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
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.”