Lupita was a small woman of forty. Her black hair was flecked with gray at the temples and pulled back into a ponytail. She crossed herself when she saw the bodies and then looked at the bathroom, where Mariana was still crying. “Qué pasó con ella?”
Ernesto gestured at the half-naked body. “Fue violada.”
Lupita crossed herself again, muttering, “Santa Magdalena.”
Crosswhite took $2,000 from the leather pouch and offered it to her.
She tucked the money away inside her shirt without counting to see how much he’d given her.
Crosswhite pulled up the guy’s pants, and Ernesto helped him put the body into the cart. Then Ernesto and Lupita rolled the cart away down the hall, returning for the second body fifteen minutes later.
“We’re going to need some more money,” Ernesto said awkwardly. “A woman in the laundry room saw us hiding the body.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred should do nicely, señor.”
Crosswhite gave it to him. “Call me when you know how much your cousin and the fishermen are gonna want.”
“Very well. I’ll call you in half an hour.”
Ernesto and Lupita were about to take the second body away when Crosswhite had an alarming thought. He grabbed Ernesto by the throat and shoved him up against the wall. “Why the fuck didn’t you warn me these guys were in the fucking building? You fuckin’ me in the ass without a reach-around, Ernie?”
“No, señor. I swear it! I’m not working today. After last night, I didn’t think to tell any—” Ernesto began to tremble, and then a look of shame fell over him. “You’ve made me… you’ve made me urinate in my pants, señor.”
Crosswhite let him go and stepped back, seeing that the man had indeed pissed himself. “Sorry about that,” he said. But he continued to eye Ernesto with suspicion. “If you’re not workin’ today, how’d you get here so fast?”
“I live upstairs, señor. I’m the head doorman.”
Lupita stood by the door, ready to escape, eyeing Crosswhite with disapproval.
“Okay, look,” Crosswhite said in Spanish. “I apologize. I had a bad night, and it’s been a very bad morning. I know money doesn’t fix everything, but I’ll make sure you’re both well taken care of when this is over.”
Lupita glanced at Ernesto and then said with a glint in her eye, “Money fixes many things, señor.”
Crosswhite nodded, putting his hand on Ernesto’s shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, amigo, I shit myself during my first firefight. That’s a lot worse.”
Ernesto smiled halfheartedly, still very embarrassed. “You’re the most frightening man I’ve ever met, señor. There’s no need to doubt my loyalty.”
“Listen, don’t get the wrong idea now.” Crosswhite held up a finger. “If some bastard puts a gun in your face, you tell him whatever he wants to know — understand? I don’t want you dying for me. But I don’t want you fuckin’ me, either. See the difference?”
Ernesto nodded. “I failed to protect you and the señorita, but it won’t happen again, señor. You have my word.”
73
The president looked up from behind his desk in the Oval Office. “Is he going to live or not?” He was asking about Pope.
“The hospital gives him a ninety percent chance.” Brooks took a seat in front of the desk. “They just brought him out of surgery. He’s in what they’re calling guarded condition.”
“We sure can’t afford to lose him now,” the president said, stroking his lower lip. “Walton must’ve been out of his damn mind. What the hell made him chance something like that?”
Brooks shrugged. “I think your guess is as good as any, sir.”
The president shook his head, putting the mystery from his mind. “Has Couture heard anything more about Major Dragunov’s condition?”
“Yes, sir. Dragunov’s going to be fine. His abdominal wall was pretty badly torn up, and they had to remove a small portion of his large intestine, but he is expected to make a full recovery. Secretary Sapp is in contact with the Russian ambassador, and Moscow has been advised. To quote Sapp, ‘They are intensely curious as to how their man got out of Russia.’ At the moment, Dragunov’s in a Tbilisi hospital under close guard, which is another embarrassment for Putin — having a top Spetsnaz operative end up under Georgian care.”
“And a big risk for the Georgians,” the president added. “Imagine if somebody gets in there and kills Dragunov before the Russians can pick him up.”
“I’m sure that’s why there’s the close guard, sir.”
“Speaking of which,” the president went on, “how the hell did Walton get past the Secret Service?”
Brooks smiled a dry smile. “That’s an entirely different can of worms.”
The president was not amused. “Spill it.”
“One of Walton’s specialties was phony identification: passports, driver’s licenses. He made himself a doctor’s ID tag and used it to get past Pope’s guards. Hospital security says the ID is perfect. Even they can’t tell it’s a phony.”
“So the Service agents are in the clear? They followed procedure?”
“Yes and no,” Brooks said. “Yes, they’re clear. No, they didn’t follow procedure.”
The president cocked an eyebrow. “How the hell does that work?”
“Well, procedure dictated they check the doctor’s name against a list of docs cleared to be in Pope’s room. Whatever Walton’s made-up name was, it wasn’t on the list, so they couldn’t have checked it. That’s enough to establish they didn’t follow procedure.”
“Then how are they in the clear?”
“Because Pope shot Walton in the head after the agents had already put him down and disarmed him. He had a pistol concealed beneath his blanket. We’re still trying to figure out how he got it into the room.”
The president stared for a moment. “So the agents are covering for him, or what?”
“Sort of. They were debriefed separately — before they had time to corroborate a story — and they both describe the event the exact same way.”
“They obviously had time enough to agree on throwing Pope under the bus,” the president muttered.
“The initial debriefing was off the record,” Brooks said. “Both agents refused to talk on tape until after they were allowed to tell the unfettered version of what took place.”
The president sat back. “Sounds like they’re offering to keep their mouths shut in exchange for keeping their jobs.”
“They haven’t been so impertinent as to verbalize it quite that way, but that’s what they’re hoping for, yes.”
“Fine. I’ll play ball, but no more high-profile security details for those two jamokes. They can babysit some moron in the witness protection program. Or better yet, they should be chasing counterfeit twenties around the Midwest — somewhere far away from DC.”
“I’ll pass the word, sir.”
“Do that. Now, what about Chief Shannon?”
“Couture says they’ve projected his movement, and it looks like he’s headed for a camp presently under the control of a Dagestani militant named Ali Abu Mukhammad. Mukhammad is rumored to be next in line to take over the Caucasus Emirate if Dokka Umarov is ever killed.”
“How many people in this camp?”
“Over two hundred, sir.”
The president sucked his teeth. “That’s another way of saying Shannon doesn’t have a chance.” Then he smirked and shook his head. “Which is, of course, exactly why he does have a chance.” He sat scratching his head. “Give the general my regards and let him know that I won’t be coming over to the Pentagon to watch.”