“Well, that’s why God made radar.” He stood up and went to the satellite phone on the console. “Get ready to weigh anchor, Ivan.”
Dragunov went to the window, easily making out the wake of the P21, but the patrol boat itself was scarcely more than a silhouette. “Can you pilot this thing?”
“Sorta,” Gil said, punching numbers into the phone. “We’ll need a little help.”
A few seconds later, Pope was on the line. “Bob, we’ve taken the Palinouros. The entire crew’s dead. The skipper was Paul Miller, an ex-CIA man with the Thailand office. I need you to patch me through to a yacht in Auckland called Frieda’s Joy. I’ll explain what’s going on while you work your magic.”
“Stand by,” Pope said. “I’ll put Midori to work while you bring me up to speed.”
Within eight minutes, Gil had Pope completely updated, and the satellite phone was ringing aboard Frieda’s Joy in Auckland, New Zealand.
“This is the Frieda’s Joy,” answered a female voice with an Australian accent. “First Mate Dana Keener speaking.”
“Keener, my name is Master Chief Gil Shannon. I need to speak with Wild Bill ASAP.” Wild Bill Watkins was a retired Navy SEAL from the West Coast teams who now captained a yacht similar to the Palinouros for an Australian millionaire.
“I’m sorry, Master Chief, but Captain Watkins is ashore at this time. May I be of assistance?”
“I sure hope so. Listen, Keener, I’m stuck in the Med aboard an anchored Lürssen Kismet with her engines at dead stop. I’m only semi familiar with the controls, and I need to get her under way fast. All I got for crew is a grumpy Russian, so if you could keep your instructions simple-stupid, I’d appreciate it.”
First Mate Keener chuckled. “I’ll try and keep it fairly dinkum for you,” she said, her lilting voice sounding suddenly sexy. “Where in the Med are you, Master Chief?”
“North coast of Malta.”
“So you’ve got slightly rocky bottom.”
“Yeah, I believe so.”
“And I assume she’s fallen off with the current?”
“Yes, ma’am. To the north.”
“Then you’ll need to ease off the cables before you weigh anchor. Are you at the con?”
“Roger that,” Gil said. “And the computers are all up. I just need to start the engines and get this tub turned around.”
With Keener’s help, it took Gil and Dragunov fifteen minutes to get the Palinouros under way and headed north in pursuit of the P21 at her normal cruising speed of twelve knots. Anything faster might have looked suspicious on Maltese military radar. Keener helped them figure out which blip on their own radar was the P21, and judging from the heading, Kovalenko and his men were heading directly for Sicily. Keener remained on the line in case they needed further assistance conning the vessel.
9
Tim Hagen, sitting in the lounge of a third-rate hotel, gaped across a roughly hewn table at Ken Peterson, whose jolly demeanor was starting to annoy the shit out of him.
“So who the fuck sent this Lerher guy in there?” Hagen wanted to know. “I mean, whose bright fucking idea was it to send someone that Shannon knew, for fuck’s sake, you fucking imp?”
Peterson looked at him, wishing he could leave Hagen to the wolves, but the pen was a long arm from the grave, and there was no telling what Hagen had left with his attorneys. “They were never supposed to come into contact,” he said. “The French authorities were supposed to grab him without the meeting ever being affected. It’s like I told you, there are too many variables to contend with in operations of this sort.”
“You’re not answering my fucking question!” Hagen flared, his face red. “Why Lerher?”
Peterson’s patience suddenly evaporated. “This was a shadow op, you overeducated moron, and there aren’t a lot of men qualified for that kind of job! Lerher had worked with Shannon in the past, so he was the logical choice! Now stop casting aspersions — you don’t even know what the hell happened yet!”
“I know that Shannon is coming after my ass!” The fear was visible in Hagen’s eyes. “And when that crazy bastard gets going, he doesn’t stop until there’s nobody left standing!”
Peterson made a face. “How can you possibly know that?”
“I’ve seen his fucking handiwork!”
“No,” Peterson said, his patience returning as suddenly as it had gone. “I mean, how can you know he’s coming after you?”
“That maniac Pope!” Hagen picked up his drink, taking a gulp.
Peterson suppressed a smile. “Pope contacted you? Here in Mexico?”
Hagen set down the glass hard. “Well, I sure as hell didn’t call him, Ken!”
“And he told you that Shannon was coming after you?”
“In so many fucking words, yes!”
Peterson began to chortle. “And that’s why you’re hiding here in this shitty hotel?”
“What’s so fucking funny about that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Peterson said with a shrug. “Maybe I can’t believe you’re that damn stupid.”
Hagen’s face clouded over.
“Think about it, Tim.” Peterson signaled the barman for another beer. “If you’re Pope, and you’ve just discovered your entire operation has been compromised by persons unknown, what are you going to do?”
Hagen increased his grip on the glass. “Why don’t you spare me the pop quiz and tell me what the fuck you’re talking about?”
“I’m saying Pope couldn’t possibly have known you were involved. He probably suspected, sure. It’s no secret you hate him — but so do five hundred other people in DC. He called to see if you’d panic. And you did. Now he’s waiting to see if you’ll do something else stupid. Hopefully, you didn’t just compromise me.”
Hagen dared to believe he might actually survive. “Is Shannon still in France?”
Peterson shook his head. “No, he got out — the Russians helped him — but you can believe that Tim Hagen is the last thing on his long list of shit to do. Pope’s gonna run him all over Eastern Europe trying to figure what the hell is going on.” He chuckled. “And you can bet the old bastard’s up there in Langley laughing his ass off, knowing he’s got you down here scared shitless.”
“How soon can you verify Shannon’s location?”
Peterson brushed a small cockroach off the table. “He’ll be almost impossible to track in real time. The best we can do is watch for anomalies within the theater.”
“What kinds of anomalies?”
“Unexplained chaos. If one of our people — or one of the GRU’s people — gets killed, it’ll be a safe bet Shannon was there. In the meantime, I suggest you get yourself checked into a better hotel. You’re more likely to get killed by a hooker in this city than you are by Gil Shannon.”
“Have you heard from our friends in the GRU since the Paris meeting fell apart?”
Peterson noticed that Hagen was in no way acknowledging that it was his backwater op that had caused things to go wrong in Paris. “Our people in Rome tell us that Kovalenko went to Malta to eliminate the crew of the Palinouros. We’re still waiting to hear how it went.”
Hagen gulped the remainder of his drink. “Let’s hope he took out Captain Miller while he was there. We sure as hell don’t need that fucking pedophile coming back to bite us in the ass.”