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!”
70
Crosswhite was still at the house of Duardo’s sister-in-law. Agent Mariana Mederos had arrived a half hour earlier, and she stood outside the back bedroom, where Crosswhite sat on the edge of the bed talking with Paolina. His leg wound had been sutured by a doctor that Ernesto had contacted on his behalf, and the pain was being controlled by large doses of ibuprofen and oxycodone. The police had bought Duardo’s and Paolina’s story the night before without bothering to do much of an investigation, and the bodies were removed without a single photograph being taken. In the eyes of the law, it had been a whorehouse brawl that got out of hand, and no one really seemed to care too much about it. The police sergeant told them they’d look for the guy who got away, but everyone knew it was lip service.
“Will you come back?” Paolina asked.
Crosswhite touched her face and kissed her hair. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“For you or for me?” She was on the verge of tears.
“For you.”
“That’s my decision,” she said. “Do you want to come back or not?”
“Of course I do.”
She put her hand on his. “Then I want you to.”
“I do bad things, Paolina.”
“To bad people,” she said. “And someone has to, no?”
He sat staring at her soft brown eyes, feeling his throat tighten. “That’s what I tell myself, but I don’t always believe it anymore.”
She kissed him. “Come back, Daniel.”
“Okay,” he croaked. He cleared his throat. “Mariana, come in here.”
Mariana stepped into the room and smiled noncommittally at Paolina.
“Got any money?” he asked her in English.
Paolina understood the word money. She touched his arm and shook her head. “I don’t want you to pay me.”
Crosswhite ignored her. “Got any money? Real money?”
Mariana let out a sigh and unshouldered her daypack. “How much is she charging you?”
“Cut the fuckin’ attitude, and just gimme some money.”
She reached into the bag and handed him a zippered leather pouch.
Crosswhite unzipped it and peeled off five thousand dollars’ worth of Ben Franklins.
Paolina’s eyes grew huge, and she moved away from him on the bed, shaking her head as the tears began to fall. “No lo quiero.” I don’t want it.
“If something happens to me, I want you well—”
“No lo quiero!”
Crosswhite looked at Mariana. “You’re a girl. Help me out here.”
Mariana stood chewing the inside of her lip, debating whether or not to get involved in this Shakespearean tragedy. “It’s way too much money. She thinks it’s a payoff — that you’re never coming back.”
Crosswhite took Paolina’s hand and folded the money into it. “I’m coming back,” he told her in Spanish. “I swear it. If I don’t, it’s because I’m dead.”
She hugged him and began to cry, and Mariana left the room.
Paolina’s mother was in the salon with four small children, her husband and sister having gone to work.
“You’re with the CIA too?” Olivia asked.
Mariana nodded. “I’m not really supposed to tell you that.”
Olivia smiled. “You’re very uncomfortable here, no?”
“Dan shouldn’t have brought this trouble into your lives,” Mariana said. “Your daughter thinks she’s in love with him.” She shook her head. “It’s not my business, but you should discourage her.”
“We are all in the hands of God,” Olivia said. “God brought them together, and only He can take them apart.”
Mariana glanced at the crucifix on the wall. She wasn’t about to debate a Roman Catholic. “As I said, señora, it’s not my business.”
Crosswhite came into the room, fastening his belt. “You did a good job with the pants,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you knew my size.”
“Are you ready to go? The cab is waiting.”
Crosswhite stepped over to Olivia, offering his hand. “Señora, I’m indebted to your family. Thank you for not turning me over to the police.”
Olivia held onto his hand. “Take care of yourself.”
He looked at the toddlers playing on the floor. “Which is Paolina’s?”
She indicated the little girl with the darkest skin, and Crosswhite touched the child on the head. “Let’s go,” he said to Mariana.
They got into the cab, and Mariana put on a pair of Ray-Bans. “So are you planning to get this one killed, too?”
Crosswhite was immediately angered — even with the narcotic in his system — but he kept his composure. “Be glad you’re a woman, Mariana. I’ve knocked a man’s teeth out for a fuck of a lot less.”
She ignored his threat, entirely unintimidated by him. “What’s next?”
“Do you have a room at my hotel?”
“Right next to yours, actually.”
“Were you spotted at the airport?”
“No one knew I was coming.”
“That’s not what the fuck I asked you.”
She took off her glasses and looked at him. “Quit talking to me like that, goddamnit!”
“Then lose the self-righteous fucking attitude! We’re on the goddamn job here! If you don’t get your fucking head in the game, you’re gonna get yourself killed — which I don’t particularly give a shit about — but you might get me killed along with you, and that I do give a shit about!”