Gil noted the lower part of the Spetsnaz wolf tattoo protruding beneath the sleeve, glanced briefly at Federov and then back to the Russian. “You’re the man behind the mirror?”
“This is Major Ivan Dragunov of the Tenth Independent Spetsnaz Brigade,” Federov said. “His grandfather was Yevgeny Dragunov — the inventor of the Dragunov rifle, which I understand you’re well acquainted with.”
Gil looked at Dragunov. “If you’re with the Tenth, that means you’re assigned to the Southern Military District — the Caucasus?”
Dragunov was noticeably impressed by Gil’s immediate knowledge of the Tenth ISB. “I’ve also served with the Black Sea Fleet.”
“Where exactly do you think we’re going?”
Dragunov shrugged. “Where else but to kill Kovalenko and the rest of the Chechen traitors you fought with tonight?”
Gil looked to Federov for an explanation.
Federov put his hands into his pockets. “Yeshevsky and his Spetsnaz team were all ethnic Chechens from the Vostok Battalion. They were born in South Ossetia. For whatever reason, they’ve gone rogue.”
“How many are left?”
“Ten — counting Sasha Kovalenko.”
Gil crossed his arms. “And I suppose it’s purely a coincidence that a Spetsnaz major from the Tenth ISB happens to be here in Paris on the same night Mr. Yeshevsky gets himself killed during a meeting with a crooked CIA agent.”
Federov deferred to Dragunov.
Dragunov stretched and let out a long yawn. “No coincidence,” he said, his eyes watering with fatigue. “We thought Kovalenko murdered Yeshevsky in Ossetia, and I’ve been tracking him for a month. All Spetsnaz traitors have to be hunted down and killed. That’s our creed.”
“Well, then you don’t need me,” Gil said. “My job here is done.”
Dragunov took Gil’s Canadian passport from his own back pocket and tossed it onto the table. “Good luck at the airport. Hopefully there are no CIA traitors waiting there to point you out to the gendarmes. Life in a French prison would be a sad way to end such a career as yours.”
Gil looked at the two passports on the table, chewing the inside of his cheek.
Federov cleared his throat. “If you’re going with Major Dragunov, Master Chief, now would be a good time to leave. It’s a diplomatic flight, so the French shouldn’t be overly vigilant, but the moment they discover Yeshevsky and the others to be Russian citizens, that will change.”
Gil eyed them both, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the mirror. “You fuckers,” he muttered, smirking as he grabbed the red passport from the table and tucked it into his jacket. “Okay, Ivan. But when this is over, I get one of those ugly fucking T-shirts.”
Dragunov laughed. “When this is over, comrade, we’ll both probably be dead. Kovalenko is the best. We call him the Wolf.”
Gil cocked an eyebrow. “I got news for you: the Wolf hesitates. Otherwise I’d be dead already.”
“That was not hesitation,” the Russian replied. “He probably just wanted you to see it coming.”
4
“It was Hagen?” Gil said in disbelief, talking to Pope on a satellite phone from the tarmac in Bern, Switzerland, where he had just deplaned from an Aeroflot DC-10. “Chief of Staff Hagen?”
“Ex—chief of staff,” Pope reminded him.
“I knew Lerher had a hard-on for me, but what the fuck did I ever do to Hagen? He burned me after Earnest Endeavor. Remember?” Operation Earnest Endeavor was the rescue of a female POW in Afghanistan, which Gil had orchestrated against the president’s specific orders to the contrary. As a means of “punishment” for acting without authorization, then — White House Chief of Staff Hagen suggested that the president award both Gil and his fellow operative, Green Beret Daniel Crosswhite, the Medal of Honor. The public award ceremony — while an effective political gambit for the president — had revealed Gil’s identity to the entire world. Not only did this end his career as a SEAL Team VI operator, but soon it led a band of Muslim assassins directly to his Montana doorstep, very nearly costing both him and his wife their lives.
“Hagen’s a sociopath,” Pope said. “An egomaniacal power junkie, and he blames you and me for his dismissal from the White House.”
“But how’d he get hooked up with Lerher? Lerher wasn’t stupid enough to throw in with a jerk-off like Hagen.”
“I don’t think they were directly linked,” Pope said. “I tracked Hagen down by phone a little while ago, and when I dropped Lerher’s name, it genuinely confused him.”
“You talked to Hagen?”
“Yeah. I told him you’re coming after him. Hopefully that’ll keep him out of our hair long enough for us to get things figured out.”
“How did you know it was Hagen who ghosted the op?”
“I didn’t, but he seemed a logical suspect. Have the Russians told you anything more about what Yeshevsky was doing in Paris?”
Gil glanced over at Dragunov, who stood near the nose gear of the DC-10, also talking on a satellite phone. Five rough-looking Russians in street clothes stood off in a tight group, smoking and talking. “If they know, they’re not telling me, but they definitely want to find this Kovalenko and punch his ticket.”
“What’s their next move?”
“I’m waiting to find that out now. Dragunov’s on the phone with the GRU. His team is standing by here.”
“Spetsnaz?”
“Yeah, and one look at these guys,” Gil said, “tells you they’re heavy pipe hitters. Dragunov says they’ve seen a lot of combat against the Chechens.” “Pipe hitter” was a Special Forces term referring to an operator willing to do whatever it took to accomplish a mission.
“I’ve done some research on Dragunov,” Pope added. “It looks like he killed one of his own men a few years ago for lagging behind on a mission in Chechnya. And he’s not your run-of-the-mill Spetsnaz operator; he’s a member of Spetsgruppa A — the Alpha Group. He doesn’t mess about, this one.” Spetsgruppa A, an elite subunit of the Spetsnaz, often operated quite separately from the rest of Russian Special Forces, answering directly to the Kremlin.
“Well, I don’t intend to hang around long enough to get to know him. He’s got his team here, so he’s not going to need me.”
“Hanging around might be the best way to find out what the hell Lerher was up to, Gil. I checked, and the agency has him listed as being on vacation all this month.”
“That’s doesn’t mean shit. They take their people off the books all the time.”
“But that’s not what this is,” Pope insisted. “The personnel office genuinely believes Lerher’s on vacation, which means he was either acting independently, or he was part of an unsanctioned operation. If there’s a shadow cell operating inside the CIA, we have to expose it.”
Gil glanced again at the Spetsnaz men. “These guys are all wired for sound, Bob — chain-smoking and hypervigilant. I don’t like it.”
“Is Dragunov chain-smoking?”
“No. He seems to have his shit mostly together.”
“Well, maybe that’s why he wants you along. Maybe he needs another level head.”
Gil chuckled. “Don’t piss down my back and tell me it’s rainin’, old man.”
Pope laughed. “I wouldn’t do that, but we need to figure out what Lerher was doing in that apartment with the Chechens.”