Mirror Image

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

"What kind of Oil Can Harry operation are you guys running, Paul?"

Paul Hood looked at the puffy face of Larry Rachlin in his TV monitor. The thinning gray hair was plastered neatly to the side, and the light hazel eyes were angry behind the gold-framed glasses. An unlit cigar moved up and down as the CIA Director spoke.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Hood replied. He looked at the clock on the bottom of the screen. Just another few minutes until Striker was safe, and then two hours after that until the Mosquito was tucked away on a carrier, all evidence of the incursion gone.

Rachlin removed the cigar and pointed with it. "Y'know, that's why you got that job instead of Mike Rodgers," he said. "You got a poker face like Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind. 'Who, me, Larry? Running a covert operation?' Well, Paul, despite Stephen Viens's noble attempts to try and tell me a satellite was off-line, we've got some photos from a Chinese sky-spy showing commandos attacking a train. Beijing asked me about it and, unlike you, I really didn't know a damn thing about it. Now, unless some other country has gotten hold of an Il-76T— which the Chinese put at the scene of the crime, and which I happen to know the Pentagon owns— this makes it your operation. The CIC tells my guys they didn't authorize any kind of shooting war over there. They, too, would like to know exactly what you're doing over there. So I repeat: what's going on?"

Hood said casually, "I'm as mystified as you are, Larry. I was on vacation, you know."

"I know. And you came back fast."

"I forgot how much I loathe L.A.," Hood replied.

"Oh, sure. That was it. Everybody hates L.A., so why do they keep going?"

"The well-marked freeways," said Hood.

"Well, how about I ask the President what's going on?" Rachlin said, poking the cigar back into his mouth. "He'll have all the information right there on his desk, right?"

"I wouldn't know," Hood said. "Give me a few minutes to talk to Mike and Bob and I'll get back to you."

"Sure, Paul," Larry said. "Just remember something. You're new here. I've been at the Pentagon, the FBI, and now here. This isn't the City of Angels, friend. It's the City of Devils. And if you try and pull anyone's tail, you're gonna get burned or pitchforked. Understand?"

"Message received and appreciated, Larry," Hood said. "As I said, I'll get back to you."

"Do that," said the CIA Director, using the tapered tip of his cigar to punch off his image.

Hood looked over at Mike Rodgers. Everyone else had left to attend to departmental business, leaving the Director and his deputy to wait for word from the Mosquito.

"Sorry you had to hear that," Hood said.

"No sweat," said Rodgers. He was sitting in an armchair, his arms crossed, his brow creased. "You don't have to worry about him, though. We've got photos. That's why he has to bluster so damn much. He doesn't really carry a lot of weight."

"What kind of photos?" Hood asked.

"Of him on a boat with three women who weren't his wife," Rodgers said. "The only reason the President replaced Greg Kidd with him is that Larry had wiretaps of the President's sister trying to hold a Japanese company up for under-the-table campaign contributions."

"That lady's a piece of work." Hood smiled. "President Lawrence should have given the CIA to her instead of Larry. At least she'd have used it to spy on our enemies instead of on us."

"Like the man said," Rodgers told him, "this is Purgatory. Everyone's an enemy here."

The phone beeped. Hood thumbed the speaker button.

"Yes?"

"Incoming from Striker," said Bugs.

Rodgers jumped over.

"Private Honda reporting in," said a clear voice from a sea of quiet.

"I'm here, Private," said Rodgers.

"Sir, myself, Pups, and Sondra are on board the extraction craft—"

Rodgers felt his gut tighten.

" — the other three are still on the train. We don't know why they haven't stopped yet."

Rodgers relaxed slightly. "Any indication of resistance?"

"There doesn't appear to be," said Honda. "We can see them moving in the windows of the cab. I'll keep the line open. Contact in thirty-nine seconds."

Rodgers's hands were fists and he leaned on them as he stood beside the desk. Hood's hands were folded beside the phone, and he took the opportunity to pray for Striker.

Hood looked at Rodgers. The General raised his eyes to meet the Director's. Hood could see the pride and concern in those eyes, understood the strength of the union between these men, a union deeper than love, closer than marriage. Hood envied Rodgers that bond— even now, when it was causing him so much concern.

Especially now, Hood thought, for those fears made the bond even stronger.

And then Honda's voice came back on, with an edge that hadn't been there moments before.