Ghost Sniper (13 page)

29

BERN, SWITZERLAND

04:10 HOURS

The ATRU assassin was a former member of German Army Special Forces, Kommando Spezialkräfte. His name was Jarvis Adler. He was thirty-two, blond and blue-eyed, handsome when you caught him from the right angle. A speed freak and sometime rapist in his spare time, he'd been hired recently as an operator for the CIA out of Bad Tölz. He had no idea why he had been contracted to kill Sabastian Blickensderfer, but he was happy to take the job, glad for the work, and keen to collect fifty thousand dollars—which amounted to only about forty-four thousand euros, but he wasn't complaining. He'd been out of work for almost a year now, fired from his job with a security firm for failing his third random drug test in a row.

“Random,”
he muttered in disgust, sitting in his car beneath the streetlamp he'd disabled the day before, across the snowy street from Blickensderfer's home. The electronic dossier he had received on the Swiss banker was the most thorough he'd ever read. Whoever had
collated the information had even gone so far as to include the brand of toothpaste that Blickensderfer used.

This attention to detail assured Jarvis that the CIA was quite serious about wanting the banker dead, which in turn gave him to understand that he'd better not botch the operation. It was no secret the CIA had undergone a complete overhaul during the last year, making the agency a great deal more like the World War II–era OSS (Office of Strategic Services) than the floundering CIA of the early twenty-first century, and every counterintelligence agency, from the Russian SVR to the Brazilian SNI, was nervous about it.

The CIA's new director was a man named Pope, who had flown C-130s for Air America during the final year of the Vietnam War, and the word on Pope was that you did not want to end up on his bad side. Unexpected people (two of them women so far) were beginning to turn up dead in unexpected places at unexpected times: people no one wanted to talk about; people with questionable business dealings in the Middle East; wealthy people who were considered untouchable.

People like Sabastian Blickensderfer.

And whoever was ordering the hits wasn't remotely concerned about them looking like accidents. One CEO from a Paris firm had been found dead in a Yemeni parking garage with his head slammed in his car door an estimated twenty-six times. His Arab bodyguards claimed to have been given the day off.

The White House refused to comment on the alleged assassinations, but what could anyone really say? For one thing, there was no proof at all of CIA involvement. For another, the United States had been attacked with two nuclear bombs just eighteen months earlier; bombs that had been manufactured in the old Soviet Union and eventually sold to Chechen terrorists by God knew who. No one liked to say so out loud, of course, but who could have blamed the US if it had retaliated directly against Russia for managing its nuclear arsenal so poorly? Most Europeans were secretly grateful that the crazy Americans had chosen to exercise what was widely regarded as
an Olympian display of self-restraint—especially when one considered their wide-reaching response to 9/11.

Mysterious killings in the news were far easier to abide than the US launching another full-scale military invasion in their backyard or provoking Russia into a second arms race. Even the Chinese were satisfied to keep quiet on the issue—smiling to themselves as they obligingly bought up more and more of America's growing debt.

Jarvis had fought terrorists as a German soldier, but he cared little for flags or politics. What he cared about was using his considerable skills to make a living. He was even willing to work for the Islamists if they paid him, though he was pretty sure they were fighting on the losing side.

A light came on in Blickensderfer's house up on the second floor, and Jarvis glanced at his watch to check the hour. Just like the dossier said, Blickensderfer had set his alarm for 04:15.

Before getting out of the car, Jarvis did not check his pistol like they did in the movies. He knew that the suppressed Glock 30 was ready to fire a subsonic .45 caliber round resting in the chamber. He walked casually through the snow toward Blickensderfer's home on the corner and trudged up the steps. Having memorized the security code from the dossier, he punched in the eight digits, and the lock clicked open.

As he stole into the house and closed the door, Jarvis wondered with admiration how the CIA came by that kind of information. He had intentionally waited for Blickensderfer to wake up before going inside. The idea of killing a man in his sleep looked good on paper, but it could be difficult moving stealthily through a strange house in the dark, and there was no way to be sure if the target was really asleep.

This way there would be no doubt as to whether or not Blickensderfer was awake. The target would be more alert, yes, but there was less uncertainty overall. There would also be light to see by and maybe a little bit of background noise to cover Jarvis's movement through the house.

He moved up the stairs toward the sound of an electric razor,
pausing at the landing to listen. When he was sure that Blickensderfer was in the bathroom and not using the noise of the razor as a decoy, he stepped into the master bedroom and crossed to the master bath, aiming the pistol at a naked Sabastian Blickensderfer, who stared back at him from the sink with his blue eyes wide in terror, the razor buzzing in his hand.

“Das ist nicht persönlich,”
Jarvis told him. This is not personal. He squeezed the trigger.

