Divide and Conquer

THIRTY-THREE

David Battat was lying on a hard twin bed in the small, sparsely furnished studio apartment. There was a window to his left. Though the blinds were drawn, the room brightened as light leaked through the slats.

Battat was shivering but alert. His abductor, hostess, or savior — he had not yet decided which — was in the kitchenette off to the right. She had been making eggs, sausage, and tea when the phone rang.

Battat hoped the call was brief. The food smelled good, but the thought of tea was even better. He needed to warm himself inside. Do something to stop the trembling. He felt as though he had the flu. He was weak and everything he saw or heard seemed dreamlike. But his head and chest were also very tight. More than from any sickness he could remember. Hopefully, once he had tea and something to eat, he would be able to focus a little better, try to understand what had happened back at the hospital.

The woman walked over to the bed. She was carrying the phone. She stood about five-foot-nine and had a lean, dark face framed by thick, black, shoulder-length hair. Her cheekbones were pronounced, and her eyes were blue. Battat was willing to bet there was Lithuanian blood in her. She handed the receiver to Battat.

“There is someone who wishes to speak with you,” she said in thickly accented English.

“Thank you,” said Battat. His own voice was a weak croak. He accepted the cordless phone. He did not bother to ask her who it was. He would find out soon enough. “Hello?”

“David Battat?” said the caller.

“Yes—”

“David, this is Paul Hood, the director of Op-Center.”

“Paul Hood?” Battat was confused. Op-Center found him here and was calling him now to ask about — that? “Sir, I’m sorry about what happened,” Battat said, “but I didn’t know that Annabelle Hampton was working with—”

“This isn’t about the United Nations siege,” Hood interrupted. “David, listen to me. We have reason to believe that the NSA set you and your colleagues up.”

It took a moment for Battat to process what Hood had said. “They set us up to be murdered? Why?”

“I can’t tell you that now,” Hood replied. “What’s important is that for the present, you’re out of danger.”

The young woman walked over with a cup of tea. She set it on the night table beside the bed. Battat used an elbow to drag himself into a sitting position. She helped him by putting strong hands under his arm and literally lifting him from the bed.

“What I need to know is this,” Hood went on. “If we can locate the Harpooner, do you feel up to helping us take him down?”

“If there’s a way for me to get the Harpooner, I’m up for it,” Battat said. Just the thought of that energized him.

“Good,” Hood told him. “We’re working with a Russian intelligence group on this. I don’t know when we’ll have additional information. But when we do, I’ll let you and your new partner know.”

Battat looked over at the young woman. She was standing in the kitchenette spooning eggs onto two plates. The last time he was in the field, Russians were the enemy. It was a strange business they were in.

“Before I go, is there anything else you can tell us about the Harpooner?” Hood asked. “Anything you might have seen or heard while you were looking for him? Anything Moore or Thomas might have said?”

“No,” Battat said. He took a sip of tea. It was stronger than he was used to. It was like a shot of adrenaline. “All I know is that someone put me in a choke hold from behind. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. As for Moore and Thomas, they were as mystified as I was.”

“Because—?”

“The Harpooner had let me live,” Battat said.

“Assuming it was the Harpooner,” Hood said. “Listen. Use the time you have to rest. We don’t know where the Harpooner may turn up or how much time you may have to get to him. But we need you to be ready to move out.”

“I’ll be ready,” Battat said.

Hood thanked him and hung up. Battat placed the phone on the night table. Then he took another swallow of tea. He still felt weak, but he was trembling a little less than before.

The young woman walked over with a plate for him. Battat watched her as she set the plate on his legs and placed a cloth napkin and utensils on the night table. She looked tired.

“My name is David Battat,” he said.

“I know,” she said.

“And you are—?” he pressed.

“In Baku, I am Odette Kolker,” she said. There was finality in the young woman’s voice. It told him two things. First, that she was definitely not an Azerbaijani recruited by the Russians. And second, that Battat would not be getting her real name. Not from her, anyway.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Battat said, extending his hand. “I’m also extremely grateful for everything you’ve done.”

“You’re welcome,” she said.

The young woman shook Battat’s hand firmly but perfunctorily. As she did, Battat noticed several small bloodstains on the sleeve of her off-white police blouse. There were no lacerations on her hand or forearm. The blood did not appear to be hers.

“Are you really a policewoman?” Battat asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Were you working the night shift?” he asked.

“No,” she replied. “I was called in to do this.” She smiled slightly. “And I cannot collect overtime for it.”

Battat sipped more tea and smiled back. “I’m sorry they had to wake you.” He moved the plate to the night table and started to throw off the cover. “I probably shouldn’t be taking your bed—”

“No, it’s all right,” she said. “I’m expected on duty in less than an hour. Besides, I’m accustomed to having unexpected guests.”

“A hazard of the business,” he said.

“Yes,” Odette observed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to eat. You should do the same. Eat and then rest.”

“I will,” Battat promised.

“Do you need salt or anything else?”

“No thank you,” he said.

Odette turned and walked slowly toward the kitchenette.

Less than an hour ago, she had killed a man. Now she was serving Battat breakfast. This was a strange business. A very strange business indeed.