by Scott McEwen
“Right!” Boris called from inside the wheelhouse.
The P21 had an eight-man crew. There were three men on the foredeck besides the .50 gunner, one on the quarterdeck behind the wheelhouse, two manning the portside rail, and one at the con. Five of them were armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns, but only the man on the .50 caliber appeared ready to fire.
The P21 shifted into reverse, backwatering until the vessel came to a stop alongside. The only unarmed man on the foredeck, the officer, threw a line to Kovalenko, signaling that they intended to board.
Kovalenko waved, making like he was going to tie the line to one of the bow cleats. “Now, Boris.”
Boris sprang from the wheelhouse with an AK-47, firing a perfect six-round burst that struck the .50 gunner in the chest, knocking him backward and clean over the starboard rail into the water. He continued to fire until the magazine ran dry, killing the officer and both MP5 gunners on the foredeck before ducking back inside to reload.
The remaining three MP5 gunners opened up on the wheelhouse with blazing fire, killing Boris instantly but leaving Kovalenko’s other two men free to pull Glock pistols from behind their backs, picking off the gunners in quick succession along the portside rail.
Even as the MP5 gunners were dropping, Kovalenko was pulling the line to haul the P21 in close, jumping aboard and scrambling into the wheelhouse where the first mate was grabbing for the radio. He shot him in the back of the head with a 9 mm, and the bullet exited through the first mate’s face, hitting the radio and causing sparks to fly.
“Get aboard!” he shouted. “We have to run for Sicily.”
One of the two remaining Spetsnaz grabbed up the AWS sniper rifle, and the other took a moment to put a bullet into Boris’s head, making absolutely sure he could never be interrogated. Both of them leapt aboard the P21, and Kovalenko applied the throttle, motoring steadily away from the shattered fishing charter.
“Take their jackets and toss the bodies overboard,” he ordered. “Then man the machine gun. We have to look like Maltese navy.” The radio was destroyed, but that didn’t matter. Kovalenko’s English wasn’t good enough to convince anyone that he was from Malta, where all they spoke was English and Maltese. Their best hope was to make it to Sicily before anyone in the Maltese military could piece together what had happened and give pursuit.
He increased speed toward the Palinouros as one of his men came into the wheelhouse to hand him the AWS. “Take the con,” Kovalenko told him. “I’m going to kill as many aboard that pig yacht as I can on the way past.”
8
MALTA
Gil continued to cover the rear as Dragunov led the hurried search of the Palinouros, finding no one alive. In one of the smaller state rooms, they came across a couple shot to death in the midst of lovemaking, a single 9 mm hole in each of their heads. Judging from the white uniforms on the floor beside the bed, Gil guessed there was no one aboard other than crew.
Making their way below decks to the crew quarters, they found a veritable slaughterhouse, eleven of the crew knifed in their sleep and two more bodies littering the passageway, one with a vicious wound under the jaw where a blade had been rammed upward into the brain stem. They found another pair of bodies sprawled in the engine room, blood pooled on the otherwise spotless white deck beneath their heads.
“They went through these people like shit through a goose,” Gil muttered.
They accounted for nineteen dead crew members by the time they arrived at the bridge, where they found two more bodies. The first mate’s throat was cut, and the captain, a man of about fifty, lay faceup on the deck with a single bullet through the forehead. Gil recognized him at once.
“This asshole’s ex-CIA.” He holstered the pistol and took a knee beside the body.
Dragunov stood over him. “How do you know?”
Gil rolled the dead man onto his belly to search his back pockets. “I worked a mission with him when he was attached to SOG.” There was no need to tell Dragunov what SOG was. Spetsnaz operators knew more about the Special Operations Group of the CIA than 98 percent of Americans. Nor did Gil see any need to mention that the dead man was also a former navy destroyer captain who’d been kicked out of the CIA three years earlier for malfeasance. He found an unusually long key in the bottom of the captain’s back pocket and tucked it into a zipper pouch on his wet suit.
