Gil made the weapon ready once more and scanned around for Kovalenko. There were dozens of tents and ramshackle huts, numerous cooking fires, and Gil was wondering why the Russians hadn’t bombed the place when — suddenly — he was stunned to see three children chasing after a puppy. Upon closer study, he realized there were at least twenty women in the camp as well, along with a half dozen other children. He guessed they were the families of Chechen insurgents, but it was possible they were Chechen or Ukrainian refugees displaced by a decade of war.
Gil felt bad for the women and children and hoped they wouldn’t be hit by the Spetsnaz diversionary barrage, but their ultimate fate was out of his hands.
He spotted Kovalenko coming out of the command tent, and his adrenaline began to surge as the ex-Spetsnaz sniper approached Umarov and Mukhammad. Having all three ducks lined up in a row was almost too much for Gil to take. Then Kovalenko made it worse by putting his arm around Umarov’s shoulders, giving Gil a golden opportunity to kill them both with a single shot. All three of them stood laughing in the silence of the rifle scope.
“You motherfucker,” Gil muttered to Kovalenko. “You’re doin’ that to tempt me.”
It killed him not being able to squeeze the trigger at such a pristine moment, but breaking with the plan could easily spell his death, as well as the deaths of his Russian allies, so all he could do was watch the clock and hope for an equally pristine shot in twenty-five minutes.
78
Crosswhite and Mariana had borrowed Ernesto’s car. Now they sat parked in the shade up the street from Peterson’s finca, staring at a white Nissan parked outside the gate.
“They’re definitely watching the place,” Crosswhite said.
“I’ll bet they’re cops.”
He thought it over, deciding, “This isn’t all bad. If the prick thinks he needs cops at the gate, he probably doesn’t have security inside the house.”
“Are you going to have to kill them?”
“Hope not,” he muttered. “I plan on living here when this is over, and I don’t need any more trouble with the local heat.”
“You two barely know each other, Dan.”
“That’s not a problem for me,” he said. “I’m old enough to know what I want. If she decides she doesn’t like me a month from now, all she has to do is say so.”
“And if you decide you don’t want her?”
He turned to look at her. “You’ve seen her. That’s not gonna happen.”
Mariana realized that was probably true, admitting to herself that the young Cuban woman was as precious as a woman could be. “If you go back to her, you should leave this life.”
“I just might do that.”
They sat watching for a while, hidden from view inside the car by the shadow of the tree.
“Any ideas?” she asked.
“Nothing’s jumping to mind. Those electrified wires around the top of the wall are a real problem.”
“Can’t we just cut them?”
“That would almost definitely set off an alarm inside the house.”
“What if we pay the cops to leave?”
Crosswhite sat up straight behind the wheel. “You know, with the right pair of cops, that could work.”
She smiled. “But are they the right pair of cops?”
“Exactly. If they’re not, there’s no do-overs. It’s off to the clink.”
“Unless you shoot them.”
He nodded. “Unless I shoot them, and without a silencer, that’s a risky proposition at best.” He started the car and shifted into drive.
“What are you doing?”
“Fortune favors the bold.”
He drove down the block and slowed to a stop alongside the Nissan, smiling at the driver.
“Good afternoon,” he said in Spanish, the pistol in his lap.
“Good afternoon,” the cop said, very businesslike. “Have you been watching us?”
“No, we’ve been watching the finca,” Crosswhite said. “Same as you.”
The cop narrowed his gaze. “What’s your interest in the finca, señor?”
“That’s not really important, but I’ll tell you this: there’s ten thousand dollars in it for both of you if you’ll let us inside for a look around.” Crosswhite knew they earned less than $2,500 a year.
The cop looked at his partner, and his partner told him to power up the window. They sat talking for a minute, and then the driver put the window back down. “Who are you, señor?”
“I’m the guy with twenty thousand US dollars,” Crosswhite said, his gaze set. “And all you gotta do is look the other way while we climb over that gate.”
The cop in the passenger seat was obviously ready to jump on the money, but the driver was very hesitant. “You should go back to your country,” he said, staring off down the street.
“Look, amigo, my business inside the finca, it’s between Americans. It doesn’t have anything to do with you or your government. But I’ll tell you what: my country and your country? Things are changing. Castro’s out of power. Pretty soon real business is going to open up again. Why not be in a position to capitalize on it when it happens?”
The cop looked at him. “What does that mean?”
Crosswhite pushed all of his chips forward. “It means I’m going to be around awhile, and I’ll be needing things from time to time. Simple things. No blood.”
“You’re CIA… like him inside?”
Crosswhite laughed. “No, amigo. I’m a whole lot worse. I’m a corporate point man. I work for a group of Yankee corporations that are very eager to do business here in Havana. It’s only a matter of time before they pressure my government into ending the trade embargo, and when that happens, I’ll be needing friends in the police. You can turn me away, but you know and I know the other cops won’t.”
The driver put the window back up, and the two cops talked for another minute. Then he put the window back down. “If our captain finds out we let you—”
“Your captain won’t know anything,” Crosswhite said, knowing he had them.
“But if that man in there ends up dead—”
“There’s a swimming pool.”
“A what?”
“A swimming pool.”
The cops looked at each other. “You’re going to drown him?”
Crosswhite turned to Mariana, knowing it was time to flash some cash. “Gimme ten grand.”
Mariana unzipped the pouch and quickly counted out the money.
Crosswhite put the money in a greasy paper sack from the backseat of Ernesto’s car and offered it to the cop. “This is ten thousand. You can have the other half when we come back out.”
The driver looked nervously at his partner.
“Take it!” his partner said. “What do we care about a CIA man?”
“No blood!” the driver said in a hushed voice.
“No blood,” Crosswhite said, tossing the bag across. Then he looked at Mariana and winked. “We’re in.”
“Go now,” the cop said, waving them off. “Park up the block and walk down to the gate.”
Crosswhite pulled off and parked a block away. “You ready?” he said to Mariana.
She nodded. “Scared shitless, but I’m ready.”
79
Gil noted that Sasha Kovalenko favored his right leg as he turned to go back into the command tent, wondering what kind of wound he had sustained and when it had happened. Gil’s own battered body was still suppurating, his shrapnel wounds burning from the jagged pieces of metal still lodged in his flesh. He popped another dextroamphetamine capsule and gulped water from the CamelBak, knowing he was now robbing Peter to pay Paul.