The Sniper and the Wolf (17 page)

42

ISTANBUL,
Turkey

Gil stood in the street in front of the brothel, watching the end of the alley. The fog had settled in. There were two cars and an unknown number of men blocking the alley at fifty yards.

“We didn’t clear out fast enough.”

The women were crammed into a small van in the parking lot, all of them more than a little anxious to leave.

Dragunov grunted. “You thought this would be easy?”

“The only easy day was yesterday. Any suggestions?”

Dragunov looked at the rooftops, scanning to the end of the alley. The buildings were built wall to wall. “There’s a Kalashnikov inside. I can go over the rooftops and hit them from above.”

“How many rounds for the rifle?”

“One magazine.”

“Thirty rounds goes fast once you start taking return fire.” Gil
glanced around for another option, but there wasn’t one. “How fast will the police respond, do you think?”

Dragunov shrugged. “That depends on their relationship with these people. Vlad said they were protected, so if they
do
come, it won’t be to help us.”

Gil got on his sat phone to Langley, giving Midori their location and asking for satellite surveillance. “What I need is an exact head count on how many men are blocking our escape.”

“I’m sorry, Gil, but I don’t have a satellite over your location. The satellite we used for the Sicily op has already been retasked.”

“Can’t you free it up?”

“Not in time to help you with your situation. Also, I just got off the line with Pope. He said you may have to find another way out of Turkey. The president is considering using assets to delay any flight you board with those girls—citing engine trouble. They’re worried a rescue of this nature could cause political trouble with Putin.”

“Shit,” Gil swore. “Again with Putin.”

“So far, grounding the flight is still just an option,” Midori clarified. “Apparently Couture supports letting you proceed. He’s the one who warned Pope.”

“Well, I’ll have to count on Couture, because there ain’t no other way outta here with these girls. Make sure Pope understands that.”

“He does.”

“Okay. Typhoon out.” Gil tucked away the phone. “We’re on our own, Ivan, so be fast up there.”

“What did she say about Putin?”

“The White House is afraid of pissing off the Kremlin.”

“This is a stupid idea,” Dragunov said with a sigh. “I should have shot you.”

“There’s still time to do that,” Gil said with a grin.

Dragunov glanced at the desperate female faces peering back at him through the van’s fogged-up windows. “Get ready to fight.”

“Roger that. I’ll move the second you open up.”

Dragunov went back inside the brothel, and a couple of minutes
later, he signaled Gil from the roof. He made his way over four rooftops with the AK-47 until he reached the street, peering over the edge of the roof to see six men waiting below in the fog. The streetlights along the block were burnt out, and visibility was dim. He listened to them talking and realized they were confused about what exactly had taken place in the brothel. One of Vlad’s men had apparently gotten a call off, but he hadn’t lived long enough to give much in the way of details. They were concerned about walking into an ambush, and one of them kept calling someone on the phone but got no answer. Dragunov guessed he was calling Vlad, who was already dead with a bullet between the eyes. One of the men had a machine gun slung over his shoulder, but the others seemed to be carrying nothing more than pistols beneath their jackets. Dragunov switched the select-fire lever to single shot and sighted on the chest of the man with the MP5.

The report of the rifle was like a cannon blast, shattering the foggy silence. The man with the machine gun was thrown to the ground with his heart exploded in his chest, and Dragunov dropped two more men within a couple of seconds as the other three pulled their pistols and began firing at the rooftop.

With Dragunov’s first shot, Gil had bolted up the alley. He covered half the distance and ducked into a doorway, opening up with the M9 and dropping one man who had taken cover on his side of the roadblock.

The last two Russians poured fire in Gil’s direction, driving him behind the cover of the doorway, but Dragunov shot them both down from above.

“Clear!” he shouted.

Gil dashed toward the roadblock to drag the bodies into the shadows as Dragunov ran back to the brothel. Within three minutes, Gil had both cars moved out of the way, and Dragunov pulled up with the van.