“Hate to tell you this, partner, but I’m pretty sure shit’s about to get complicated. Covert elements of the CIA are working with covert elements of the GRU.”
Dragunov leveled his gaze. “The GRU is clean.”
“So’s my ass, Ivan.” Gil got to his feet and put his foot on the body. “This sorry motherfucker here was thrown out of the CIA for raping a fourteen-year-old girl in Thailand three years ago. He only escaped prison because the girl disappeared before she could testify. And now he’s here—on this boat—working for a Russian Spetsnaz team that turned back around and shot him in the head. Somebody’s tying up loose ends, and they’re not gonna—”
One of the windows shattered, and Terbish’s head blew apart, splattering gore all over Gil and Dragunov, who both hit the deck.
“You were saying about the GRU being clean?” Gil said, wiping the gore from his eyes.
Dragunov’s blood-spattered face split into a malicious grin. “Are you going to help me kill these sukiny dyeti—or run home like a little girl?”
Gil drew the Strike One, unscrewing the suppressor. “Oh, we’re definitely gonna kill ’em.” He got into a combat crouch, moving to the hatchway leading from the bridge to the gangway. He could see that the P21 was already out of pistol range, heading north at her top speed of twenty-six knots, almost double that of the Palinouros.
“Well, that’s why God made radar.” He stood up and went to the satellite phone on the console. “Get ready to weigh anchor, Ivan.”
Dragunov went to the window, easily making out the wake of the P21, but the patrol boat itself was scarcely more than a silhouette. “Can you pilot this thing?”
“Sorta,” Gil said, punching numbers into the phone. “We’ll need a little help.”
A few seconds later, Pope was on the line. “Bob, we’ve taken the Palinouros. The entire crew’s dead. The skipper was Paul Miller, an ex-CIA man with the Thailand office. I need you to patch me through to a yacht in Auckland called Frieda’s Joy. I’ll explain what’s going on while you work your magic.”
“Stand by,” Pope said. “I’ll put Midori to work while you bring me up to speed.”
Within eight minutes, Gil had Pope completely updated, and the satellite phone was ringing aboard Frieda’s Joy in Auckland, New Zealand.
“This is the Frieda’s Joy,” answered a female voice with an Australian accent. “First Mate Dana Keener speaking.”
“Keener, my name is Master Chief Gil Shannon. I need to speak with Wild Bill ASAP.” Wild Bill Watkins was a retired Navy SEAL from the West Coast teams who now captained a yacht similar to the Palinouros for an Australian millionaire.
“I’m sorry, Master Chief, but Captain Watkins is ashore at this time. May I be of assistance?”
“I sure hope so. Listen, Keener, I’m stuck in the Med aboard an anchored Lürssen Kismet with her engines at dead stop. I’m only semi familiar with the controls, and I need to get her under way fast. All I got for crew is a grumpy Russian, so if you could keep your instructions simple-stupid, I’d appreciate it.”
First Mate Keener chuckled. “I’ll try and keep it fairly dinkum for you,” she said, her lilting voice sounding suddenly sexy. “Where in the Med are you, Master Chief?”
“North coast of Malta.”
“So you’ve got slightly rocky bottom.”
“Yeah, I believe so.”
“And I assume she’s fallen off with the current?”
“Yes, ma’am. To the north.”
&nbs
p; “Then you’ll need to ease off the cables before you weigh anchor. Are you at the con?”
“Roger that,” Gil said. “And the computers are all up. I just need to start the engines and get this tub turned around.”
With Keener’s help, it took Gil and Dragunov fifteen minutes to get the Palinouros under way and headed north in pursuit of the P21 at her normal cruising speed of twelve knots. Anything faster might have looked suspicious on Maltese military radar. Keener helped them figure out which blip on their own radar was the P21, and judging from the heading, Kovalenko and his men were heading directly for Sicily. Keener remained on the line in case they needed further assistance conning the vessel.
9
MEXICO CITY,
Mexico
Tim Hagen, sitting in the lounge of a third-rate hotel, gaped across a roughly hewn table at Ken Peterson, whose jolly demeanor was starting to annoy the shit out of him.
