The Sniper and the Wolf (26 page)

68

THE PENTAGON

“What the—!” Couture bit off the rest of what he was going to say, watching Gil climb up through the rocks toward Dragunov’s gear.

The president put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s completing the mission, Bill. I warned you he’d find a way to break it off in Putin before this was over.”

Couture was almost shaking with frustration. He’d thought the worst was behind them when the Killer Egg swept into the valley, but then everyone had shouted in panic when Gil was jumped in the trees. Then when the Puma finally set down, and infrared confirmed there were no more Chechens within two clicks, he had finally dared to believe it was over.

Now Gil was off and running again, with no definite mission profile, no timetable, and no planned extraction.

“What the hell do we tell the Russians?” Couture said, turning around.

“We tell them nothing more than is necessary,” the president
said. “We’ll brief them on the status of Major Dragunov, but nothing more. Not a word about how he got out of Russia until I’ve had time to confer with Secretary Sapp.”

Then the president turned to Brooks and smiled. “You’re awfully quiet, Glen.”

Brooks sat back with a glass of water in his hand. “A minute ago, I thought we were clear.” He took a drink and set down the glass with a sigh. “Now I don’t know what to think.”

“At least the helos got in and out of Russian airspace undetected,” offered the air force chief of staff.

“The thinnest of silver linings,” muttered Couture, staring at the table. Then he laughed sardonically. “I don’t know why I’m so stressed. Shannon can’t hurt anyone but himself this time.”

“You’re stressed,” the president said, “because you like him. It’s impossible not to by this point. He’s the kid in class who gets away with anything, and we love him for it.” He stood up from the table. “I have to go. Glen and I have business at the White House. I’ll be drinking much earlier than usual today if you’ll care to join me, General.”

An aide de camp came into the room. “I have a private message for you, Mr. President.”

“Whisper it in my ear, son.”

The aide came forward and spoke softly into the president’s ear.

The president looked at him, eyes wide. “That’s confirmed?”

“Yes, sir.”

The president turned to the Joint Chiefs. “Senator Steve Grieves’s limo exploded near the Capitol Building half an hour ago. He’s dead—along with his secretary and driver.”

Couture looked at the aide. “Car bomb or something else?”

“That hasn’t been confirmed, sir, but it looks like a car bomb.”

“That’s a domestic hit!” blurted the Marine Corps chief of staff. “One of Pope’s people over at CIA must have done it.” It was no secret that he was not a fan of Pope or the CIA.

“I’d better not hear that remark made in public!” the president snapped. “Is that understood, General?”

The general shrank slightly under the president’s ire, aware that he’d spoken out of turn. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“We’ve got enough goddamn trouble,” the president went on, “without wild accusations being thrown around.”

Couture glared at the marine general. “We’ll handle things here, Mr. President. Call me if you need anything.”

The president shook his hand. “Keep me posted, General.”

The second the president and Brooks were out of the room, Couture turned on the Marine Corps chief of staff. “What the hell were you thinking, Fred?”

The big bald marine tugged on his jacket. “I’m sorry, Bill. I know everyone around here seems to think Bob Pope is the best thing since shaved pussy these days, but I don’t trust the son of a bitch. I never have, and I never will. If you want my resignation, all you need to do is ask.”

Couture stared at him. “Your resignation isn’t mine to ask for, but you’re ordered to watch what you say about the CIA from now on. Understood?”

“Aye, General. It’s understood.”

69

BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL,
Bethesda, Maryland

Bob Pope had fallen asleep shortly after the helicopter flew off and left Gil behind. He opened his eyes a half hour later to see a barrel-chested doctor with close-cut gray hair standing at the foot of his bed, reading his chart. He glanced over and saw that the door to the room was closed. Then he studied the ID tag hooked to the doctor’s pocket. The name didn’t match the face on the tag. “Ben Walton, I presume?”

