“What are you talking about? You can’t go to Moscow. You don’t have—”
Gil held up his Russian passport. “I’m flying home to Mother Russia, and not even Putin can stop me.”
40
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Couture hung up the phone and looked across the room at White House Chief of Staff Glen Brooks. “You’d better get the old man, Glen. The shit is about to hit the fan in Eastern Europe.”
Brooks put down the report he was reading. “They hit the pipeline?”
Couture shook his head. “That was Pope. Shannon just knocked over a Russian whorehouse in Istanbul. Now he’s getting ready to fly eighteen female abductees home to Moscow.”
Brooks gaped at him. “He can’t do that.”
“Wanna bet? He’s a got a Russian passport and three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of Turkish lira. He can do just about anything he wants at this point.”
“No, I mean he can’t do that,” Brooks said, getting up. “He’s on a mission. He’s got orders.”
Couture stared across the room with his hands on his hips. “Where the hell have you been the past eighteen months?”
“But—”
“But hell,” Couture said, stepping forward. “Didn’t you read the file I sent over on Operation Tiger Claw?”
“I skimmed it.”
“Did you skim the part where Shannon brought a pregnant Iranian back from Iran — a pregnant Iranian he’d been ordered to kill by that idiot Lerher?”
“I didn’t catch that part, no.”
Couture dry-wiped his mouth. “If we don’t play this right, it’s going to rain dung. President Putin is one suspicious son of a bitch, and it’s all too possible he’ll think we staged this as a stunt to make him look like a fool. Not to mention that Shannon’s head is packed with intel we don’t really need the Russians to have.”
Brooks stepped around the table. “I’ll get the president.”
“Hold on a second. Let’s make sure we’re on the same page.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, what are we going to advise?”
Brooks looked at his watch. “How soon does Shannon land?”
“Pope doesn’t know, but they’re not even in the air yet, so we’ve got time. Shannon still has to get them to the airport and buy the tickets. He called Pope so State would have time to contact Moscow before their arrival.”
“Why the hell is he flying with them? Why doesn’t he just put them on the plane?”
“Because the Russian mob is going to be hot on his ass.”
“And his solution to that is flying to Russia, for Christ’s sake?”
“All he’s got is a Russian passport.”
Brooks let out a sigh, and they each grabbed a chair.
“Okay,” Brooks said. “So we check the scheduled flights out of Istanbul. That will give us some idea of the time frame we’re working with. From there we can judge how soon to contact Moscow.”
Couture nodded and picked up the phone, directing his aide to print off a list of flights leaving Istanbul for Moscow over the next twenty-four hours.
“What about the Spetsnaz guy?” Brooks said. “Is Dragunov dead, or what?”
“Pope didn’t mention him. What we need to figure out right now is how to advise the president before he gets on the horn to Putin.”
Brooks sat thinking. “What about grounding the flight? We have people in Istanbul who can make that happen, right?”
“You mean maroon them there?”
“Sure,” Brooks said. “Why not? Look, Shannon exceeded mission parameters — something he’s apparently done before — so he’ll have only himself to blame. Once he realizes we’re not letting him out of Turkey with those women, he’ll have to abandon them and get his ass back on track with the mission he was sent in there to carry out. He’s a resourceful man. I’m sure he’ll find his way to Georgia without the Russian mob catching up to him.”
“And the women?”
Brooks shrugged. “They’re prostitutes.”
“I told you they were abducted,” Couture said. “They’re victims of the slave trade.”
“Not our responsibility, Bill. Hell, their own government doesn’t even care about them. Why should we risk straining our relations with Moscow over a few Russian runaways? We’re already in enough of a tussle with Putin over the mess in Ukraine.”
Brooks saw the strained look on Couture’s face. “Look, it’s heartless. I know that. But what we’re talking about here is an American CIA agent flying into Moscow on a Russian passport with eighteen Russian prostitutes. Come on, Bill! We can’t allow that to happen if it’s within our means to stop it. We just can’t. What you said about Putin is exactly right. He’ll think we did it to make him look stupid. Hell, he’d be stupid not to think so.”
Couture was silent for a long moment. “Is that how you’re going to advise the president?”
Brooks nodded. “That’s where I come out, yeah. What about you?”
The general got up from his chair. “I respect you sticking to your guns, Glen, but I’m going to advise we allow the State Department to do their job.”
“Fair enough,” Brooks said, getting to his feet. “Now, let me go and pull him away from the first lady.”
Couture chuckled. “You deserve hazard pay for that.”
“So far she and I get along pretty well.”
When the door closed, Couture reached for the phone again. “Bob, it’s Bill. Listen, you’d better advise Typhoon he might have to find alternate transport for himself and his cargo. I don’t know for sure yet, but the president may elect to ground the flight.”
41
The phone rang on the nightstand beside the bed, and Tim Hagen stepped into the bedroom to answer it. “Hello?”
“Are you alone?” asked Ken Peterson.
Hagen glanced across the hotel suite at his two Mexican bodyguards, who sat watching a soccer game on television. “Hold on a second.” He went to close the door and then returned to the phone. “Okay, what is it?”
“The FBI busted Grieves’s informant inside the White House — we’re all burned. To make matters worse, Shannon got out of Sicily, and Pope’s been given Secret Service protection. I’m calling to warn you because we go back a long time, but I’m striking camp and bugging out.”
Hagen sat down on the bed, weak in the legs. “Bugging out to where?”
“Never mind that. You need to think about where you’re going.”
“But there’s no proof we’ve done anything.”
“There will be,” Peterson said. “The Frenchman is talking, so it’s only a matter of time before the good senator from New York is forced to give us up for accessing the CIA mainframe.”
“What mainframe?” Hagen knew Peterson was shrewd enough to have already turned state’s evidence and that the FBI might be listening in on the call.
Peterson chuckled sardonically. “Tim, don’t get paranoid. Nobody’s listening. I haven’t gone to the Feds. The writing’s been on the wall for a long time now, so believe me, I’ve prepared for this eventuality. With men like Pope and Webb running the CIA, the US is screwed. How long do you think it’ll be before those two clowns let another nuke into the country? I did what I did to try and save the agency, but I failed. So it’s time to fall on my sword or run like hell, and I’m not the type to fall on my sword.”
Hagen sat with his head in his hand, having hardly heard a word. “It should’ve been the simplest thing,” he muttered to himself, unable to believe that Shannon was still alive, with so many others dead. “He’s only one man, for God’s sake. There has to be a way to stop him!”