“Stupid motherfucker!” he swore silently, crouching to touch the black bootlace that had been stretched across the crevasse as a trigger for the ad hoc booby trap.
“Throw out your weapons!” called a voice with a Chechen accent. “You’re cornered. There’s no escape.”
Gil took a quick glance around, seeing no immediate line of retreat.
“Come and get me!”
“It was you in Paris, yes?”
Gil made a closer examination of the walls. They were too smooth to climb and too far apart to brace himself between them and shinny out.
“You can forget climbing out!” Kovalenko called to him. “That was you in Paris, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. So the fuck what?”
“Who told you to look for us there?”
“Fuck you care?”
Kovalenko chuckled. “I lost a good friend that night. I want to know who else to kill.”
Gil thought that over, deciding, “What the fuck? I just might die in this fucking rat trap.”
“His name’s Tim Hagen. Cocksucker wants me dead — don’t ask me why.”
“I will remember his name,” Kovalenko replied. “Now throw out your weapons.”
“Eat me.”
“I promise to let you live.”
Gil didn’t even dignify that with a response.
“Listen, I don’t need to kill you to keep you from following me.”
“Fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I give you my word as a soldier to only shoot you in the knee. That’s a healthy compromise, no?”
Gil laughed.
“Listen to me!” Kovalenko insisted. “I no longer want to kill you. You’ve proven a worthy adversary — and I’ve proven myself the better man. Let us settle this like those who came before us. Yield to me, and you will live. I swear it.”
Gil shook his head, believing the Chechen actually meant what he said. “I’m not volunteering to be shot in the fucking knee.”
“In the elbow, then. I give you the choice.”
“You’re a generous sukin syn, I’ll give you that.”
It was the Chechen’s turn to laugh. “I like you, but soon my people will arrive. They will have grenades. Do you want that?”
“Bullshit,” Gil said. “We both know ain’t nobody comin’ except the police. I’ll take my chances with them.”
There was a long pause, and Gil moved to the back of the niche, watching for Kovalenko to appear above him.
Almost an entire minute passed before the Chechen spoke again. “You have night vision, yes?” There was a perceptible urgency in his tone that hadn’t been there before, and his voice was coming from a lower angle among the rocks.
“Why you wanna know?” Gil inched forward with the pistol ready to fire over the lip of the opening.
“Throw it out to me, and I’ll leave.”
“No. Get your own.”
This time there was no reply, and after five minutes of waiting Gil began to feel as though he were alone. “What the fuck’s goin’ on?” he muttered.
An animal growled above him, and he looked up to see a Doberman pincer. It snarled and showed its teeth. Then a second Doberman appeared, and both dogs started barking crazily, letting their handlers know exactly where they were.
“Sorry about this, guys.” Gil aimed the suppressed M11 upward and shot both dogs through the bottom of the jaw, killing them instantly.
He moved to the opening of the crevasse and stole a look around the corner, seeing Kovalenko running away down the dirt road to the south, already well out of pistol range.
A police car came jouncing through the curve to the north, its red and blue lights dancing off the rocks, and Gil watched on as Kovalenko turned around, dropped calmly to a prone position, and pulled the rifle into his shoulder.
The Chechen fired two shots in quick succession. The police car swerved off the road, and Kovalenko was back up and running a second later.
There was a lot of shouting now coming from above and behind Gil’s position, the handlers calling excitedly to their dogs.
Gil stepped out of the crevasse and slid down the face of a boulder.
“Halt!” a voice shouted from above as he scrambled toward the road.
Pistol shots rang out, and bullets ricocheted off the rocks at his feet as he darted across. A bullet zipped past his left ear, and he disappeared into the darkness.
Three more police cars came through the curve with searchlights cutting back and forth. One of lights locked onto Gil, and he sprinted for the sea. The cars slid to a stop as he was running into the water, and a burst of submachine-gun fire stitched the surface. A bullet pierced his right calf, and he dove into barely thigh-deep water, bashing his face against the rocky bottom and stroking wildly for the safety of the deep.
He swam until he thought his lungs would burst, daring to surface only at the last possible second, still only fifty yards from shore. Gil was marked almost instantly by the beam of a flashlight and driven back under by more machine-gun fire. He swam harder than he’d ever swum in his life until at last the bottom fell away, enabling him to dive deep enough to strip his shoes and clothing, racing to the surface for another precious gulp of air.
He swam northward, managing to leave the searchlights behind, stroking smoothly beneath the surface. Entirely in his element now, Gil made his way back to the SEAL team extraction point, where the two frogmen had been shot. It took five minutes of cautious searching, but he found the dead SEAL’s dive gear and slipped beneath the surface to put it on. Then he poked his head out of the water one last time, pulling on the full-face mask equipped with through-water communications and disappeared for good beneath the surface.
“Typhoon actual to Typhoon main. Do you copy my traffic? Over?”
Ten seconds later, he was answered by the Ohio: “Go ahead, actual. We copy.”
Now that he had swim fins, Gil was quickly leaving the shore behind him. “Main, be advised the target has escaped due to intervention of local law enforcement. I am now in the water and safely away. Break.”
“Go ahead, actual.”
“Can you lock out a second SDV team to help me locate the first vehicle? I was unable to retrieve the transponder unit, so I’m swimming blind. Over.”
“Roger that, actual. The team is gearing up. ETA at outer marker twenty-five minutes. Over.”
“Copy, main. I’ll be standing by out at the outer marker.”
38
Pope sat in his hospital bed talking on the phone with Vladimir Federov of the GRU.
“Dragunov is now safely aboard the submarine?” Federov asked.
“That’s right,” Pope said. “He lost a finger on Sicily, but other than that, he’s in pretty good shape. Our man is a bit more banged up. But they’ve both been tended to by the surgeon aboard the Ohio, and after thirty-six hours’ rest, we can put them ashore in Europe. All we need is for you to arrange the when and where.”
“What about Kovalenko?”
“That fish got away,” Pope said. “I understand your people attempted to take out Dokka Umarov yesterday? How did it go?”
Federov didn’t respond immediately.
“We overheard some radio traffic,” Pope volunteered.
“Well,” Federov said, “then you must already know how it went. Umarov wiped out an entire Spetsnaz team. Neither of us is doing very well, Robert.”
“These are still the early innings. Is Moscow giving you trouble?”
“My superiors are not patient men,” Federov said. “The French government has identified Yeshevsky and the other men that Shannon killed in Paris. Their Ministry of Foreign Affairs is giving our ambassador a difficult time.”