Walton looked up, taking a silenced Walther PPK pistol from inside his white doctor’s smock and tossing the chart onto the foot of the bed. “Where’s the key?” he asked in his deep voice.

Pope was immediately puzzled. “What key?”

“The key Shannon took from Miller aboard the
Palinouros
.”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Pope said. “Shannon hasn’t mentioned any key.”

“I searched Miller’s body myself, along with his cabin. Don’t play with me. Shannon has the fucking key.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Pope said, “but he hasn’t mentioned it to me.”

Walton held the pistol level. “Where is he?”

Pope pointed at the laptop sitting on the adjustable table angled across his bed. “That’s him moving through the woods.”

Walton stepped around to see the screen more clearly. “Where the hell is that?”

“Somewhere in the Caucasus.”

Walton cocked a suspicious eyebrow. “You mean he’s still chasing Kovalenko?”

Pope shrugged. “He’s a very willful boy. I thought you were headed for Cuba.”

“I know you did.” Walton smirked. “That’s why I’m here. Also, Senator Grieves needed to be dealt with.”

“You’ve already paid him a visit?”

“Yeah.” Walton gestured at the red telephone on the table beside the computer. “Nobody’s called you on the bat phone yet to tell you about it?”

Pope shook his head.

“Maybe it’s because they suspect you had something to do with it.”

“I’m sure somebody does.” Pope’s gaze was set. “If they didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing my job correctly.”

Walton took an empty 100 cc syringe from the pocket of his smock and set it down on the table, with the shiny needle pointing right at Pope. “I want you to inject all that air into your IV line.”

Pope looked at the syringe. “And if I don’t?”

Walton put the muzzle of the silencer against the side of Pope’s head. “Then your brains go all over the wall. Now stop stalling.”

Pope reached for the syringe, and Walton took a step back.

“I can’t reach the line very well.”

Walton stepped around and used his foot to push the IV stand
closer to the bed. “Get this heart attack on the road, Bob. You’re not stalling your way out of this.”

“Did you kill Steiner?” Pope asked, reaching to pull the IV stand closer. “I ask because—”

Walton jammed the muzzle of the silencer back up against Pope’s head, saying through gritted teeth, “Do it now, asshole!”

Pope fumbled with the line for a moment. Then he made a sudden grab for the weapon, snatching the muzzle away from his head before Walton could squeeze the trigger.

“Help!” he screamed at the top of his voice, holding onto the gun with both hands, his thumb over the hammer.

Walton twisted the weapon free and shot Pope in the chest as two Secret Service agents burst into to the room. He had time to fire once and miss before they shot him down. He collapsed to the floor between the wall and the bed.

Pope lay back holding his chest. “Goddamn, he got in the same lung.” Then he leaned over the rail and vomited onto Walton’s legs. “Hey. He’s still alive over here.”

One of agents came around the bed and kicked Walton’s gun across the room.

“Finish him,” Pope said. “Finish him before someone comes in.”

“I can’t do that, Mr. Pope. He’s down and disarmed.”

Walton looked up at Pope, holding his shoulder and grinning. “Fuck you, Bobby. By the time I get done testifying to Congress, there won’t be anything—”

Pope shot him in the forehead with a Glock 26 taken from beneath his blanket.

He looked at the stunned Secret Service agents and put the pistol on the table. Then he sat back and closed his eyes. “Sweet Jesus, if this doesn’t hurt worse than it did the first time.”

The agents stood looking at each other. “What do we do?” one of them whispered.

“I suggest putting that gun back in his hand,” Pope said quietly.
“You two are in enough trouble already for letting him get past you.” He opened his eyes. “I can make that trouble go away—
or not
. It’s your call.”

One of the agents retrieved the Walther and dropped it into Walton’s lap. Ten seconds later, a pair of hospital cops appeared in the doorway, weapons drawn.

“All clear in here!” said the agent. “Director Pope needs a surgeon! He’s been shot!”

