“He could have come in a back entrance,” Hood said. “Did you run a check of the registry?”
“Yes,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean anything. There could have been any number of aliases. Congress-men often use the hotel for private meetings.”
Hood knew that Megan wasn’t just referring to political meetings.
“But that wasn’t the only thing,” Megan went on. “When we went downstairs to the Blue Room, Michael saw Senator Fox and went over to thank her. She seemed very surprised and asked why he was thanking her. He said, ‘For budgeting the initiative.’ I could see that she had no idea what he was talking about.”
Hood nodded. That would explain the confusion he had noticed when Senator Fox entered the room. Things were beginning to fall into place a little. Senator Fox was a member of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee. If any kind of intelligence operation had been approved, she would have to have known about it. Apparently, she was as surprised to learn about the international intelligence-sharing operation as Hood had been. Yet the president either assumed or had been told, possibly by Jack Fenwick, that she had helped make it happen.
“How was the president after the dinner?” Hood asked.
“That’s actually the worst of it,” Megan said. Her composure began to break. She set her coffee cup aside and Hood did likewise. He moved closer. “As we were getting ready for bed, Michael received a call from Kirk Pike.”
The former chief of Navy Intelligence, Pike was the newly appointed director of the CIA.
“He took the call in the bedroom,” Megan went on. “The conversation was brief, and when Michael hung up, he just sat on the bed, staring. He looked shell-shocked.”
“What did Pike tell him?”
“I don’t know,” Megan told him. “Michael didn’t say. It may have been nothing, just an update that got his mind working. But I don’t think he slept all night. He wasn’t in bed when I got up this morning, and he’s been in meetings all day. We usually talk around eleven o’clock, even if it’s just a quick hello, but not today.”
“Have you talked to the president’s physician about this?” Hood asked.
Megan shook her head. “If Dr. Smith can’t find anything wrong with my husband, he might recommend that Michael see Dr. Benn.”
“The psychiatrist at Walter Reed,” Hood said.
“Correct,” Megan said. “Dr. Smith and he work closely together. Paul, you know what will happen if the president of the United States goes to see a psychiatrist. As much as we might try to keep something like that a secret, the risks are much too high.”
“The risks are higher if the president isn’t well,” Hood said.
“I know,” Megan said, “which is why I wanted to see you. Paul, there are too many things going on that don’t make sense. If there’s something wrong with my husband, I’ll insist that he see Dr. Benn and to hell with the political fallout. But before I ask Michael to submit to that, I want to know whether something else is going on.”
“Glitches in the communications system or a hacker playing tricks,” Hood said. “Maybe more Chinese spies.”
“Yes,” Megan said. “Exactly.”
He could see Megan’s expression, her entire mood, lighten when he said that. If it were something from the outside, then it could be fixed without hurting the president.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Hood promised.
“Quietly,” Megan said. “Please, don’t let this get out.”
“I won’t,” Hood assured her. “In the meantime, try and talk to Michael. See if you can get him to open up somehow. Any information, any names other than what you’ve told me, will be a big help.”
“I’ll do that,” Megan said. She smiled. “You’re the only one I can trust with this, Paul. Thank you for being there.”
He smiled back. “I get to help an old friend and my country. Not a lot of people get that chance.”
Megan rose. Hood stood, and they shook hands. “I know this is not an easy time for you, either,” the First Lady said. “Let me know if there’s anything you need.”
“I will,” Hood promised.
The First Lady left, and her aide returned to show Hood out.
TEN
Pat Thomas experienced two miracles in one day.
First, the Aeroflot TU-154 that was scheduled to leave Moscow at six P.M. did so. On time. With the possible exception of Uganda Royal Airways, Aeroflot was the most notoriously late carrier Thomas had ever flown on. Second, the airplane landed in Baku at 8:45 P.M. — five minutes ahead of schedule. During his five years of service at the American embassy in Moscow, Thomas had never experienced either of those events. What was more, despite a relatively full aircraft, the airline had not double- or triple-booked his seat.
The slim, nearly six-foot-tall, forty-two-year-old Thomas was assistant director of public information at the embassy. What the title of ADPI really meant was that Thomas was a spy: a diplomatic private investigator was how he viewed the acronym. The Russians knew that, of course, which was the reason one or two Russian agents always shadowed Thomas in public. He was certain that someone in Baku would be waiting to tail him as well. Technically, of course, the KGB was finished. But the personnel and the infrastructure of the intelligence operation were still very much in place and very much in use as the Federal Security Service and other “services.”
Thomas was dressed in a three-piece gray winter suit that would keep him warm in the heavy cold that always rolled in from the Bay of Baku. Thomas knew he would need more than that — strong Georgian coffee or even stronger Russian cognac — to warm him after the reception he expected to receive at the embassy. Unfortunately, keeping secrets from your own people was part of the spy business, too. Hopefully, they would vent a little, Thomas would act contrite, and everyone could move on.
Thomas was met by a staff car from the embassy. He didn’t rush tossing his single bag in the trunk. He didn’t want any Russian or Azerbaijani agents thinking he was in a hurry. He paused to pop a sucker into his mouth, stretched, then climbed into the car. Be boring. That was the key when you thought you were being watched. Then, if you had to speed up suddenly, chances were good you might surprise and lose whoever was trailing you.
It was a thirty-minute drive from Baku International Airport to the bay-side region that housed the embassies and the city’s commercial district. Thomas never got to spend more than a day or two at a time here, though that was something he still meant to do. He had been to the local bazaars, to the Fire Worshipper’s Temple, to the State Museum of Carpets — a museum with a name like that demanded to be seen — and to the most famous local landmark, the Maiden Tower. Located in the old Inner City on the bay and at least two thousand years old, the eight-story tower was built by a young girl who either wanted to lock herself inside or throw herself into the sea — no one knew for certain which version was true. Thomas knew how she felt.
Thomas was taken to see Deputy Ambassador Williamson, who had returned from dinner and was sitting behind her desk, waiting for him. They shook hands and exchanged a few banal words. Then she picked up a pen and noted the time on a legal pad. Moore and Battat came to her office moments later. The agent’s neck was mottled black and gunmetal gray. In addition to the bruises, he looked exhausted.
Thomas offered Battat his hand. “Are you all right?”
“A little banged up,” Battat said. “I’m sorry about all this, Pat.”
Thomas made a face. “Nothing’s guaranteed, David. Let’s see how we can fix it.”