by Scott McEwen
“That’s them!” Dragunov said, starting the motor.
Gil looked around. “Who them?”
“Kovalenko’s men.” Dragunov pointed at the red LaForza. “It looks like they’re coming to him.”
Gil watched the unusually wide SUV turning north. “Why are they doing that?”
“I don’t know.” Dragunov pulled out slowly from the side of the road. “Maybe they plan to kill us here on the island.” His satellite phone began to ring inside the zipper pouch on his hip as he shifted gears. He answered the phone, saying, “Da?” Then he handed the phone to Gil. “It’s for you.”
Gil took the phone. “Yeah, who’s this?”
“Gil, it’s Bob. Federov gave me the number.”
“Whattaya got?”
“It’s definitely a shadow op,” Pope said. “Looks like black elements of the CIA and the GRU are planning to disable the BTC pipeline.”
“What the hell for?”
“One can only speculate,” Pope said. “Listen, Gil, there’s something you need to know. Hagen’s made a move to have me assassinated. I’ve scheduled a meeting with the president for tomorrow to brief him on your new mission profile, and I’m going to request permission to bring Acting Director Webb into the loop. That way SOG can take over in the event something happens to me.”
Gil was so pissed that he forgot the pain in his festering shoulder wound. “Who does Hagen think he is, Al Pacino?”
“I’ll handle him,” Pope said easily. “But I want you aware in case the impossible happens. Where are you now?”
“Looks like we just got lucky,” Gil said. “Kovalenko’s men showed up here at the ferry crossing in Mes—”
The windows of the car shattered in an implosion of flying glass as a second SUV sped past them on the left, a bald gunman in the passenger seat spraying their Fiat with 9 x 18 mm fire from a suppressed Kashtan submachine pistol. Dragunov rammed the SUV to send it careening toward the far side of the road, where it swerved briefly onto the berm and then back onto the street. Another burst from the machine pistol, and the front left tire of the Fiat was blown out.
“Sukiny dyeti!” Dragunov shouted, pounding the steering wheel in a rage as the SUV sped away. Sons of bitches!
“Stop the car!” Gil urged, tossing the shattered satellite phone aside. “Gimme your weapon!” One of the bullets had struck the phone as he was ducking down in the seat. “There are too many people around.”
Dragunov pulled off and tossed his pistol into Gil’s lap. “What are you going to do?”
Gil jumped out, sliding quickly beneath the car to wedge their pistols between the fuel tank and the chassis. “Now pop the trunk. I’ll see if there’s a spare.”
“You’re bleeding again,” Dragunov said, pointing at Gil’s hand, where he’d been nicked by the bullet.
“What the fuck else is new, Ivan? Come on. Let’s get the tire changed before the local— Shit!” A black police car with “Carabinieri” stenciled along the side pulled past them and off the road with two cops inside. “All I got’s my Russian passport.”
“I’ll do the talking,” Dragunov said, getting out. “Just mumble what we taught you at the airport—and act stupid. I’ll tell them you lived in Chernobyl and that the radiation rotted your brain.”
Gil chuckled sardonically, pulling the bloody sock from beneath his shirt to get the shoulder wound bleeding for effect. “And if that doesn’t work?”
Dragunov shrugged. “We kill them.”
14
PALERMO,
Sicily
Kovalenko would have preferred to stay and finish his enemy while he held the advantage of rifle over pistol. But the real reason the Wolf had struck the truce with Dragunov was that one of Gil’s blindly fired .40 caliber rounds had penetrated the back of his right thigh and passed clean through, leaving him with a four-inch-long hole through the femoral biceps muscle. It was late in the day now, and he occupied a cottage on the outskirts of Palermo near the northwestern tip of Sicily, waiting for Vitsin and the rest of his men to arrive from Rome. Kovalenko knew that by now Dragunov or someone else from the GRU would be covering the Messina ferry crossing, so he’d called Vitsin and changed the plan, warning him to watch for the Spetsnaz major as they came ashore. The Wolf’s wounds were clean and stuffed with cotton wadding to stanch the blood. The bullet had passed dangerously close to the sciatic nerve, so he counted himself lucky not to need major surgery.