70

HAVANA,
Cuba

Crosswhite was still at the house of Duardo’s sister-in-law. Agent Mariana Mederos had arrived a half hour earlier, and she stood outside the back bedroom, where Crosswhite sat on the edge of the bed talking with Paolina. His leg wound had been sutured by a doctor that Ernesto had contacted on his behalf, and the pain was being controlled by large doses of ibuprofen and oxycodone. The police had bought Duardo’s and Paolina’s story the night before without bothering to do much of an investigation, and the bodies were removed without a single photograph being taken. In the eyes of the law, it had been a whorehouse brawl that got out of hand, and no one really seemed to care too much about it. The police sergeant told them they’d look for the guy who got away, but everyone knew it was lip service.

“Will you come back?” Paolina asked.

Crosswhite touched her face and kissed her hair. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“For you or for me?” She was on the verge of tears.

“For you.”

“That’s my decision,” she said. “Do you want to come back or not?”

“Of course I do.”

She put her hand on his. “Then I want you to.”

“I do bad things, Paolina.”

“To bad people,” she said. “And someone has to, no?”

He sat staring at her soft brown eyes, feeling his throat tighten. “That’s what I tell myself, but I don’t always believe it anymore.”

She kissed him. “Come back, Daniel.”

“Okay,” he croaked. He cleared his throat. “Mariana, come in here.”

Mariana stepped into the room and smiled noncommittally at Paolina.

“Got any money?” he asked her in English.

Paolina understood the word
money
. She touched his arm and shook her head. “I don’t want you to pay me.”

Crosswhite ignored her. “Got any money?
Real
money?”

Mariana let out a sigh and unshouldered her daypack. “How much is she charging you?”

“Cut the fuckin’ attitude, and just gimme some money.”

She reached into the bag and handed him a zippered leather pouch.

Crosswhite unzipped it and peeled off five thousand dollars’ worth of Ben Franklins.

Paolina’s eyes grew huge, and she moved away from him on the bed, shaking her head as the tears began to fall.
“No lo quiero.”
I don’t want it.

“If something happens to me, I want you well—”

“No lo quiero!”

Crosswhite looked at Mariana. “You’re a girl. Help me out here.”

Mariana stood chewing the inside of her lip, debating whether or not to get involved in this Shakespearean tragedy. “It’s way too much money. She thinks it’s a payoff—that you’re never coming back.”

Crosswhite took Paolina’s hand and folded the money into it. “I’m coming back,” he told her in Spanish. “I swear it. If I don’t, it’s because I’m dead.”

She hugged him and began to cry, and Mariana left the room.

Paolina’s mother was in the salon with four small children, her husband and sister having gone to work.

“You’re with the CIA too?” Olivia asked.

Mariana nodded. “I’m not really supposed to tell you that.”

Olivia smiled. “You’re very uncomfortable here, no?”

“Dan shouldn’t have brought this trouble into your lives,” Mariana said. “Your daughter thinks she’s in love with him.” She shook her head. “It’s not my business, but you should discourage her.”

“We are all in the hands of God,” Olivia said. “God brought them together, and only He can take them apart.”

Mariana glanced at the crucifix on the wall. She wasn’t about to debate a Roman Catholic. “As I said, señora, it’s not my business.”

Crosswhite came into the room, fastening his belt. “You did a good job with the pants,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you knew my size.”

“Are you ready to go? The cab is waiting.”

Crosswhite stepped over to Olivia, offering his hand. “Señora, I’m indebted to your family. Thank you for not turning me over to the police.”

Olivia held onto his hand. “Take care of yourself.”

He looked at the toddlers playing on the floor. “Which is Paolina’s?”

She indicated the little girl with the darkest skin, and Crosswhite touched the child on the head. “Let’s go,” he said to Mariana.

They got into the cab, and Mariana put on a pair of Ray-Bans. “So are you planning to get this one killed, too?”

