The marine chuckled, patting him on the shoulder. “Just hang in there, sir. Help’s almost here.”
20
Flanked by a pair of Secret Service agents, the president of the United States stepped into Bob Pope’s hospital room to see Daniel Crosswhite standing beside Pope’s bed. The last time he’d seen Crosswhite had been at the White House two years earlier when he’d pinned the Medal of Honor to his chest. Gil Shannon had received the medal at that same ceremony.
Crosswhite stood up straight. “Mr. President.”
Pope turned his head. “Hey! Nice of you to stop by.” He was slightly loopy from the pain medication — though not as loopy as he intended to make out. “I got shot down over Macho Grande.”
The president smiled. “I was going to ask how you’re feeling, but that’s apparent.”
“Haven’t felt this good in years.” Pope chuckled, his blue eyes glassy from the morphine. “I’m hoping they’ll let me stay awhile.”
The president nodded, having been told by the doctors that Pope would probably be released in a week or so. He looked at Crosswhite. “Why am I not surprised to find you here, Captain?”
“I’m like a bad penny, Mr. President.”
Pope chuckled again. “He came by to see if I needed any nudie magazines.”
“That’s the morphine talking,” Crosswhite said.
“I understand,” the president replied, his expression turning serious. “Should I take it the young woman killed at your hotel this morning was not really killed by her pimp?”
Crosswhite exchanged glances with Pope, both of them surprised to learn the president was so up-to-date.
“Dan’s one of mine,” Pope said, suddenly lucid. “The girl was his cover, and she somehow gave herself away. I think a personal phone call from you to her aunt in San Diego will probably satisfy the family’s concerns.”
“I’ll handle it,” the president said reluctantly, signaling his Secret Service agents to wait in the hall. He closed the door after them and turned back toward the bed, his index finger poised peremptorily. “I don’t want any more blood on American soil. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” Pope said. “But this wasn’t our fault. Ryder was hired by someone inside the agency.”
“Who inside the agency?”
“Someone presently not on American soil,” Pope said. “Do you require the name?”
The president judiciously allowed the question to go unanswered. “The media already knows Ryder was an ex — Green Beret. That’s a possible problem.”
“Not really,” Pope said. “All the Pentagon has to do is let them know Ryder had a severe case of PTSD — which is documented. It’s also true he had a bone to pick with the Veterans Administration. For most Americans, that will be enough to convince them he was certifiably nuts.”
“Possibly,” the president said.
Pope reached for his hand, and the president awkwardly took it. “You can use this assassination attempt as an excuse to demand more funding for the VA.” Pope gave him a wink. “That will help the vets and draw attention away from the CIA — two birds with one stone.”
The president nodded, half liking the idea and looking at Crosswhite. “So what’s next for you?”
Crosswhite was still angry over Sarahi’s murder and greatly disappointed at not getting to kill Ryder himself. “I’m the tip of the spear, Mr. President. I go in whichever direction I’m thrust.”
The president pursed his lips, releasing Pope’s hand. “Robert, I’ll send someone to look in on you daily. And you’ll have Secret Service protection from now on.”
“Has my driver been taken care of?”
“I’ve spoken with him,” the president said. “He’s got a cracked sternum, but he’s fine otherwise. He suggested that I demote him for allowing you to be shot, but I told him not to be foolish. He credits you for saving both of your lives; says that Ryder would’ve had you both ‘broadside-to-a-barn-door’ if you hadn’t spoken up when you did. What tipped you off?”
Pope adjusted the oxygen hose beneath his nose. “Ryder had an accomplice on the far side of the intersection with his hand in the signal box… making sure the light was red instead of green. He was wearing street clothes, and it looked odd to me. I could just as easily have been wrong, though. The lieutenant deserves all the credit.”
“It’s partly my fault as well,” the president admitted. “I should have seen to it you were issued a sedan with bulletproof glass. Pure oversight on my part. Well, I’ll leave you men to it.” He shook their hands and left the room abruptly.
“So what now?” Crosswhite asked, relieved to have the president gone.
“Get to Mexico and find Peterson,” Pope said. “Check with Midori before you leave. She’ll have the latest intel.”
“And when I find his ass?”
Pope looked at him, his eyes still glassy. “What do you think?”
Crosswhite chewed the inside of his cheek. “And what about Hagen?”
“We’ll play Hagen by ear,” Pope said. “What the hell were you thinking bringing that poor girl into this?”
The question brought them back to the point where they’d left off when the president interrupted. Crosswhite still didn’t have the courage to admit that he’d been coked out of his mind when he first decided to bring Sarahi along.
“I was stupid,” he said. “There’s no other explanation. No excuse.”
“You’d better get your head screwed on straight,” Pope warned. “One more loose-cannon event from you, and you’re out of the ATRU. Is that clear?”
“It won’t happen again, sir. You’ve got my word.”
Then Pope chuckled, the morphine making it difficult to remain completely serious. “At least not until I require you to be a loose cannon. That is, after all, part of what makes you so damn useful.” He shook his head. “Poor girl, though. Hell of a way to die.”
Crosswhite grimaced, thinking to himself that only a fourteen-karat piece of shit would put a twenty-three-year-old girl into harm’s way like he had. “I want Walton and Steiner, too.”
“I’ll think about them,” Pope said. “For now, I want you completely focused on Peterson. You’ll have to be careful with him. He must have somebody in the White House feeding him intel — otherwise he could never have gotten Ryder into such a perfect position.”
21
Night had fallen. Gil and Dragunov were parked behind a crowded shopping mall on the outskirts of Palermo with the young Italian woman — a brunette named Claudina — still crammed between them. Dragunov had wanted to put her in the Nissan’s trunk, but Gil had vetoed the idea. Using Claudina’s cellular, Gil tried again to reach Pope but had been unable to establish a connection. Dragunov finally managed to contact Federov at the Russian Embassy in Paris, arranging for a GRU doctor from Rome to meet them the next morning.
Both men were in pain from their festering gunshot wounds, and Dragunov — who had never been shot before — was acting even more cantankerous than normal. Both of them were too bloody to risk going into a store for supplies.
“The doctor will bring a pair of satellite phones tomorrow,” he said, giving the phone back to Claudina, who had stopped crying hours earlier. She seemed to have figured out they weren’t going to hurt her and no longer gave the impression that she was terrified of them.
“Good thinking,” Gil said. “Do you think Kovalenko is still on the island?”
“He’s still here,” Dragunov growled. “I can smell him.”