Divide and conquer - Tom Clancy [36]
But maybe the terrorist had left him alive for another reason. And Battat lay there, trying to figure out what that reason could be. The only reason he could think of would be to carry misinformation back to his superiors. But he had not carried any information back, other than what was already known: that the Rachel was where it was supposed to be.
And without knowing who got on or where it went, that information did them no good. Battat's clothes had been gone over carefully for an electronic bug or a radioactive tracer of some kind. Nothing had been found, and the clothes were subsequently destroyed. If one had been located, it would have been used to spread disinformation or to misdirect the enemy. Moore had gone through Battat's hair, checked under his fingernails, looked in his mouth and elsewhere for a micro transmitter that could be used to locate Battat or eavesdrop on any conversations he might have. Nothing had been found. There wasn't a damn thing, he thought. And it gnawed at him because he didn't think this was a screw-up. He was alive for a reason. He shut his eyes and turned on his side. Thinking about this while he was dead tired would get him nowhere. He had to sleep. He forced himself to think about something pleasant: what he would do when he found the Harpooner. The thought relaxed him. As he lay there, Battat began to feel warm. He attributed that to the poor ventilation in the room and the distress he was feeling over everything that had happened.
A few minutes later, he was asleep.
A few minutes after that, he began to perspire.
A few minutes after that, he was awake and gasping for breath.
Washington, D.C. Monday, 4:13 p.m.
The president was writing on a white legal pad when Hood entered. The president told Hood to have a seat; he needed to make a few notes before they talked. Hood quietly shut the door behind him and walked toward a brown leather armchair in front of the desk. He turned off his cell phone and sat down. The president was dressed in a black suit and silver and black striped tie. A rich yellow light gleamed off the panes of bulletproof glass behind the president.
Beyond it, the Rose Garden looked rich and alive. Everything seemed so right here, so healthy and normal, that for a moment Hood doubted himself. But only for a moment. Hood's instincts got him where he was; there was no reason to start doubting them now. Besides, the battle was always somewhere else, never in the command tent. The president finished writing, put down his pen, and looked at Hood. His face was drawn and warm, but his eyes had their usual gleam.
"Talk to me, Paul," the president said. Hood grew warm behind the ears.
This wasn't going to be easy. Even if he were correct, it wasn't going to be easy convincing the president that members of his staff might be running an operation of their own. Hood did not have a lot to go on, and part of him wished that he had gone to the First Lady before coming here. It would have been better to let her talk to him in private. But if the intelligence Herbert had received was right, there might not be time for that. Ironically, Hood would have to keep Megan Lawrence out of this. He did not want the president to know that his wife had been talking about him behind his back. Hood leaned forward.
"Mr. President, I have some concerns about the United Nations intelligence operation."
"Jack Fenwick is setting it all up," the president said.
"There'll be a comprehensive briefing when he returns from New York."
"Will the NSA be running the project?"
"Yes," the president informed him.
"Jack will be reporting directly to me. Paul, I hope this visit isn't about some kind of territorial pissing contest between Op Center and the NSA-"
"No, sir," Hood assured him. The intercom beeped. The