On the way to the airport, Gil threw his pistol out the window into a vacant lot. With only a few rounds left in the magazine, there was no point to risk getting caught with it. He took the passports
from his pocket and began passing them out, telling Katarina to make sure they didn’t lose them.

Many of the young women kissed their passports, clutching them to their breasts with tears streaming down their faces.

“In your coat pockets!” Gil said, pantomiming, and they quickly tucked them away.

They arrived at the airport without incident, parking in the parking deck. Dragunov killed the motor and turned around in the seat, admonishing the girls in Russian to remain calm and to act natural no matter what happened inside the airport.

“Our passports haven’t been stamped at the port of entry, so there are going to be questions,” he explained. “If we can’t bribe our way onto the plane, we’ll have to involve the Russian Embassy, and that will mean a very long night. So let me do the talking. Understood?”

The women nodded in earnest, and Dragunov looked at Gil. “We could take them to the embassy and drop them off. I can call Federov and arrange for another—”

Katarina began to protest, and he whipped his head around. “What did I tell you?”

“Look, the longer they’re in Turkey,” Gil said, “the longer they’re at risk. Too damn much can go wrong. Let’s see if we can get on a plane.”

The airport was busy even at that late hour, but the moment the twenty of them entered the airport, they drew the immediate attention of security personnel. The armed men watched closely, talking furtively into their radios. The group was stopped before making it anywhere close to the Aeroflot ticket counter, and two stern-looking Turkish officials appeared from behind a wall, giving instructions to the chief of security.

“This means trouble,” Dragunov muttered. “They were expecting us.”

“Roger that,” Gil said. “I told you we shoulda gone to the embassy.”

Dragunov turned and gaped at him.

43

THE WHITE HOUSE

The door to the Oval Office opened, and Secretary of State John Sapp entered the room.

The president stood up from behind his desk. “Thank you for coming on such short notice, John.”

“I came as quickly as I could, Mr. President.” Sapp crossed the office and shook hands with the commander in chief, turning to shake hands with Couture and Brooks before sitting down.

“Gentlemen,” the president said, “I’ve asked John to weigh in on the stalemate between the two of you. He probably has a better understanding of the Russian mind than any of us.”

The sixty-year-old secretary of state had spent ten years as the US ambassador to the Soviet Union during the Cold War. He was a tall, slender man with gray hair and discerning gray eyes.

“Glen,” the president said to the White House chief of staff, “give John your thoughts on grounding the plane in Istanbul.”

Brooks sat forward in the chair and explained to Sapp why he
thought Gil Shannon should be prevented from flying what he referred to as “a planeload of prostitutes” into Moscow.

Sapp listened thoughtfully, nodding after Brooks had finished. “It’s absolutely a possibility that Putin will take offense at this. He doesn’t trust us. He doesn’t trust anyone with altruistic motives. But, then again, sociopaths aren’t capable of altruistic emotion. He sees everyone as the enemy, even those within his own government. He’s much like Stalin in that regard.”

Brooks, feeling vindicated, sat back in his chair. “That’s my exact point.”

“But I don’t recommend grounding the flight,” Sapp went on to say, “and I’ll tell you why.”

Brooks stiffened.

Sapp crossed his legs, calmly resting his hand on his knee. “Consider this emergence in the broader scope: Russia knows they’re indirectly responsible for last year’s nuclear attacks on American soil. It’s a significant embarrassment for them, and they’ve been trying to wriggle out of it, but they’re going to have to acknowledge their culpability very soon now, and they know it. China’s finally ready to confirm the isotope test results, and that’s going leave Russia as the odd man out on the UN Security Council. Everyone—the Russians included—are going to have to face up to the fact that the uranium was enriched at the Ural facility.

