“Good. It should already be sighted in, then. If I get whacked, tell Pope I said to buy you a new one.”
“What the fuck?”
“Let’s go!” shouted the helo pilot. “We’re here too long! We gotta go!”
Gil jumped out, shouldering the pack. “How much food I got in this thing?”
“Three days’ rations,” Mason said. “You’re insane, you know that?”
“We gotta go!” the pilot shouted again, terrified of being caught on the ground by a Russian Hind.
Gil placed a bloody hand on Dragunov’s forehead. “I think Putin wants Kovalenko to get away. How about you?”
Dragunov smiled. “Watch yourself. I’m pretty sure he’s wearing a leshy suit.” A leshy was a mythical Russian beast capable of changing its shape to blend in with the forest.
Gil winked and stepped back from the helo with a wave to Mason, and the Puma lifted into the air. Within sixty seconds, he was all alone in the valley and running up through the rocks to retrieve Dragunov’s AN-94, along with his ammo and grenades.
68
“What the—!” Couture bit off the rest of what he was going to say, watching Gil climb up through the rocks toward Dragunov’s gear.
The president put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s completing the mission, Bill. I warned you he’d find a way to break it off in Putin before this was over.”
Couture was almost shaking with frustration. He’d thought the worst was behind them when the Killer Egg swept into the valley, but then everyone had shouted in panic when Gil was jumped in the trees. Then when the Puma finally set down, and infrared confirmed there were no more Chechens within two clicks, he had finally dared to believe it was over.
Now Gil was off and running again, with no definite mission profile, no timetable, and no planned extraction.
“What the hell do we tell the Russians?” Couture said, turning around.
“We tell them nothing more than is necessary,” the president said. “We’ll brief them on the status of Major Dragunov, but nothing more. Not a word about how he got out of Russia until I’ve had time to confer with Secretary Sapp.”
Then the president turned to Brooks and smiled. “You’re awfully quiet, Glen.”
Brooks sat back with a glass of water in his hand. “A minute ago, I thought we were clear.” He took a drink and set down the glass with a sigh. “Now I don’t know what to think.”
“At least the helos got in and out of Russian airspace undetected,” offered the air force chief of staff.
“The thinnest of silver linings,” muttered Couture, staring at the table. Then he laughed sardonically. “I don’t know why I’m so stressed. Shannon can’t hurt anyone but himself this time.”
“You’re stressed,” the president said, “because you like him. It’s impossible not to by this point. He’s the kid in class who gets away with anything, and we love him for it.” He stood up from the table. “I have to go. Glen and I have business at the White House. I’ll be drinking much earlier than usual today if you’ll care to join me, General.”
An aide de camp came into the room. “I have a private message for you, Mr. President.”
“Whisper it in my ear, son.”
The aide came forward and spoke softly into the president’s ear.
The president looked at him, eyes wide. “That’s confirmed?”
“Yes, sir.”
The president turned to the Joint Chiefs. “Senator Steve Grieves’s limo exploded near the Capitol Building half an hour ago. He’s dead — along with his secretary and driver.”
Couture looked at the aide. “Car bomb or something else?”
“That hasn’t been confirmed, sir, but it looks like a car bomb.”
“That’s a domestic hit!” blurted the Marine Corps chief of staff. “One of Pope’s people over at CIA must have done it.” It was no secret that he was not a fan of Pope or the CIA.
“I’d better not hear that remark made in public!” the president snapped. “Is that understood, General?”
The general shrank slightly under the president’s ire, aware that he’d spoken out of turn. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
“We’ve got enough goddamn trouble,” the president went on, “without wild accusations being thrown around.”
Couture glared at the marine general. “We’ll handle things here, Mr. President. Call me if you need anything.”
The president shook his hand. “Keep me posted, General.”
The second the president and Brooks were out of the room, Couture turned on the Marine Corps chief of staff. “What the hell were you thinking, Fred?”
The big bald marine tugged on his jacket. “I’m sorry, Bill. I know everyone around here seems to think Bob Pope is the best thing since shaved pussy these days, but I don’t trust the son of a bitch. I never have, and I never will. If you want my resignation, all you need to do is ask.”
Couture stared at him. “Your resignation isn’t mine to ask for, but you’re ordered to watch what you say about the CIA from now on. Understood?”
“Aye, General. It’s understood.”