“So who the fuck sent this Lerher guy in there?” Hagen wanted to know. “I mean, whose bright fucking idea was it to send someone that Shannon knew, for fuck’s sake, you fucking imp?”
Peterson looked at him, wishing he could leave Hagen to the wolves, but the pen was a long arm from the grave, and there was no telling what Hagen had left with his attorneys. “They were never supposed to come into contact,” he said. “The French authorities were supposed to grab him without the meeting ever being affected. It’s like I told you, there are too many variables to contend with in operations of this sort.”
“You’re not answering my fucking question!” Hagen flared, his face red. “Why Lerher?”
Peterson’s patience suddenly evaporated. “This was a shadow op, you overeducated moron, and there aren’t a lot of men qualified for that kind of job! Lerher had worked with Shannon in the past, so he was the logical choice! Now stop casting aspersions—you don’t even know what the hell happened yet!”
“I know that Shannon is coming after my ass!” The fear was visible in Hagen’s eyes. “And when that crazy bastard gets going, he doesn’t stop until there’s nobody left standing!”
Peterson made a face. “How can you possibly know that?”
“I’ve seen his fucking handiwork!”
“No,” Peterson said, his patience returning as suddenly as it had gone. “I mean, how can you know he’s coming after you?”
“That maniac Pope!” Hagen picked up his drink, taking a gulp.
Peterson suppressed a smile. “Pope contacted you? Here in Mexico?”
Hagen set down the glass hard. “Well, I sure as hell didn’t call him, Ken!”
“And he told you that Shannon was coming after you?”
“In so many fucking words, yes!”
Peterson began to chortle. “And that’s why you’re hiding here in this shitty hotel?”
“What’s so fucking funny about that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Peterson said with a shrug. “Maybe I can’t believe you’re that damn stupid.”
Hagen’s face clouded over.
“Think about it, Tim.” Peterson signaled the barman for another beer. “If you’re Pope, and you’ve just discovered your entire operation has been compromised by persons unknown, what are you going to do?”
Hagen increased his grip on the glass. “Why don’t you spare me the pop quiz and tell me what the fuck you’re talking about?”
“I’m saying Pope couldn’t possibly have known you were involved. He probably suspected, sure. It’s no secret you hate him—but so do five hundred other people in DC. He called to see if you’d panic. And you did. Now he’s waiting to see if you’ll do something else stupid. Hopefully, you didn’t just compromise me.”
Hagen dared to believe he might actually survive. “Is Shannon still in France?”
Peterson shook his head. “No, he got out—the Russians helped him—but you can believe that Tim Hagen is the last thing on his long list of shit to do. Pope’s gonna run him all over Eastern Europe trying to figure what the hell is going on.” He chuckled. “And you can bet the old bastard’s up there in Langley laughing his ass off, knowing he’s got you down here scared shitless.”
“How soon can you verify Shannon’s location?”
Peterson brushed a small cockroach off the table. “He’ll be almost impossible to track in real time. The best we can do is watch for anomalies within the theater.”
“What kinds of anomalies?”
“Unexplained chaos. If one of our people—or one of the GRU’s people—gets killed, it’ll be a safe bet Shannon was there. In the meantime, I suggest you get yourself checked into a better hotel. You’re more likely to get killed by a hooker in this city than you are by Gil Shannon.”
“Have you heard from our friends in the GRU since the Paris meeting fell apart?”
Peterson noticed that Hagen was in no way acknowledging that it was his backwater op that had caused things to go wrong in Paris. “Our people in Rome tell us that Kovalenko went to Malta to eliminate the crew of the Palinouros. We’re still waiting to hear how it went.”
Hagen gulped the remainder of his drink. “Let’s hope he took out Captain Miller while he was there. We sure as hell don’t need that fucking pedophile coming back to bite us in the ass.”
“I’m sure Kovalenko was thorough.”
Hagen sat back, clearing his throat. “Can we get at Pope?”
