. 'He's got to defend his man.'

'I'm all for loyalty,' Hood said noncommittally as she lifted her thumb and the door shut. The ultra-hawkish National Security Advisor was not an easy man with whom to keep the peace.

The only noise in the wood-paneled elevator was the soft whir of the ceiling ventilator. Hood turned his face up to the cool air. After a quick ride he reached the White House sublevel. This was the technological heart of the White House where conferences were held and grounds security was maintained. The door opened on a small office. An armed Marine was waiting for him. Hood presented his ID to the guard. After examining it, the Marine thanked him and stepped aside. Hood walked over to the room's only other occupant, the President's Executive Secretary. She was seated at a small desk outside the Situation Room. She E-mailed the President that Hood had arrived, and he was told to go right in.

The brightly lighted Situation Room consisted of a long mahogany table in the center with comfortable leather-cushioned chairs around it. There was a new STU-5 secure phone, a pitcher of water, and a computer