“And make no mistake: Putin is as aware of the paradigm shift as we are. It’s not Russia versus the United States anymore. It’s Russia and the US versus Islamic extremism. Imagine the results of a man like Dokka Umarov getting his hands on a stolen nuke. He’d incinerate Moscow. Putin’s willingness to work with us on this pipeline plot has nothing to do with protecting the pipeline. He’s afraid of Umarov and his network, and anything he can do to weaken Umarov is good policy. What Russia is attempting to do, however, is manipulate us into helping them on their terms. They want to be in a position to dictate policy well into the future.

“What Master Chief Shannon has inadvertently given us here
is an opportunity to level the playing field; a chance for
us
to do the manipulating. My recommendation is to let the plane take off. I can talk with Prime Minister Medvedev over the phone once it’s in the air. He and I have a rapport, and contrary to popular belief, Putin does listen to him—more than anyone has any real idea. I can
suggest
that Russia use this little rescue as an opportunity to improve their public image in the wake of their failure with the suitcase nukes. Taking a public stand against human trafficking will play well for them, and if they’re worried about creating unnecessary friction with the Russian mafia, they can always say these unfortunate young women were being held by Islamic terrorists. Who’s going to be the wiser, except for the victims?”

“What about the Turks?” Brooks interjected. “They’re holding Shannon and the others for us at the airport, and they’re not at all happy about this ‘little rescue.’ ”

Sapp shrugged. “The Turks have to play this however we ask them to.”

“Oh?” Brooks smiled. “And why is that?”

“Because of the earthquake last month,” Sapp replied easily. “We’ve pledged more than a billion dollars in relief—only half of which has been paid so far—and that doesn’t include our recent increase in military aid. So the Turks are not going to be a problem. The only problem is Putin, and I’m confident I can get Medvedev to make him see the opportunity in this.”

The president looked at Couture. “How soon do we have to make a decision?”

“Next flight leaves in ninety minutes.”

“John, do you see any possible downside?”

“Nothing long lasting,” Sapp answered. “The only real risk is to Master Chief Shannon. Once he arrives in Moscow on a Russian passport, he could become a pawn, but I don’t think they’ll hurt him. They may hold on to him for a while, long enough to make their point, but Major Dragunov was well treated aboard the
Ohio
, so I think they’ll return the courtesy. As I’ve said already, they’re going
to need us in the future, and they’re smart enough to see this opportunity for what it is—provided it’s put to them in the correct tone. Tone is always very important with the Russians, especially with Stalinists like Putin.”

“General,” the president said, “make sure Shannon and his people are aboard that plane when it takes off.”

“Yes, sir.” Couture got up from his chair and left the room.

The president’s phone chimed on the desk, announcing an incoming text message. He picked up the phone expecting to see a text from his wife, but to his surprise, the message was from Tim Hagen. “What the hell could this possibly be about?” he muttered, warily opening the message to see a frozen video image himself and a young Asian woman. The shock effect was instantaneous. His heart began to race, and he began to sweat immediately.

Brooks exchanged glances with Sapp, both of them seeing the color drain from the president’s face. “Sir, are you okay?”

“Get my car ready, Glen. I’m going over to talk with Pope.”

“At this hour, sir?”

The president stood up from his chair. “I asked you to get the car ready, Glen. Get it ready now.”

44

ISTANBUL,
Turkey

Gil and the others sat cooling their heels in a large briefing room usually reserved for airport security personnel. Most of the women were crying because the mob money and their passports had been confiscated.

Dragunov sat in the corner looking pissed, with his arms folded over his chest. “Do you have any more good ideas?”

Gil shook his head. “Fresh out.”

“Maybe next time you’ll listen to me.”

“Maybe,” Gil muttered, taking the pack of cigarettes from his peacoat.

One of two armed security men near the door stepped forward, wagging his index finger. “No smoking!”

“Roger that.” Gil put the smokes back into his pocket.

Dragunov smirked. “There will be plenty of smoking in prison.”

Gil looked at him. “That meant to be a double entendre?”

“What the hell is that?”

