Ten minutes passed, and finally there was another sign of movement. Kovalenko caught a glimpse of a tan rucksack through the rhododendron and opened fire on full automatic, emptying the magazine and chopping the rhododendron to salad. He quickly reloaded and then got to his feet and stepped into the undergrowth for a look at the body.
The instant he saw the shredded rucksack, he knew he’d been had. He stood waiting for the lights to go out, feeling Gil standing fewer than thirty feet behind him. His hand closed around the grip of the rifle, fingering the trigger.
“You shouldn’t wait,” he said over his shoulder. “This is no game to play fairly.”
Gil had the TAC-338 shouldered, the crosshairs fixed dead center between the Chechen’s shoulder blades. “I wanted to say it’s been a helluva fight.”
Kovalenko nodded. “I watched you in the Panjshir Valley on satellite two years ago. Dragunov was there as well. You were all any of us talked about for weeks.”
“You were still with the Spetsnaz then?”
“Yes. Now, before we finish this, I want to ask you a question.”
“Ask it.”
“What did you do with the key you found aboard the Palinouros? The key you took from Miller’s body.”
“It’s in my pocket,” Gil said.
Kovalenko chuckled sardonically, shaking his head. “If I were you, I’d wait to find out what that key opened before I gave it to Mr. Pope.”
“Why’s that?”
Kovalenko whipped around with the AK-105, and Gil shot him through both lungs halfway through the spin, exploding his heart and killing him instantly. The Chechen fell over in the rhododendron, and Gil ran to the body, knifing him under the jaw and quickly shaking him out of the ghillie suit. He put on the suit and grabbed up the suppressed AK, moving out toward the camp, hoping that most of the fighting men had joined in the hunt for Yablonsky and his team.
80
General Couture watched Gil disappear from the infrared screen the second he shrugged into the ghillie suit. He snapped his fingers at an aide de camp. “Get the president on the horn, and tell him that Dokka Umarov is dead. He’ll want to inform Putin.”
Then he picked up the phone. Mark Vance, the CEO of Obsidian Optio, was waiting on the line. “Mark, I’m gonna need your helos again. Shannon and six Russian Spetsnaz are headed for the bridge in the Sba Mountain Pass. They’ve got about a hundred Chechen militants hot on their ass, so it’s gonna be shittin’ and gittin’ the whole way.”
“Bill, I’m sorry as hell,” Vance said, sounding very official, “but I can’t send my helos back into Russia. I’ve already got the Russian ambassador to Turkey on my ass. They know we were in there, and they’re hotter than a whore in a peter patch over it.”
“They don’t need to invade Russian airspace this time, Mark. I just need ’em to stand by on the Georgian side of the bridge. Maybe fire a rocket or two across the river if it becomes necessary.”
“Bill, I can’t do that!”
“Yes, you can! We just bagged Dokka Umarov, for Christ’s sake!”
“What? You’re shitting me! That’s confirmed?”
“I’m confirming it!” Couture growled. “And now your precious pipeline is safe again. So get those helos inbound!”
“Okay, but if there’s any international flack over this, the State Department better cover my ass, and I’m not kidding. We’re trying to expand our business into the Russian market.”
Couture rolled his eyes. “Your ass will be covered, Mark. Don’t worry.” He hung up the phone not knowing if it was true or not, and not really caring. Mark Vance was a millionaire many times over. He looked at the White House chief of staff. “We just bagged Dokka fuckin’ Umarov, Glen.”
Brooks chuckled. “I wonder if Moscow will send us a thank-you note.”
The secretary of defense came back into the room. “I was just told that Dokka Umarov is dead. Is that confirmed?”
Couture looked across at the air force liaison. “You got it cued up, Major? Play it for the secretary.”
One of the screens blanked out for a moment. Then they watched as Dokka Umarov threw down his plate and stepped over the log. A second later his head exploded, and the body went down in a heap, falling over onto its back to reveal the obliterated face.
“Christ,” the secretary said. “All that’s left is the goddamn beard! What was Shannon thinking, taking a head shot?”
Couture chuckled. “Well, Mr. Secretary, he was probably thinking he wanted the bastard dead.”
81
Crosswhite and Mariana didn’t have too much trouble climbing over the gate to the finca. He gripped the pistol in his hand as they made their way along the wall around the side of the two-story house. They had studied the satellite photos, and so they knew the general layout as viewed from above. There were bars over the windows, and the drapes were all drawn at ground level. They stopped at the side door, and Crosswhite looked inside. The kitchen was deserted, but the door was made of steel, and the window was equally barred.
“We have to go around back to the patio.”
They moved to the end of the house, and Crosswhite stole a look around the corner at the pool. It wasn’t large, only about twenty feet long and four deep in the shape of a rectangle. The still blue water shimmered in the sun.
“Will he have a gun in there?” Mariana whispered.
“He’s a fool if he doesn’t. Wait here.” Crosswhite stepped around the corner and onto the patio, keeping close to the wall as he made his way toward the door. He stopped at another barred window. The window was open, and the white drapes blew out through the bars with the breeze, suggesting there were more open windows elsewhere in the house.
A man sneezed just inside and then cleared his throat and sniffed, mumbling something unintelligible before clearing his throat again.
Crosswhite stepped in front of the window and pointed the 1911 pistol through the bars.
Peterson looked up from where he sat in a chair reading a book, his feet propped on a leather hassock four feet away from the window.
“You even twitch,” Crosswhite snarled, “and I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out.”
Peterson turned white, staring at the yawning maw of the .45. “How did you get in here?”
“Apparently I pay a helluva lot better than you do.” Crosswhite called for Mariana.
She came around the corner and looked in through the window, her anger and hatred boiling up unexpectedly. “Kill him!”
“Go check the door,” Crosswhite said quietly.
She went to the door. “It’s locked.”
“Look for another way inside.”
She slipped around the front. “Everything’s locked and barred,” she said, coming back around. “It’s like a prison.”
Crosswhite kept his eyes on Peterson. “Check the balcony.”
She stepped back from the house and looked up. “The door to the balcony is open.”
“Find a way up there.”
She glanced around. “There’s no ladder.”
“Find a way, Mariana.”
She went into the brick pool shed, but there was nothing of use in there either. “There’s nothing, Dan.”
Crosswhite stayed relaxed, but he knew that sooner or later, Peterson would make a move, and he’d have to make a decision. Firing the gun would be a risk. The cops outside the gate might get the bright idea of coming into the finca and killing him and Mariana; stealing the rest of the money and making up whatever story they liked. If the cop behind the wheel wasn’t such a cowardly type, Crosswhite would have half expected them to try it anyhow.