The struggle lasted five seconds. The attacker’s arm squeezed against the American’s carotid arteries from the side, immediately cutting the blood supply to the head and causing Battat to black out. Taking no chances, the attacker kept pressing the arteries for another half minute. Then he dropped the unconscious body to the sand.
The Harpooner reached into the pocket of his wind-breaker. He removed a syringe from his pocket, pulled off the plastic tip, and injected the man in the neck. After wiping away the small drop of blood, he took out a flashlight and flicked it on. He waved it back and forth several times. Another flashlight answered from the Rachel.
Then both lights went dark. Moments later, a motor dinghy lowered from the boat and headed toward shore.
TWO
Paul Hood sat on an armchair in the corner of the small, TV-lit hotel room. The heavy shades were drawn and a football game was on, but Hood wasn’t really watching it. He was watching reruns in his mind. Reruns of over sixteen years of married life.
Old pictures in my new home, he thought.
Home was an anonymous fifth-floor suite at the Days Inn on Mercedes Boulevard, located a short distance from Andrews Air Force Base. Hood had moved in late Saturday night. Though he could have stayed at a motel right next to the base where Op-Center was located, he wanted the option of being able to get away from work. Which was ironic. It was Hood’s dedication to Op-Center that had cost him his marriage.
Or so his wife maintained.
Over the past several years, Sharon Hood had become increasingly frustrated by the long hours her husband kept at Op-Center. She grew tense and angry each time an international crisis caused him to miss one of their daughter Harleigh’s violin recitals or their son Alexander’s ball games. She was bitter that virtually every vacation they planned had to be canceled because of a coup attempt or assassination that demanded his attention. She resented how he was on the phone, even when he was with his family, checking with Deputy Director Mike Rodgers on how the mobile Regional Op-Center was performing in field tests or discussing with Intelligence Chief Bob Herbert what they could do to strengthen the new relationship with Op-Center’s Russian counterpart in Saint Petersburg.
But Hood had never believed that work itself was really the problem. It was something older and deeper than that.
Even when he had resigned his position as director of Op-Center and went to New York for Harleigh’s performance at a United Nations reception, Sharon still wasn’t happy. She was jealous of the attention that other mothers on the junket gave him. Sharon realized that the women were drawn to Hood because he had been a highly visible mayor of Los Angeles. After that, he had held a powerful job in Washington, where power was the coin of the realm. It didn’t matter to Sharon that Hood put no stock in fame and power. It didn’t matter to her that his replies to the women were always polite but short. All Sharon knew was that she had to share her husband again.
Then came the nightmare. Harleigh and the other young musicians were taken hostage in the Security Council chambers by renegade United Nations peacekeepers. Hood had left Sharon at the State Department’s understaffed crisis center so that he could oversee Op-Center’s successful covert effort to rescue the teenagers and the captive foreign delegates. In Sharon’s eyes, he had not been there for her again. When they returned to Washington, she immediately took the children to her parents’ house in Old Saybrook, Connecticut. Sharon had said she wanted to get Harleigh away from the media zoo that had pursued the children from New York.
Hood couldn’t argue with that. Harleigh had seen one of her friends seriously wounded and several other people executed. She was almost killed herself. She had suffered the clinical consequences of classic stressor triggers for post-traumatic stress disorder: threats to the physical integrity of herself and others; fear and helplessness; and a guilt response to survival. After all that, to have been surrounded by TV lights and shouting members of the press corps would have been the worst thing for Harleigh.
But Hood knew that wasn’t the only reason his wife had gone back to Old Saybrook. Sharon herself needed to get away. She needed the comfort and safety of her childhood home in order to think about her future.
About their future.
Hood shut off the TV. He put the remote on the night table, lay back on the bunched pillows, and looked up at the white ceiling. Only he didn’t see a ceiling. Hood saw Sharon’s pale face and dark eyes. He saw how they had looked on Friday when she came home and told him she wanted a divorce.
That wasn’t a surprise. It was actually a relief in some ways. After Hood had returned from New York, he met briefly with the president about repairing the rift between the United States and the UN. Being back at the White House, being plugged into the world, had made him want to withdraw his resignation from Op-Center. He liked the work he was doing: the challenge, the implications, the risk. On Friday evening, after Sharon had told him of her decision, he was able to withdraw his resignation with a clear conscience.
By the time Hood and Sharon talked again on Saturday, the emotional distancing had already begun. They agreed that Sharon could use their family attorney. Paul would have Op-Center’s legal officer, Lowell Coffey III, recommend someone for him. It was all very polite, mature, formal.
The big questions they still had to decide were whether to tell the kids and whether Hood should leave the house immediately. He had called Op-Center’s staff psychologist Liz Gordon, who was counseling Harleigh before turning her over to a psychiatrist who specialized in treating PTSD. Liz told Hood that he should be extremely gentle whenever he was around Harleigh. He was the only family member who had been with her during the siege. Harleigh would associate his strength and calmness with security. That would help to speed her recovery. Liz added that whatever instability was introduced by his departure was less dangerous than the ongoing strife between him and his wife. That tension would not show Hood in the light Harleigh needed to see him. Liz also told him that intensive therapy for Harleigh should begin as soon as possible. They had to deal with the problem, or she ran the risk of being psychologically impaired for the rest of her life.
After having discussed the situation with Liz Gordon, Hood and Sharon decided to tell the kids calmly and openly what was happening. For the last time as a family, they sat in the den — the same room where they had set up their Christmas tree every year and taught the kids Monopoly and chess and had birthday parties. Alexander seemed to take it well after being assured that his life wouldn’t change very much. Harleigh was initially upset, feeling that what had happened to her was the cause. Hood and his wife assured Harleigh that was not the case at all, and they would both be there for her.
When they were finished, Sharon had dinner with Harleigh at home, and Hood took Alexander out to their favorite greasy pit, the Corner Bistro — the “Coroner Bistro” as the health-conscious Sharon called it. Hood put on his best face, and they had a fun time. Then he came back to the house, quickly and quietly packed a few things, and left for his new home.
Hood looked around the hotel room. There was a glass-covered desk with a blotter, a lamp, and a folder full of postcards. A queen-sized bed. An industrial-strength carpet that matched the opaque drapes. A framed print of a painting of a harlequin whose outfit matched the carpet. A dresser with a built-in cabinet for a minirefrigerator and another cabinet for the TV. And, of course, a drawer with a Bible. There was also a night table with a lamp like the one on the desk, four waste-baskets, a clock, and a box of tissues he had moved from the bathroom.