Crosswhite was immediately angered—even with the narcotic in his system—but he kept his composure. “Be glad you’re a woman, Mariana. I’ve knocked a man’s teeth out for a fuck of a lot less.”

She ignored his threat, entirely unintimidated by him. “What’s next?”

“Do you have a room at my hotel?”

“Right next to yours, actually.”

“Were you spotted at the airport?”

“No one knew I was coming.”

“That’s not what the fuck I asked you.”

She took off her glasses and looked at him. “Quit talking to me like that, goddamnit!”

“Then lose the self-righteous fucking attitude! We’re on the goddamn job here! If you don’t get your fucking head in the game, you’re gonna get yourself killed—which I don’t particularly give a shit about—but you might get me killed along with you, and that I
do
give a shit about!”

The cabbie looked in the mirror. “Everything okay?” he asked in Spanish.

“We’re just arguing,” Crosswhite said, lowering his voice. “Nobody’s gonna get hurt.”

The cabbie seemed to accept that and kept driving.

Mariana put her glasses back on and looked out the window. “You should know this is a command performance for me. I don’t want to be here.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Pope ordered me. I guess there are only so many people in the agency he feels he can trust right now.”

Crosswhite grunted. “It’s not like him to make such a gross error in judgment.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“You know what?” he said, lighting a cigarette. “You’re done here. I don’t care if you get back on a plane or hang out at the pool, but you and I are done. You’re useless to me.”

She looked at him, realizing she’d pushed him too far. He had enough influence with Pope to hurt her career. “Why didn’t you tell me what you were going to do to Hagen?”

“Is that was this shit is about? You’re still pissed about Hagen?”

“You made me a party to murder,” she hissed. “That’s
not
why I’m in the CIA!”

Crosswhite didn’t have the patience to get into it with her. “Take it up with Pope when you get back to Langley.”

“I already did that.”

“And?”

“And he said tough shit.”

“Then you’d better get used to it. This is the world we work in. If you had any brains, you’d realize you’re a member of a club now—a very exclusive club. There aren’t too many women who can say that.”

She looked out the window. “I can’t sleep. I’m having nightmares.”

“They’ll go away,” he said quietly. “The important thing to focus on is
purpose
. What we do is not random; it’s not arbitrary. There are very definite reasons for it.”

She looked at him. “These men should be put on trial. Pope is having them killed out of vengeance.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“What’s the other way?”

“Pope sees the future. And in it, there are bad guys with nukes. So he’s adopted a zero-tolerance policy.”

“I heard what you said to Paolina. You don’t even believe that yourself anymore.”

He took a deep drag from the cigarette. “I’ve got a lotta blood on my hands, Mariana. A little doubt here and there is what keeps me human.”

They arrived at the hotel and went up to their rooms, pausing in the hall outside their doors.

“Just hang here at the hotel until mission complete,” he said. “We’ll keep the argument between us. Pope doesn’t need to know.” He winked at her. “What happens in Havana and all that shit.”

Mariana keyed into her room and closed the door. She stepped into the bathroom, reaching for the light switch, and was slugged in the stomach harder than she had ever been hit in her life. She
grabbed her middle and collapsed to her knees, trying to scream, but there wasn’t so much as a breath of air left in her lungs.

Someone grabbed her from behind, pressing a strip of duct tape over her mouth and shoving her forward onto the floor. Her hands were quickly bound with a nylon tie-down, and two Cuban men carried her into the other room, tossing her onto the bed. One of them jerked her pants and panties down inside out past her ankles, tying the pant legs in a knot and effectively binding her feet.

Mariana’s pain was matched only by her terror. She tried to sob, but the wind was still knocked out of her, and she was having a great deal of trouble breathing through her nose.

“One fucking sound,” the man said in English, “and I’ll break your fucking neck!”

“I’ll call Peterson,” said the smaller of the two, taking a cellular from his back pocket.