“Tim, did you hear what I just told you? Killing Shannon doesn’t solve our problems anymore. There’s going to be a federal investigation. We’re burned!”
“Stop saying that!” Hagen flared. “We can handle a goddamn investigation. The evidence against us is practically nonexistent. All we have to do is keep Grieves from opening his fat mouth!”
Peterson sighed at other the end of the line. “And how do you propose we accomplish that? You got photos of him shagging a hooker too?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m talking about something a hell of a lot more certain than blackmail. And with Grieves out of the way, the only one left to worry about is Shannon.”
“Christ Almighty. What is your obsession with that guy?”
Hagen stood up from the bed, his rage finally boiling over. “He’s Pope’s right-hand man, you pompous ass! And Pope destroyed everything I worked ten years to achieve! I was run out of the White House in disgrace because of him! That’s my fucking obsession, Ken!”
Peterson was incredulous. “So that’s what this was all about? You blew our entire operation over a personal vendetta? You stupid, stupid son of a bitch. No. I’m the stupid son of a bitch. I should’ve known you didn’t give a shit about protecting the country. You’ve never given a shit about anyone but yourself.”
Hagen smirked. “Like the country ever gave a shit about you? Wake up, Ken. It’s a zero-sum game. Whoever’s got the most at the end wins, and I don’t plan on walking away from the table anytime soon.”
“At the end of what, Tim?”
“Life!” Hagen slammed the phone down in the cradle. He had one card left up his sleeve, and it was time to play it.
42
Gil stood in the street in front of the brothel, watching the end of the alley. The fog had settled in. There were two cars and an unknown number of men blocking the alley at fifty yards.
“We didn’t clear out fast enough.”
The women were crammed into a small van in the parking lot, all of them more than a little anxious to leave.
Dragunov grunted. “You thought this would be easy?”
“The only easy day was yesterday. Any suggestions?”
Dragunov looked at the rooftops, scanning to the end of the alley. The buildings were built wall to wall. “There’s a Kalashnikov inside. I can go over the rooftops and hit them from above.”
“How many rounds for the rifle?”
“One magazine.”
“Thirty rounds goes fast once you start taking return fire.” Gil glanced around for another option, but there wasn’t one. “How fast will the police respond, do you think?”
Dragunov shrugged. “That depends on their relationship with these people. Vlad said they were protected, so if they do come, it won’t be to help us.”
Gil got on his sat phone to Langley, giving Midori their location and asking for satellite surveillance. “What I need is an exact head count on how many men are blocking our escape.”
“I’m sorry, Gil, but I don’t have a satellite over your location. The satellite we used for the Sicily op has already been retasked.”
“Can’t you free it up?”
“Not in time to help you with your situation. Also, I just got off the line with Pope. He said you may have to find another way out of Turkey. The president is considering using assets to delay any flight you board with those girls — citing engine trouble. They’re worried a rescue of this nature could cause political trouble with Putin.”
“Shit,” Gil swore. “Again with Putin.”
“So far, grounding the flight is still just an option,” Midori clarified. “Apparently Couture supports letting you proceed. He’s the one who warned Pope.”
“Well, I’ll have to count on Couture, because there ain’t no other way outta here with these girls. Make sure Pope understands that.”
“He does.”
“Okay. Typhoon out.” Gil tucked away the phone. “We’re on our own, Ivan, so be fast up there.”
“What did she say about Putin?”
“The White House is afraid of pissing off the Kremlin.”
“This is a stupid idea,” Dragunov said with a sigh. “I should have shot you.”
“There’s still time to do that,” Gil said with a grin.
Dragunov glanced at the desperate female faces peering back at him through the van’s fogged-up windows. “Get ready to fight.”
“Roger that. I’ll move the second you open up.”
Dragunov went back inside the brothel, and a couple of minutes later, he signaled Gil from the roof. He made his way over four rooftops with the AK-47 until he reached the street, peering over the edge of the roof to see six men waiting below in the fog. The streetlights along the block were burnt out, and visibility was dim. He listened to them talking and realized they were confused about what exactly had taken place in the brothel. One of Vlad’s men had apparently gotten a call off, but he hadn’t lived long enough to give much in the way of details. They were concerned about walking into an ambush, and one of them kept calling someone on the phone but got no answer. Dragunov guessed he was calling Vlad, who was already dead with a bullet between the eyes. One of the men had a machine gun slung over his shoulder, but the others seemed to be carrying nothing more than pistols beneath their jackets. Dragunov switched the select-fire lever to single shot and sighted on the chest of the man with the MP5.
The report of the rifle was like a cannon blast, shattering the foggy silence. The man with the machine gun was thrown to the ground with his heart exploded in his chest, and Dragunov dropped two more men within a couple of seconds as the other three pulled their pistols and began firing at the rooftop.
With Dragunov’s first shot, Gil had bolted up the alley. He covered half the distance and ducked into a doorway, opening up with the M9 and dropping one man who had taken cover on his side of the roadblock.
The last two Russians poured fire in Gil’s direction, driving him behind the cover of the doorway, but Dragunov shot them both down from above.
“Clear!” he shouted.
Gil dashed toward the roadblock to drag the bodies into the shadows as Dragunov ran back to the brothel. Within three minutes, Gil had both cars moved out of the way, and Dragunov pulled up with the van.
On the way to the airport, Gil threw his pistol out the window into a vacant lot. With only a few rounds left in the magazine, there was no point to risk getting caught with it. He took the passports from his pocket and began passing them out, telling Katarina to make sure they didn’t lose them.
Many of the young women kissed their passports, clutching them to their breasts with tears streaming down their faces.
“In your coat pockets!” Gil said, pantomiming, and they quickly tucked them away.
They arrived at the airport without incident, parking in the parking deck. Dragunov killed the motor and turned around in the seat, admonishing the girls in Russian to remain calm and to act natural no matter what happened inside the airport.
“Our passports haven’t been stamped at the port of entry, so there are going to be questions,” he explained. “If we can’t bribe our way onto the plane, we’ll have to involve the Russian Embassy, and that will mean a very long night. So let me do the talking. Understood?”
The women nodded in earnest, and Dragunov looked at Gil. “We could take them to the embassy and drop them off. I can call Federov and arrange for another—”
Katarina began to protest, and he whipped his head around. “What did I tell you?”