Hagen recognized the man as Antonio Castañeda. “What are you going to do me?”
“Nothing,” Castañeda said, sipping from a glass of tequila. “It was only my job to get you here. My associate Mariana is going to come over and ask you some questions now. I expect they’ll be rather pointed questions, and I expect you to answer them to the very best of your ability. Is that understood, señor?”
Hagen nodded, remembering from somewhere in his foggy memory banks that Castañeda was known for toying with his victims before he killed them. “I understand.”
“Good.” Castañeda looked across the patio and made a come-here gesture with his hand.
Agent Mariana Mederos appeared, and Castañeda got up to give her his chair. “The gentleman is all yours, hermosa.”
“Thank you,” Mariana said dryly.
Hagen looked at her. “Who are you?”
“I’m with the CIA,” she said. “That’s really all that matters. I have some questions for you to answer.”
“And then what?” Hagen said. “I get a bullet in the head?”
“Mr. Hagen, I wasn’t sent here to kill you. I’m not an assassin. It’s my guess you’ll eventually end up back in the US, where you’ll be prosecuted for treason.”
“You can’t use this interrogation as evidence against—” He chuckled sardonically. “It doesn’t matter. Pope sent you.”
Mariana took her sunglasses from the top of her head and put them on. “I need the names of everyone involved in the attempt to take over the CIA, as well as those who had any hand in exposing the Paris operation.”
Hagen cast a glance across the patio, where Castañeda sat talking with an American man he recognized vaguely. His two former nurses were sunbathing naked on the far side of the pool.
“And if I refuse to give you the names?”
Mariana frowned. “I thought Señor Castañeda already covered that with you.”
Hagen looked down at the water. “He didn’t go into specifics… but that doesn’t matter, either. The names you want are Ken Peterson, Senator Steve Grieves, Ben Walton, Max Steiner, and Paul Miller. Steiner and Miller are already dead, but Pope knows that.” He looked at her inquisitively. “Do you even know why the Green Beret is here with you?”
She ignored the question, thinking the Thorazine must still be tweaking his thoughts.
“Who sent Jason Ryder to kill Pope?”
“Ryder worked for Peterson.”
“How much of the plot does Grieves have personal knowledge of?”
“You’d have to ask Peterson about that. Grieves and I never spoke of it. There was no need. Our personal business was strictly political.”
Mariana questioned him for a couple more minutes. Then she stood up and walked back across the patio.
Daniel Crosswhite stood up from where he’d been talking with Castañeda. “Got everything you need?”
“Yeah. He’s confirmed our intel.” Crosswhite walked off, and she turned to Castañeda. “Your help in this matter has been valuable. Thank you. I expect someone to be in touch soon with instructions on where to deliver him.”
Castañeda smiled at her. “Can I get you something to drink, Mariana?”
“No, thank you,” she said, glancing across the patio, where Crosswhite was crouched in front of Hagen’s wheelchair. “What’s he doing?”
“I believe he’s carrying out the rest of Señor Pope’s instructions.”
“What? He doesn’t have any instructions from—”
Crosswhite looked into Hagen’s eyes. “You tried to kill my best friend, you fuckin’ cocksucker.”
Hagen stared back at him, smirking. “There’s no need to make this personal, is there, Danny?”
“The fuck there isn’t,” Crosswhite said. “If you had time, I’d tell you a story about a young girl who got her throat cut.”
Hagen shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Who hired Ryder?”
“I already told Pope’s bitch.” Hagen saw Mariana coming back in their direction. “Why don’t you just get it over with?”
Crosswhite reached out to flip the break levers on the wheelchair. “Adios, puto.”
“Don’t!” Mariana shouted.
Crosswhite stepped behind the wheelchair and pushed it over the edge at the deep end of the pool. There was a mild splash, and Hagen went straight to the bottom.
Mariana froze in place, utterly aghast. “What the fuck do you call that?”
“Swimming lesson.” Crosswhite looked into the water at Hagen’s shimmering image twelve feet down. “Doesn’t look like he’s doin’ too good, does it?”
48
Gil was now dressed in a suit and tie with a black leather overcoat that fit him perfectly. He had spent the past couple hours on a private tour of the Kremlin with Colonel Savcenko, and they now stood outside admiring the giant bronze Tsar Cannon on display near the Dormition Cathedral. Cast in 1586 as a defensive weapon for the Kremlin, “Russia’s Shotgun” was an 890 mm bombard that weighed thirty-nine tons — nine tons more than a Sherman tank.
“Hell of gun,” Gil said. “Has it ever been fired?”
“Not in battle. Though there is evidence inside the bore that it has been fired at least once.”
A contingent of five men rounded the corner of the cathedral and began walking in their direction. Gil recognized President Putin immediately.
“The president does speak English,” Savcenko said, “so you can speak directly to him, but he will probably choose to speak to you through me.”
“I understand.” Gil girded himself for what he expected to be a weighty interview.
President Putin approached appearing quite serious, though not entirely unfriendly. His pale blue eyes were almost lifeless, but his face conveyed a certain calm, and Gil sensed no immediate danger.
“Master Chief Shannon,” Putin said in his gentle voice, offering his hand with a kind, though not overly cheerful, smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. President.” Gil matched his grip, which was firm and confident but in no way aggressive or challenging. “Colonel Savcenko has been giving me a tour. This is a fascinating place, sir.”
Putin nodded, holding Gil’s gaze. “The Kremlin has a rich history.”
“I’ve begun to see that for myself, sir.”
“Are you hungry?”
Gil could sense Savcenko’s mild discomfiture at being left out of the loop, and he realized that Putin must be breaking with the norm by speaking in English. He took that as a favorable wind. “Yes, I am, sir.”
“This way,” Putin said with a wave of his hand. He said something to Savcenko in Russian, and the colonel began interpreting for Gil as they walked along. “You and Major Dragunov have been on an adventure.”
“We have, sir. Major Dragunov is a brave man, a fine soldier. I’m proud to have worked with him. Unfortunately, Sasha Kovalenko is a brave man as well, and he got away.”
“What will your superiors say when you return?” Putin asked pointedly. “About deviating from the mission?”
Gil decided to gamble on the favorable wind. “I’ll probably get my ass chewed, Mr. President.”
Upon hearing the translation, Putin paused midstride to look at Gil, almost cracking a smile, though not quite.
Gil kept a military bearing. “I’m not exactly sure how that translates into Russian, sir.”
Putin chuckled, in spite of himself, and Gil saw they were going to get along.
A short time later, they were served in an ornate dining room in the Kremlin Palace, just the two of them, with the translator off to the side and Putin’s security men standing at parade rest at four points around the room.