Peterson pursed his lips, thinking it over. “Anyone can be gotten to. Depends on how bad you want to get at him.”
“I want him dead. Is that bad enough?”
“Hitting Pope is a risky move, but I’ve got an ex-Delta operator on standby for domestic ops. Now that I think about it, it might actually be a worthwhile investment . . . considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Well, Pope took a meeting with the president a while back, and it’s still making people nervous up in Langley because nobody—and I mean nobody—has been able to find out what was discussed.” Peterson saw an opportunity to rub salt in Hagen’s ever-festering wound: “And who knows better than you how odd it is for Pope to be seen around the White House?”
Hagen let the baiting remark pass, some of his confidence returning. “I can control the president’s reaction if Pope is taken out. I was with him on the campaign trail during his first run for office, and there’s a lot the first lady doesn’t know about his nighttime campaign activities.”
“So the rumors are true?”
“I’ve got the footage to prove it.”
“Does he know?”
Hagen leaned into the table. “He had his drunken face so far up that Korean hooker’s snatch, he couldn’t even see daylight.”
Peterson snorted. “You think that’s enough to blackmail him?”
“Not into starting World War Three,” Hagen said, “but more than enough to make him look the other way on the demise of a pain in the ass like Bob Pope. Very few people know what the first lady’s like when she’s pissed, and, trust me, you do not want to be there when that storm hits.”
10
SICILY
Gil and Dragunov arrived on the Sicilian coast near the small town of Sampieri about twenty-five minutes behind Kovalenko and his men. The Maltese P21 patrol boat was already sinking by the stern in thirty feet of water and would disappear long before the sun came up.
Gil killed the engines on the Palinouros and dropped both bow anchors. “You up for another swim? If we leave the skiff on the beach, it’ll be obvious somebody came ashore.”
Dragunov pulled on the hood to his wet suit, saying grimly, “Let’s get wet, Vassili. In two hours the sun rises.”
They weighted Brody’s body with a scuba tank and watched him sink beneath the surface at the stern before stepping into the water and swimming the hundred yards to land. The two of them came ashore on a stretch of empty beach conceal
ed from an adjacent village by a long wood running the length of the cove. They ditched their wet suits and moved east through the trees parallel to the road.
“Will they move inland on a direct route to Messina?” Gil asked. “Or stick to the coastal road?”
“They will steal the first car they can and take the coast road. We’ll have to do the same if we want to catch them before they make it to Italy. Are you prepared to kill Sicilians?”
“Only to stay alive and out of prison,” Gil answered. “Not to steal a car.”
“What if stealing a car is the only way to stay alive and out of prison?”
“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.”
They moved into the village and found a small black Fiat with the keys in the ignition. Dragunov slipped behind the wheel, and Gil pushed it down the dirt road away from the house before Dragunov started it up. Soon they were riding along the coastal road, headed east.
“I think they’d take the highway inland,” Gil said. “It’s a lot faster to Messina that way.”
“Oh, you are Spetsnaz?” Dragunov asked in his gravelly voice, shifting gears, his eyes glued to the winding road. “You know how they were trained?”
Gil chuckled. “Well, maybe we could take the highway and get to Messina ahead of them. We could cover the ferry.”
“And do what?” Dragunov said, stealing a glance. “Shoot them in front of everyone?”
“Hey, I’m just thinkin’ out loud here.”
“Think quiet,” Dragunov said. “Your thoughts give me a headache.”
Twenty minutes later, they rounded a bend and saw, in the taillights of another black car pulled off to the right, a man just finishing up with changing the left rear tire. Dragunov gunned the engine and swerved toward the car.
“Watch it, Ivan, you’re gonna hit the fuckin’ guy!”
“Blyat!” Dragunov snarled, slamming the front right fender of the Fiat into the man as he jumped too late to get out of the way. The body flew up over the top of the car and landed in the road behind them as Dragunov slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a stop in the dirt. “That was Lesnichy—one of Kovalenko’s men!”
