And it was imperative now. The Harpooner was back in Russia.
TWENTY-THREE
Liz Gordon came to Hood’s office after his conversation with Orlov. A husky woman with sparkling eyes and short, curly brown hair, Gordon was chewing nicotine gum and carrying her ever-present cup of coffee. Mike Rodgers remained for the talk.
Hood told Gordon how the president had seemed during their meeting. Hood also gave the woman a brief overview of the possible covert activities that might explain what appeared to be the president’s delusions.
When Hood was finished, Gordon refilled her coffee cup from a pot in the corner of the office. Though Hood had been dubious of psychiatry when he had first come to Op-Center, Gordon’s profiling work had impressed him. He had also been won over by her thoroughness. She brought a mathematician’s prooflike manner to the process. That, coupled with her compassion, had made her an increasingly valuable and respected member of the team. Hood did not have any trouble entrusting his daughter to her.
“The president’s behavior does not seem extreme,” Gordon said, “so we can eliminate some very serious dementias, which would indicate a complete or near-complete loss of intellectual capacity. That leaves us with dangerous but more elusive delusions, of which there are basically six kinds. First there’s organic, which is brought on by illness such as epilepsy or brain lesions. Second is substance-induced, meaning drugs. Third is somatic, which involves a kind of hyperawareness of the body — anorexia nervosa or hypochondria, for example. What you’ve described doesn’t sound like any of those. Besides, they certainly would have been caught by the president’s physician during one of his regular checkups. We can also rule out delusions of grandeur — megalo — mania — since that would show up in public. We haven’t seen any of that.
“The only two possibilities are delusions of reference and delusions of persecution,” she went on. “Delusions of reference is actually a mild form of delusions of persecution, in which innocent remarks are deemed to be critical. That doesn’t seem to apply here. But I can’t be as quick to rule out persecution delusions.”
“Why not?” Hood asked.
“Because the sufferer will go to great pains to conceal them,” she said. “He or she believes that others are trying to stop them or hurt them in some way. They often imagine a conspiracy of some kind. If the president fears that people are out to get him, he won’t want to confide in anyone.”
“But the stress might come out in little bursts,” Rodgers said.
“Exactly,” Gordon told him. “Crying, withdrawal, distraction, temper — all of the things Paul described.”
“He seemed to want to trust me,” Hood said.
“That’s true and also characteristic of the illness,” Gordon said. “Delusions of persecution is a form of paranoia. But as a sage once said, ‘Sometimes even paranoids have enemies.’ ”
“Is there something we should do?” Hood asked. “The First Lady’s feelings notwithstanding, we have to do something if the president can’t continue to function under these circumstances.”
“Whatever is going on sounds like it’s in an advanced-early stage,” Gordon said. “The effects are unlikely to be permanent.”
Hood’s phone beeped.
“If there is a conspiracy, and you can expose it quickly,” Gordon went on, “there is every reason to believe the president can stay on the job after a short rest. Whatever has happened probably wouldn’t have any effects, long-term or short.”
Hood nodded as he answered the phone. “Yes?”
“Paul, it’s Bob,” said Herbert.
“What’s up?”
“A major situation,” he said. “I just got a call from the CIA suit who relayed Tom Moore’s request to me from Baku. Moore and the CIA guy from Moscow, Pat Thomas, were just wasted. They were taking David Battat to the hospital — the guy the Harpooner attacked during the stakeout. Moore was tagged by a sniper outside the hospital, and Thomas had his throat cut in the lobby.”
“By who?” Hood asked.
“We don’t know.”
“No one saw him?” Hood asked.
“Apparently not,” Herbert replied. “Or if they did, they didn’t see him again.”
“Where is Battat?”
“He’s still at the hospital, which is why the suit called me,” Herbert said. “The embassy called for police protection, but we don’t know whether they’ve been compromised or not. The CIA is out of people, and they’re afraid Battat will be next, and soon. We don’t have anyone in Baku, but I thought—”
“Orlov,” Hood said urgently. “I’ll call him now.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Maurice Charles did not like to repeat himself.
If he arrived someplace by car, he liked to leave by bus or rail. If he went west by air, he liked to go east by car or bus. If he wore a hat in the morning, he took it off in the afternoon. Or else he wore a different one or dyed his hair. If he destroyed a car with a pipe bomb, he attacked the next target with C-4. If he had done surveillance along a coastline, he retreated inland for a short time. Repetition was the means by which entrepreneurs in any field were undone. Patterns enabled lesser thinkers to anticipate you. The only exceptions were densely populated cities where he might be seen. If he found a relatively obscure route through a place like that, he would use it more than once. The risk of being spotted and identified was greater than the risk of reusing an out-of-the-way road or tunnel.
Because Charles had surveyed the Caspian oil drilling site by plane, he decided to return to it by boat. The American and possibly Russian satellites would be looking for an aircraft by now. He and his team would take the motor yacht, which would have a different name on its side than it had the day before. One of the team members had made those arrangements in Baku. It would be waiting for them in Khachmas, a coastal town some fifty miles north of Baku. A freelance crew had been hired in Baku and sailed up with one of Charles’s Iranian sailors. Not only was Khachmas closer to their target, it was unlikely that anyone would recognize them or the vessel.
After a short sleep, which was all he needed, Charles and his comrades had climbed into a van that was parked behind the shack. Their gear was already on board, and they drove from Gobustan back toward Baku. They traveled along roads that were utterly deserted at this time of night. Though Charles did not drive, he did not sleep. He sat in the backseat with a.45 in his lap. If anyone approached the van for any reason, he wanted to be awake.
The van arrived in sleepy Khachmas shortly before 4:30. They had driven the seventy miles nonstop. No one had approached them.
The Rachel—now the Saint Elmo—was waiting in a slip at a ramshackle marina. The berth was close to shore. The hired crew had been dismissed. They had departed in their own boat, a fishing vessel, which had accompanied the motor yacht north.
Wearing night-vision goggles, Charles stood watch while the equipment was transferred from the van to the Saint Elmo. When all the gear was on board, one of the team members drove off in the van. The vehicle would be painted locally and driven to another city. Finally, the motor yacht set off.
The trip to the target would take fifty minutes. The sun would just be coming up when they arrived. That was important. Working at sea, Charles did not like to use artificial lights. They were too easy to spot in the dark and reflected on the water. He also didn’t like to work during bright daylight when the wet suits glistened. Early dawn was best. There would be just enough time to get the job done and depart without being seen.