The door opened, and one of the Turkish airport officials stepped into the room, their passports in his hand. Everyone gawked in silence as he walked through the room handing them out. Gil’s was the last to be returned.

“Let’s go,” the official said in accented English. “The plane is now boarding.”

Katarina translated what he said, and the women all popped out of their chairs, making for the door.

Gil tucked the passport away with the cigarettes, exchanging suspicious glances with Dragunov. “The plane to where?” he asked the official.

“Moscow! Where else? Now, follow me.”

Dragunov shouldered past Gil on his way to the front of the line. “Bring up the rear and keep your eyes open,” he said in a low voice. “It’s possible they’re giving us back to the mafia.”

The official led them down a long white corridor. They emerged from a doorway just beyond the security checkpoint where late-night travelers were busy taking off their shoes and stepping through metal detectors.

“Wait here,” the official told Dragunov. “I have to get your boarding passes.”

The women huddled together, talking guardedly among themselves.

“What do you think?” Gil said.

Dragunov grunted, putting a hand on his shoulder and pointing beyond the bank of metal detectors. “It looks like our friends have come to see us off.”

Gil looked over to see a pair of angry-looking Russians in black leather jackets staring back at them. He gave them the finger and formed the words
Fuck you
with his lips.

The Russians stared a few moments more. Then they turned and left.

“Adios, assholes.”

“You think we’ve won,” Dragunov said. “But we’ve made very dangerous enemies tonight. They will hunt us forever.”

“Well, I don’t speak Russian,” Gil said. “So when you get the chance, do me a favor and tell ’em to get in line behind Al Qaeda, the RSMB, the ACLU, and every other motherfucker who wants a piece of me.”

The Spetsnaz man chuckled. “I’m going to catch hell for not shooting you. Because of this, the GRU will never be able to work with them in Turkey again.”

“Too bad.” Gil pointed to where the women were joyfully receiving their boarding passes from the airport official. “Don’t tell me that doesn’t make you feel good.”

Dragunov nodded. “Yes, but it wasn’t our mission—and you know that.”

They boarded the plane a short time later, and the captain of the plane joined them in the back. “Are you Major Ivan Dragunov?” he asked in Russian.

“Yes.”

The captain gestured at Gil. “And this is the American?”

“Yes. Ugly, isn’t he?”

The captain grinned. “Major, I need for you to collect the passports from these women and send them forward to the cockpit. Moscow wants a complete list of names so they can begin to notify the families.”

The women immediately began to object.

Gil reached across the aisle, putting his hand on Katarina’s arm. “What’s going on now?” She told him what the captain had said, and he shook his head. “Tell them not to give up their passports again until we arrive at Moscow customs.”

Katarina quickly told the others, and they all defiantly jammed their hands into their coat pockets.

Dragunov elbowed him in the ribs. “What the hell are you doing?”

“They can write their names down on a sheet of paper. These girls
are traumatized as hell, and you wanna take their fuckin’ passports again?”

The captain stared at Gil. “Mr. Shannon, no one is going to steal their passports aboard my aircraft.”

“You can call me Master Chief Shannon, Captain.”

The captain smiled dryly. “Very well,
Master Chief
. If you would ask these young ladies to write their names down for me and pass the list to the cockpit? Then perhaps my government can get on with its work.”

“Hear that?” Gil asked Katarina.

She nodded, saying “Thank you” to the captain in English.

The captain nodded. “I’ll have the attendant bring paper and something to write with.” He then returned to the cockpit and closed the door.

Dragunov looked at Gil and smirked.

“You’re doin’ a lotta smirkin’ tonight, Major.”

“You seem to have no idea where you’re going,” Dragunov said, putting his seat back and making himself comfortable. “You will, though, soon enough.”

“Don’t get
too
comfy over there. You’re gonna have to return that seat to its upright position before we take off.”

Dragunov closed his eyes. “Leave me alone, Master Chief. A crazy American has been trying to get me killed for days, and I’m very tired.”