He stood in the kitchen looking down at the bodies of a dead goat farmer and his wife, whom he’d shot in the middle of their breakfast. He took a seat and broke open a couple of cold biscuits, smearing them with marmalade and pouring himself a cup of cold coffee from a tin pot.
Vitsin and the other five Chechen operatives arrived a short time later, sharing the news about their failure to kill Dragunov at the Messina crossing.
Kovalenko was annoyed by their failure, but Dragunov had an uncanny knack for survival, so he wasn’t entirely surprised. “Who the hell is the other guy?” he wondered aloud. “I saw him on the bridge of the Palinouros but didn’t recognize the face.”
“It has to be that American operative Gil Shannon,” Vitsin said. “The US Navy sniper. Before we left Rome, our CIA contact told us he was spotted at our embassy in Paris.”
Kovalenko knew a lot about Shannon. He grunted. “So the GRU is working with the old guard of the CIA.” He thought back to the gunfight by the road, remembering how the red laser beam had shone in the dark, and he realized that it was Gil who’d had the immediate presence of mind to toss a handful of dust into the air. “The dot must have reflected off the car,” he muttered.
“What dot?”
Kovalenko told them how Dragunov had rammed Lesnichy with the car and how Gil had used the laser beam to accurately place his shots. “That’s how Anatoly got himself killed—and very nearly me.”
“We have to get back to Georgia,” remarked the bald man named Anton, who had failed to kill Dragunov and Gil in Messina.
“Da! As soon as possible,” seconded one of the others.
“At first I thought so too,” Vitsin said, “but now I disagree.”
Kovalenko eyed him, waiting for an explanation.
“Dragunov will follow us wherever we go,” Vitsin went on. “If we escape back to Georgia, the bastard will surely appear when we least expect him—like he did in Malta. And back in Georgia, he will have the close logistical support of the Russian army. So I say it’s best to deal with him here on Sicily, where both sides are equal.”
“But Dragunov is only one man,” Anton protested. “There will be others.”
Kovalenko spoke up. “True, there will be others—but not like Dragunov. He knows me better than anyone, and like Vitsin says, he’s a cagey whoreson.”
“And what about the American?” asked another.
“Well,” Kovalenko said thoughtfully, “someone in the CIA obviously sent him to France, which either means our American friends are not as well informed as they say, or they’re lying to us.”
Vitsin straightened in his chair. “Regardless, there’s no reason to assume Shannon won’t accompany Dragunov to Georgia—especially if the Americans know we plan to hit the pipeline.”
“That, too, is correct.” Kovalenko sat quietly for a moment, trying to see ten moves ahead into his chess match with Dragunov. “In the end, the Americans will do whatever is necessary to protect their oil profits—short of war. And Moscow will do whatever is necessary to avoid provoking them—within reason. So, my friends, the decision is thrust upon us: we deal with Dragunov and Shannon here on Sicilian soil . . . then we go back and help Umarov hit the pipeline.”
15
MEXICO CITY,
Mexico
Hagen met with Peterson in the restaurant El Cardenal on the south side of Mexico City in a zone densely populated with
hotels and restaurants. It was a quiet place with good food. “So what’s going on?” Hagen asked, spreading the linen napkin in his lap. “What couldn’t we talk about over the phone?”
“We have an anomaly,” Peterson said, opening the wine list. “A number of them, actually. Eight Maltese sailors were killed last night by machine-gun fire, and their patrol boat is still missing. Also, the Palinouros was found anchored off the coast of Sicily with her entire crew murdered.”
“Miller?” Hagen asked.
“Dead,” Peterson said, scanning the wine list. “Shot right between the eyes—or so I’m told.”
“Who killed the Maltese sailors?”
Peterson looked up. “Shannon. Who the hell else?”