In that same instant, the frontal lobe of Jarvis's brain exploded, a .45 caliber slug blasting through it from right to left, causing his own shot to miss Blickensderfer's head by a foot and shatter the glass shower stall.

“Mein Gott!”
Blickensderfer blurted in horror, dropping the razor to the tile floor and taking a step back. The razor broke apart but continued to buzz.

Jarvis's body lay on the bedroom carpet with what was left of his frontal lobe oozing onto the white shag.

Blickensderfer stood with pebbles of shattered glass beneath his feet, too petrified to move, as a man he had never seen before stepped into the bathroom doorway and crouched to pick up Jarvis's pistol.

The man wore jeans, cowboy boots, and a Carhartt jacket. He stood up and tucked the second pistol into the small of his back, keeping his own .45 gripped in his right hand. “Know who I am?” he asked quietly.

Blickensderfer shook his head.

“I'm Gil Shannon. Know who I am now?”

Blickensderfer swallowed, croaking out “Yes.”

“Good.” Gil stepped into the bathroom and picked up the noisy razor, switching it off and setting it on the edge of the sink. “I was sent by the CIA to kill you.” He gestured over his shoulder at the body. “So was he. Lena gave me the code to your door. I've been in the guest room all night, waiting for him to make his move.”

Blickensderfer had never been more frightened or confused in his life. “What—why?”

“Why what?” Gil said.

“Why—why did you stop him?”

Gil shrugged. “I took your woman. I figured I owed you. This makes us even. Now you're on your own. I suggest you hire some very competent bodyguards. Bob Pope wants you dead, and he's never failed yet.”

Blickensderfer grew suddenly self-conscious, reaching for a towel to wrap around his waist. “But I sent—I sent word to him that I won't—”

“This isn't about you. Pope doesn't give a shit about you. It's about the message he's sending to everyone else who does business with terrorists. You could take out a full-page ad in the
New York Times
, promising to be a nice guy. It wouldn't matter. You're on the list.”

“Forever?”

Gil shrugged again. “That or until he feels like he's wasted enough time on you. The trick is staying alive long enough for him to get bored.”

Blickensderfer felt his legs begin to weaken. He wanted to sit down. The CIA he'd done business with in the past had definitely changed. “Can you—will you help me? I'll pay you.”

These were the very words Gil had come to hear. “I don't want your money. I want you to help me with my Russian problem.”

Blickensderfer glanced around, dropping the lid to the commode and taking a seat. “I honestly don't know if I can—but I will try.”

“Then we'll both try,” Gil said, satisfied. “One very important thing: Pope cannot know that I was here—that we had this conversation. No one can. Understood?”

Blickensderfer nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

Gil gestured back at the body once more. “Can you arrange for that clown to disappear?”

Blickensderfer glanced uncomfortably at the bloody mess in his bedroom. “Yes.” He looked up at Gil. “What about Lena?”

“She's with me now—and that's just the way it is. Can you live with that?”

The banker let out a sigh, hardly able to believe he was still alive. “Yes,” he said finally. “I can live with it. But why doesn't Pope protect you from the Russians?”

“Pope isn't a protector. He's an asset manager, and I'm an asset.”

Blickensderfer got to his feet, being careful of the pebbled glass. “How does this work?” he asked timidly. “Do we shake hands now?”

Gil chuckled, switching the pistol to his left hand. “It couldn't hurt.”

30

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

13:10 HOURS

Fascinated by all types of world matters, from international trade agreements, to corporate espionage, to the extramarital affairs of the rich and powerful, Bob Pope was the quintessential spy. He spied on all governments, all leaders, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. He was addicted to the intelligence he gathered and possessed the photographic memory to store almost all of it. His recall capacity was outstanding, and though he had begun to catch himself overlooking minor details in recent months, he was still near the top of his game, close to realizing his vision for the CIA.

Within the next two years, Islamic terrorism would be financially isolated, cut off from the double-dealing tycoons willing to do business with anyone if it meant an extra million or two at the end of the quarter. Already Pope's new CIA was making significant inroads into the Saudi government. Soon even members of the royal family, secretly aiding their Wahhabi friends in Iraq and Pakistan, would
begin turning up just as dead as their European counterparts, causing terrorist funding to dry up still faster.

Pope had even found a way to strong-arm the National Security Agency into supplying him with intelligence, taking evidence before Congress to demonstrate that too much of the NSA's time and resources were being wasted in the act of spying on Americans, stressing that the atomic threat, along with 99 percent of all other threats to national security, lie outside the United States, not within.

He was not a politician by any means. He was not delicate in his approach. He was a mathematician, and he knew that wars were won mathematically, believing strongly that the time to worry about politics would come
after
the defeat of fundamentalist Islam.

“Bob,” the president of the United States had said to him in private the week before, “I worry it's beginning to get out of hand.”

