There were more and more profiteers like Blickensderfer operating in and around Europe, and Pope understood the important role they played. He also understood that if they began turning up dead, others would take notice and be forced to think twice about doing business with Islamic fundamentalists. As the world stood at present, there was one rubric for the ruling elite and another for the bottom 99 percent. Pope regarded these hypocrisies and double standards as anathema, and his aim was to change the dangerous paradigm from within.
Gil’s aim was to destroy whomever Pope put in front of him. At present, that person was Sabastian Blickensderfer. He’d read the corrupt banker’s dossier and agreed the man was in need of removal. For Gil, the mathematics were simple enough: Blickensderfer was making it easier for AQAP to carry out terrorist operations. AQAP was responsible for the 2012 attack on the American mission in Benghazi, Libya. Former Navy SEALs had been killed in Benghazi. And if Sabastian Blickensderfer didn’t mind helping to kill Navy SEALs, Gil Shannon sure as hell didn’t mind killing Sebastian Blickensderfer.
Of course, Gil knew that Pope’s future targets might not always be quite so easily sorted out, but the Swiss banker was a good place to start. If Pope ever targeted anyone Gil didn’t agree needed to be removed, he would simply take a pass.
As he eyed Blickensderfer through the scope at a hundred yards, he watched the man laughing and handing a flask to one of his security men whom Gil knew — from seeing around the lodge over the past few nights — to be carrying a Beretta pistol beneath his jacket.
At last, after three long days of stalking his prey on the snowy mountain, the moment came right. The air was still, and the snow fell straight down all across the slope. Gil placed the reticule on Blickensderfer’s sternum over his heart and began to squeeze the trigger.
Inexplicably, Blickensderfer’s fianceé lunged forward into the sight picture just as the trigger was passing the point of no return. Gil twitched as the rifle went off, and the .308 Lapua magnum blasted almost silently from the end of the suppresser at more than 2,500 feet per second. His heart stopped as he watched, waiting for the woman’s head to explode. It did not. He saw her blond hair kick up at the nape of her neck as the round passed through it, soundlessly impacting the white powder thirty feet beyond.
The woman brushed absentmindedly at the back of her neck and pulled her ski poles from the snow with a laugh. Apparently she had lost her balance and nearly toppled off her skis.
Gil rolled behind the trunk of a pine and pulled the white watch cap from his close-cropped head, breathing a deep sigh of relief. He had very nearly murdered an innocent woman.
He lay there with large snowflakes landing silently on his face in the quiet surroundings. He stroked his stubbled chin and tried to recall his estranged wife’s face. Montana seemed very far away as he dug the cigarettes from his parka and lit one with a Zippo lighter. He knew that Pope could not have been watching via satellite due to the cloud cover, but that was a moot point. Gil was on his own for these off-the-books missions, which meant no overwatch.
Still, he told himself, you never knew what Pope was up to.
As the Blickensderfer party skied off down the mountain, Gil finished the cigarette, knowing he’d see them around the lodge again that night. “Fare thee well,” he muttered, thinking of the pretty woman who had no idea that a hot .308 had passed within two inches of her spine at the base of her skull. “And enjoy yourself tonight, Sabastian. I won’t make the same mistake tomorrow.”
Tucking the cigarette butt into his pocket, he disassembled the rifle and packed it away before taking off his reversible parka and turning the red side out. Then he stripped the white pack cover from his red rucksack and skied off down the slope dressed as a begoggled member of the Malbun Ski Patrol.
4
Cletus Webb, deputy director of the CIA, stepped out of the restroom in the CIA building in Langley to find Mark Gurich, director of foreign operations, standing against the wall waiting for him. Webb glanced at the red file folder in the man’s hand. “I take it that’s for me?” he said, put off to be ambushed outside the john.
“I couldn’t find you,” Gurich said. “The proverbial shit just hit the fan down in Mexico. Alice Downly and Bill Louis were assassinated in what looks like a major cartel attack. Damn near her entire DSS team was wiped out. Our embassy’s on full lockdown — marines, machine guns, all the frills — and Mike Ortega, Mexico chief of station, is asking me for an Operational Immediate I don’t think I’ve got the authority to give him.”
A crease formed in Webb’s brow. “You’re telling me Downly’s dead?”
“That’s been confirmed by Mexico station.”
“What the hell happened?” Webb was tall, with a basketball player’s build, thinning blond hair, and contemplative blue eyes.
“Mexico station says it looks like she was killed by a sniper, but that hasn’t been confirmed.”
“You’re the director of foreign operations.” Webb grabbed the file. “What do you mean you don’t have the authority to give an Operational Immediate? What the hell is Ortega asking for, a drone strike?”
“Not exactly.” Gurich, a foot shorter than Webb, had darker features, brown eyes, and a prep school haircut.
Webb spent the next couple of minutes standing there in the hall outside the restroom, reading.
“As far as I know,” Gurich remarked, “nobody’s done anything like this since the Cold War, and I didn’t think I’d better give it the green light without first getting your approval.”
Webb did not look up from the file. “Have you spoken with DSS?”
“Not yet.”
“So Agent Vaught’s people don’t know whether he’s alive or dead?”
“Correct.”
Webb finished reading the five-page affidavit and handed the folder back to Gurich. “Give it to Fields.”
Gurich’s eyebrows went up. “Isn’t this a little public for him?”
“Give it to Fields,” Webb repeated. “This Vaught character went off the reservation when he damn well knew better. He’s lucky he’s alive, especially since virtually everyone he was responsible for is dead. Give it to Fields. I’ll clear it with Director Pope.”
“What do I tell Mexico station? The DSS?”
“You tell Ortega to remain poised to assist whatever assets Fields puts into play, and you tell DSS that Agent Vaught is now under the aegis of the CIA in accordance with recent amendments to the Foreign Service Act. I’ll brief them personally after I’ve spoken with Pope. As long as we’re keeping DSS in the loop, they’re not going to raise any hell over it. Vaught’s little cowboy stunt in the face of his failure to protect Alice Downly isn’t exactly going to endear him to the director general of the US Foreign Service.”
Like most agents with the Diplomatic Security Service, Agent Vaught was also a member of the Foreign Service, which in turn fell under the protective wing of the US State Department. This meant that Vaught was both a federal law enforcement agent and an arbiter of US Foreign Policy, and for an arbiter of US Foreign Policy to go chasing bad guys through the streets of a foreign capital — beyond the legal scope of his diplomatic duties — was a real good way to embarrass both the US Foreign Service and the US State Department.
“So I take it to Fields, and then what?”
“Tell him I said the ball’s in his court. He’ll handle it from there.”
Three minutes later, Gurich stepped into the office of Clemson Fields. There was no name or title on the door.