15
Hagen met with Peterson in the restaurant El Cardenal on the south side of Mexico City in a zone densely populated with hotels and restaurants. It was a quiet place with good food. “So what’s going on?” Hagen asked, spreading the linen napkin in his lap. “What couldn’t we talk about over the phone?”
“We have an anomaly,” Peterson said, opening the wine list. “A number of them, actually. Eight Maltese sailors were killed last night by machine-gun fire, and their patrol boat is still missing. Also, the Palinouros was found anchored off the coast of Sicily with her entire crew murdered.”
“Miller?” Hagen asked.
“Dead,” Peterson said, scanning the wine list. “Shot right between the eyes — or so I’m told.”
“Who killed the Maltese sailors?”
Peterson looked up. “Shannon. Who the hell else?”
“It might have been Kovalenko if he was—”
“Kovalenko doesn’t exist,” Peterson said. “There is no Kovalenko. Only Gil Shannon — murderer. Get it?”
Nettled, Hagen spoke through gritted teeth. “Who the fuck killed the Maltese sailors?”
“Quick answer is, we don’t know,” Peterson said. “But it gets pinned on Shannon. I’ve already put the word out to the right people in Malta, and they’re moving on Sicily.”
“Well, my first guess for the Maltese sailors wouldn’t be Shannon,” Hagen said. “So you’d better tell your people not to waste too much time on that lead.”
“Why not?”
Hagen sucked on a shrimp cocktail. “Because Shannon’s a fucking idealist, Ken. He doesn’t like to kill people who don’t have it coming. I’d tell you to ask your buddy Lerher about that, but, then, Lerher’s already dead, isn’t he?” He closed the menu and nudged it aside. “You’d better find a way to kill him, and soon. I’m telling you!”
Peterson reached for a tortilla chip. “You’re the one who insisted on fucking the guy.”
Hagen’s temper flared. “And you’re the one who said it could be done, no problem!”
“Lower your voice,” Peterson warned, cutting him a glance as the waitress approached.
They ordered their food and drinks and sat in strained silence until the other patrons were entirely refocused on their own tables.
“So what about Pope?” Hagen asked, smoothing the table cloth.
“The contract has been accepted. He’ll be dead within thirty-six hours.”
“Oh, really? And suppose he never comes out of that damn cave of his?”
“He’s coming out tomorrow.” Peterson wanted to punch Hagen in the face. “There’s a meeting scheduled with the president for the afternoon. He’ll be exposed all the way from Langley to DC and back.”
“It’s not exactly going to look like an accident, is it?”
Peterson shook his head. “This isn’t TV, Tim. It’s war.”
“I’m glad you realize that.” Hagen took a drink of water. “By the way, I need a security detail. Do you have one you can supply me with?”
Peterson gaped at him.
“What’s that look?”
“You can hire your own team — locally.”
“You mean Mexicans?”
“No, Chinese!”
“You’re the Central America chief of station,” Hagen said. “You’re telling me you don’t have a detail you can spare?”
Peterson made an effort to keep his own voice down. “Any detail I could spare would be made up of indigenous personneclass="underline" Mexicans. And the allocation could draw attention from within the agency — which we don’t need — so hire your own team. There are plenty of private firms here in the city.”
Hagen’s lips puckered, and he looked almost as though he were pouting.
Now it was Peterson’s turn to smirk. “Jesus, it’s the money, isn’t it? All those millions, and you’re too cheap to pay for your own goddamn security.”
Hagen sat back so the waitress could pour their wine. “Find me a firm that isn’t going to cost me an arm and a leg. I don’t think that should be too difficult, considering where we are.”
Peterson waited for the young woman to leave the table. “Remember, tight-ass, you get what you pay for.”
Hagen took umbrage. “It should occur to you that I have money because I know how to manage it.”
“You have money because your father left it to you,” Peterson retorted. “Speaking of which, you’re picking up the tab for this meal. I flew down from Monterrey at my own expense.” This was, of course, untrue, but Peterson had learned to enjoy the small victories in his dealings with Tim Hagen.
16
Gil stood with his hands on the hood of the shot-up Fiat while Dragunov explained to the Sicilian police sergeant in very broken English that he and Gil were simple Russian tourists. He said they didn’t know who had shot at them or why. The sergeant then asked him if he knew anything about a yacht anchored off the southern coast, and Dragunov pretended not to understand the word yacht.
“Boat!” the cop said, pointing south. “A rich man’s boat. Do you know about it?”
“No, we arrive by car.” Dragunov pointed back toward the ferry.
The cop rolled his eyes, growing impatient with the man he believed to be avoiding his questions.
Gil couldn’t see the second cop standing right behind him, his hand on Gil’s shoulder, but he could tell by the look on the sergeant’s face that he and Dragunov were only seconds from being placed under arrest. He adjusted his hips slightly in preparation for the spin move he would use to take the cop off his feet when he reached for Gil’s wrist to cuff him.
A hundred yards off, a white van pulled to the side of the road. The side door slid open, and a man appeared with a scoped rifle. Though Gil couldn’t make out the weapon at that range, it was a Heckler & Koch G28 in 7.62 mm.
“Ivan, get down!”
Gil ducked behind the car as the cop grabbed for his wrist. There was no report from the suppressed rifle, but the cop flew backward, hit in the chest by an armor-piercing round that easily defeated his thin body armor and exploded his heart before ripping out through his back.
With the speed of a striking cobra, Dragunov hit the sergeant in the throat and dove for cover. The cop stumbled backward, and he too was struck in the chest by a bullet. He crashed to his knees and fell over onto his face. Dragunov grabbed for his sidearm, but a round took off the ring finger on his left hand, and he jerked back behind the car, swearing foully.
It took the pedestrians in the vicinity a few seconds to realize what was happening, but once they did, they ran off up the street. Bullets tore into the car — deadly missiles that made no sound at all until they struck the steel and tore clean through. Gil crawled beneath the car in an effort to retrieve their pistols.
“I can only reach one!”
“They’re coming!” Dragunov shouted as the van pulled back into the street, speeding toward them.
Gil slid from the beneath the car and tossed the Russian the pistol, jumping up and running for the police car.
Dragunov got to his feet and fired at the windshield of the oncoming van, but the pistol ran dry after four shots, and he again turned for the dead sergeant’s sidearm.
Gil jerked open the passenger door of the police car and opened the glove box, popping the deck lid and scrambling for the trunk, where he found an H&K MP5 submachine gun. He primed the receiver and shouldered the weapon, running out into the street.
Seeing he was about to be machine-gunned, the driver cut the wheel hard to the left, exposing the door gunner on the right side, who was forced to grab the handhold to keep from being thrown from the vehicle. Gil fired on the run, cutting the door gunner to pieces with a sustained thirty-round burst. The van hit a road sign, bounced to a stop, and stalled. Gil dropped the machine gun and leapt aboard through the open door.