69
Bob Pope had fallen asleep shortly after the helicopter flew off and left Gil behind. He opened his eyes a half hour later to see a barrel-chested doctor with close-cut gray hair standing at the foot of his bed, reading his chart. He glanced over and saw that the door to the room was closed. Then he studied the ID tag hooked to the doctor’s pocket. The name didn’t match the face on the tag. “Ben Walton, I presume?”
Walton looked up, taking a silenced Walther PPK pistol from inside his white doctor’s smock and tossing the chart onto the foot of the bed. “Where’s the key?” he asked in his deep voice.
Pope was immediately puzzled. “What key?”
“The key Shannon took from Miller aboard the Palinouros.”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Pope said. “Shannon hasn’t mentioned any key.”
“I searched Miller’s body myself, along with his cabin. Don’t play with me. Shannon has the fucking key.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Pope said, “but he hasn’t mentioned it to me.”
Walton held the pistol level. “Where is he?”
Pope pointed at the laptop sitting on the adjustable table angled across his bed. “That’s him moving through the woods.”
Walton stepped around to see the screen more clearly. “Where the hell is that?”
“Somewhere in the Caucasus.”
Walton cocked a suspicious eyebrow. “You mean he’s still chasing Kovalenko?”
Pope shrugged. “He’s a very willful boy. I thought you were headed for Cuba.”
“I know you did.” Walton smirked. “That’s why I’m here. Also, Senator Grieves needed to be dealt with.”
“You’ve already paid him a visit?”
“Yeah.” Walton gestured at the red telephone on the table beside the computer. “Nobody’s called you on the bat phone yet to tell you about it?”
Pope shook his head.
“Maybe it’s because they suspect you had something to do with it.”
“I’m sure somebody does.” Pope’s gaze was set. “If they didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing my job correctly.”
Walton took an empty 100 cc syringe from the pocket of his smock and set it down on the table, with the shiny needle pointing right at Pope. “I want you to inject all that air into your IV line.”
Pope looked at the syringe. “And if I don’t?”
Walton put the muzzle of the silencer against the side of Pope’s head. “Then your brains go all over the wall. Now stop stalling.”
Pope reached for the syringe, and Walton took a step back.
“I can’t reach the line very well.”
Walton stepped around and used his foot to push the IV stand closer to the bed. “Get this heart attack on the road, Bob. You’re not stalling your way out of this.”
“Did you kill Steiner?” Pope asked, reaching to pull the IV stand closer. “I ask because—”
Walton jammed the muzzle of the silencer back up against Pope’s head, saying through gritted teeth, “Do it now, asshole!”
Pope fumbled with the line for a moment. Then he made a sudden grab for the weapon, snatching the muzzle away from his head before Walton could squeeze the trigger.
“Help!” he screamed at the top of his voice, holding onto the gun with both hands, his thumb over the hammer.
Walton twisted the weapon free and shot Pope in the chest as two Secret Service agents burst into to the room. He had time to fire once and miss before they shot him down. He collapsed to the floor between the wall and the bed.
Pope lay back holding his chest. “Goddamn, he got in the same lung.” Then he leaned over the rail and vomited onto Walton’s legs. “Hey. He’s still alive over here.”
One of agents came around the bed and kicked Walton’s gun across the room.
“Finish him,” Pope said. “Finish him before someone comes in.”
“I can’t do that, Mr. Pope. He’s down and disarmed.”
Walton looked up at Pope, holding his shoulder and grinning. “Fuck you, Bobby. By the time I get done testifying to Congress, there won’t be anything—”
Pope shot him in the forehead with a Glock 26 taken from beneath his blanket.
He looked at the stunned Secret Service agents and put the pistol on the table. Then he sat back and closed his eyes. “Sweet Jesus, if this doesn’t hurt worse than it did the first time.”
The agents stood looking at each other. “What do we do?” one of them whispered.
“I suggest putting that gun back in his hand,” Pope said quietly. “You two are in enough trouble already for letting him get past you.” He opened his eyes. “I can make that trouble go away — or not. It’s your call.”
One of the agents retrieved the Walther and dropped it into Walton’s lap. Ten seconds later, a pair of hospital cops appeared in the doorway, weapons drawn.
“All clear in here!” said the agent. “Director Pope needs a surgeon! He’s been shot!”