“It might have been Kovalenko if he was—”
“Kovalenko doesn’t exist,” Peterson said. “There is no Kovalenko. Only Gil Shannon—murderer. Get it?”
Nettled, Hagen spoke through gritted teeth. “Who the fuck killed the Maltese sailors?”
“Quick answer is, we don’t know,” Peterson said. “But it gets pinned on Shannon. I’ve already put the word out to the right people in Malta, and they’re moving on Sicily.”
“Well, my first guess for the Maltese sailors wouldn’t be Shannon,” Hagen said. “So you’d better tell your people not to waste too much time on that lead.”
“Why not?”
Hagen sucked on a shrimp cocktail. “Because Shannon’s a fucking idealist, Ken. He doesn’t like to kill people who don’t have it coming. I’d tell you to ask your buddy Lerher about that, but, then, Lerher’s already dead, isn’t he?” He closed the menu and nudged it aside. “You’d better find a way to kill him, and soon. I’m telling you!”
Peterson reached for a tortilla chip. “You’re the one who insisted on fucking the guy.”
Hagen’s temper flared. “And you’re the one who said it could be done, no problem!”
“Lower your voice,” Peterson warned, cutting him a glance as the waitress approached.
They ordered their food and drinks and sat in strained silence until the other patrons were entirely refocused on their own tables.
“So what about Pope?” Hagen asked, smoothing the table cloth.
“The contract has been accepted. He’ll be dead within thirty-six hours.”
“Oh, really? And suppose he never comes out of that damn cave of his?”
“He’s coming out tomorrow.” Peterson wanted to punch Hagen in the face. “There’s a meeting scheduled with the president for the afternoon. He’ll be exposed all the way from Langley to DC and back.”
“It’s not exactly going to look like an accident, is it?”
Peterson shook his head. “This isn’t TV, Tim. It’s war.”
“I’m glad you realize that.” Hagen took a drink of water. “By the way, I need a security detail. Do you have one you can supply me with?”
Peterson gaped at him.
“What’s that look?”
“You can hire your own team—locally.”
“You mean Mexicans?”
“No, Chinese!”
“You’re the Central America chief of station,” Hagen said. “You’re telling me you don’t have a detail you can spare?”
Peterson made an effort to keep his own voice down. “Any detail I could spare would be made up of indigenous personnel: Mexicans. And the allocation could draw attention from within the agency—which we don’t need—so hire your own team. There are plenty of private firms here in the city.”
Hagen’s lips puckered, and he looked almost as though he were pouting.
Now it was Peterson’s turn to smirk. “Jesus, it’s the money, isn’t it? All those millions, and you’re too cheap to pay for your own goddamn security.”
Hagen sat back so the waitress could pour their wine. “Find me a firm that isn’t going to cost me an arm and a leg. I don’t think that should be too difficult, considering where we are.”
Peterson waited for the young woman to leave the table. “Remember, tight-ass, you get what you pay for.”
Hagen took umbrage. “It should occur to you that I have money because I know how to manage it.”
“You have money because your father left it to you,” Peterson retorted. “Speaking of which, you’re picking up the tab for this meal. I flew down from Monterrey at my own expense.” This was, of course, untrue, but Peterson had learned to enjoy the small victories in his dealings with Tim Hagen.
16
MESSINA,
Sicily
Gil stood with his hands on the hood of the shot-up Fiat while Dragunov explained to the Sicilian police sergeant in very broken English that he and Gil were simple Russian tourists. He said they didn’t know who had shot at them or why. The sergeant then asked him if he knew anything about a yacht anchored off the southern coast, and Dragunov pretended not to understand the word yacht.
“Boat!” the cop said, pointing south. “A rich man’s boat. Do you know about it?”
“No, we arrive by car.” Dragunov pointed back toward the ferry.
The cop rolled his eyes, growing impatient with the man he believed to be avoiding his questions.