Pope had put on his most innocent face while making his reply. “What is getting out of hand, Mr. President?”

The president looked at him. “This private war of yours.”

“Sir, our enemies are finally beginning to run scared. And there's been zero proof of CIA or ATRU involvement in any of our operations.”

“Operations?” the president said. “They're
assassinations
, Bob! The world is beginning to see the CIA in the same light it saw the KGB!”

Pope responded in a slightly elevated tone: “Mr. President, with respect, this country was attacked with a pair of atomic bombs—a
pair
, sir. Now is
not
the time for us to worry about the world's perception of the CIA. Our enemies fear the CIA again for the first time since the Cold War—
as they should
—and it's because I've taken the focus off our
own
people and put it back where it's supposed to be: on the enemy.”

“You stop right there!” the president said, rocking forward in his chair, his finger pointed across the desk. “
I'm
the one who reigned in the NSA.”

Pope was undaunted. “And who's keeping them in check, Mr. President? You? Congress?
I'm
the man keeping an eye on them;
monitoring their activities.
I'm
the one they fear, sir. Not you—with all respect.”

At that, the president sat back, recognizing the truth in what Pope had said. The NSA had long grown out of control, all attempts by Congress to reign it in having failed. “Well, Bob, to be honest, I'm beginning to fear you a little bit myself—and you know I can't allow that paradigm to continue indefinitely.”

“You won't need to, Mr. President. You're halfway through your second term. You only need to allow it for two more years. By then, my job will be finished, and we'll leave the next administration a much safer nation to look after than we have right now.”

The president doubted it could be that simple, but he paused to allow the tension of the moment to pass.

“The Senate Oversight Committee is asking to see your books. Are they going to find any misappropriated funds?”

“Are they unhappy with our results?” Pope asked, knowing that the Senate loved him.

The president darkened slightly. “Don't answer my questions with questions of your own.”

“I apologize,” Pope said, adequately chastened. “The Senate Oversight Committee won't find so much as a nickel out of place.”

“Which means you've found alternative funding . . . somewhere.”

“Are you asking me a direct question, Mr. President?”

The president brought up his pointing finger again. “One slipup, Bob. One shred of credible evidence connecting the CIA to one of your assassins, and I'm pulling the plug. The purpose of the ATRU was to target terrorists, for Christ sake, not shady businessmen.”

Pope remained unapologetic, knowing the president still needed him. “I see very little daylight between the two, Mr. President.”

“Have I made myself clear, or not?” the president wanted to know.

“You have, sir.”

THAT AFTERNOON, POPE
punched the security code into the keypad outside one of his private intelligence gathering rooms and
entered to find his protégé, Midori Kagawa, sitting at a console with two other young Japanese American women whom he'd hired the year before to help with his ATRU operations. Ever since his time in Southeast Asia during the latter part of the Vietnam War, he'd had a certain affinity for Asian women.

“How are things in Switzerland, ladies?”

“Not good,” Midori said.

Pope stopped midstride, his good humor vanishing. “What's happened?”

Midori looked up from the console. “Blickensderfer is still alive, and Jarvis Adler doesn't respond to my communications.”

Pope set down his coffee cup. “Ladies, please give us a moment.”

The other two young woman got up from their chairs and left the room.

The door closed behind them, and Pope turned to Midori. “Are we exposed?”

She shook her head. “I don't think so, but it's definitely an anomaly. I'm hacked into local traffic surveillance in Bern. Adler's car is parked on the street across from Blickensderfer's house, but Blickensderfer is still alive. I've just confirmed that he's present at a fund-raising dinner where he's scheduled to speak this evening. So either he got lucky and killed Adler himself, or we didn't check back far enough, and he had private security inside the house. Either way, confidence is pretty high that Adler is dead.”

Pope pulled on his chin. “And Blickensderfer is acting as though nothing happened?”

“It appears so, yes.”

“Interesting. By now he must know that his back-channel message to me has fallen upon deaf ears.”

“I'd say that's a safe assumption, but it's only an assumption.”

Pope sucked his teeth. “Any word from Gil?”

She hesitated a fraction of a second. “No.”

“Then he must still be chasing around with Lena Deiss,” he remarked absentmindedly.

“What about Blickensderfer?”

“We'll back off for a moment—give ourselves time to sort out what's happened before risking another attempt. For now, get a message to Gil. Have him contact me direct.”

“Priority level?”

“Low.”

“So you're not sending him back after Blickensderfer?”

Pope shook his head. “No. Gil has too many principles. In hindsight, it might have been a mistake to send him after Blickensderfer in the first place.”

Midori smiled. “You know what they say about the right tool for the right job.”

“Well . . .” Pope hesitated a moment. “Adler was the right tool for this job, and look how it's apparently turned out.” He picked up his coffee and turned for the door. “Make sure you get that message to Gil.”