Gil couldn’t see the second cop standing right behind him, his hand on Gil’s shoulder, but he could tell by the look on the sergeant’s face that he and Dragunov were only seconds from being placed under arrest. He adjusted his hips slightly in preparation for the spin move he would use to take the cop off his feet when he reached for Gil’s wrist to cuff him.
A hundred yards off, a white van pulled to the side of the road. The side door slid open, and a man appeared with a scoped rifle. Though Gil couldn’t make out the weapon at that range, it was a Heckler & Koch G28 in 7.62 mm.
“Ivan, get down!”
Gil ducked behind the car as the cop grabbed for his wrist. There was no report from the suppressed rifle, but the cop flew backward, hit in the chest by an armor-piercing round that easily defeated his thin body armor and exploded his heart before ripping out through his back.
With the speed of a striking cobra, Dragunov hit the sergeant in the throat and dove for cover. The cop stumbled backward, and he too was struck in the chest by a bullet. He crashed to his knees and fell over onto his face. Dragunov grabbed for his sidearm, but a round took off the ring finger on his left hand, and he jerked back behind the car, swearing foully.
It took the pedestrians in the vicinity a few seconds to realize what was happening, but once they did, they ran off up the street. Bullets tore into the car—deadly missiles that made no sound at all until they struck the steel and tore clean through. Gil crawled beneath the car in an effort to retrieve their pistols.
“I can only reach one!”
“They’re coming!” Dragunov shouted as the van pulled back into the street, speeding toward them.
Gil slid from the beneath the car and tossed the Russian the pistol, jumping up and running for the police car.
Dragunov got to his feet and fired at the windshield of the oncoming van, but the pistol ran dry after four shots, and he again turned for the dead sergeant’s sidearm.
Gil jerked open the passenger door of the police car and opened the glove box, popping the deck lid and scrambling for the trunk, where he found an H&K MP5 submachine gun. He primed the receiver and shouldered the weapon, running out into the street.
Seeing he was about to be machine-gunned, the driver cut the wheel hard to the left, exposing the door gunner on the right side, who was forced to grab the handhold to keep from being thrown from the vehicle. Gil fired on the run, cutting the door gunner to pieces with a sustained thirty-round burst. The van hit a road sign, bounced to a stop, and stalled. Gil dropped the machine gun and leapt aboard through the open door.
The driver fumbled free of his seatbelt and tried to jump out, but Gil caught him by his curly bl
ack hair and yanked him back inside, punching him in the face repeatedly until he quit struggling.
“Who sent you?” Gil screamed. He found a compact Colt .45 in the man’s waistband and jammed the muzzle into his groin, thumbing back the hammer. “One more time, cocksucker! Who sent you?”
The driver’s lips were split and bleeding. “CIA,” he sputtered in a British accent. “Malta station.”
“Fuck you!” Gil slugged him with the pistol in the side of the head.
Dragunov stood in the street, aiming the sergeant’s gun at a blue Nissan rounding the bend, a startled young Italian woman at the wheel. She stopped the car, and Dragunov opened the door, shoving her over. “Come on, Vassili! Let’s go!”
Gil grabbed the G28 from the floor of the van and jumped in on the passenger side of the car. Dragunov gunned the motor to spin the car around, and they sped off in the same direction as Kovalenko’s men.
“They’re CIA!”
“You are surprised?” Dragunov had one eye on the road, the other on the rearview mirror as he ran through the gears, taking the winding road as fast as he dared.
“I’m not surprised—I’m pissed!”
The girl begged in panicked Italian to be let out of the car.
“Sorry, baby, I don’t habla, so shut up.” He stole a look at Dragunov. “Any idea where they’ll go?”
“Palermo.”
“Why Palermo?”
“Because they’re going to need resources, and Kovalenko will want to finish me here before running back to Georgia.”
“Please!” the girl begged in English. They were getting blood all over her and her car, and she was completely petrified.
Dragunov downshifted and gunned it through another curve. “What about her?”
“She stays with us.” Gil took a moment to check his ammo. The G28 had a dual-magazine clamp, and both ten-round mags were full.
