by Scott McEwen
“Is it just me,” asked Anatoly, a Chechen born in Moscow, “or are the goats carrying on more these past couple of minutes?”
“It’s not you,” Kovalenko said. “They picked up just before Zargan went out the window. The enemy is near—probably around the blind side of the house. Get ready now. You’re next out.”
32
CIA HEADQUARTERS,
Langley, Virginia
Midori’s dark eyes watched the giant plasma screen in front of her as Anatoly climbed out on the west side of the house, her shoulder-length black hair falling forward as she leaned in slightly. “A second man just climbed out the same window.”
“Roger,” Gil replied in her left ear.
In her right ear, she heard Dragunov rub his thumb over the mike in acknowledgment, realizing he wanted to remain completely silent now that two of the Spetsnaz were outside the house with him.
“Make sure you’re giving Ivan second-by-second updates,” Gil reminded her.
“Neither Chechen is moving,” she answered, her eyes fixed on the infrared heat signatures. “They’re facing north and south—both holding at the corners.”
The first man stepped cautiously past the corner of the house and held his position, scanning the terrain over the open sights of an AS Val, a Russian-made silenced automatic rifle in 9 mm.
“Gil, you’ve got line of sight on the first target. Can you see him?”
“Negative,” he said. “It’s all ink down there. You don’t have a giant spotlight on that satellite, do you?”
She smiled, running her fingers over the keyboard. “I’m going to see if I can help you another way. Adjust your aim as best you can, then hold position.”
“Roger.”
She watched as he adjusted the aim of the rifle barrel toward the corner of the house.
“That’s what feels best to me,” he said, “but I can’t really see the house.”
“Copy that,” she said. “You’re a few degrees off. Stand by.”
“Roger that.”
She heard the doubt in his tone, but that only made her all the more determined, quickly bringing up a trajectory overlay normally used for aiming artillery rounds and placing it over the video feed. She then right-clicked on the Spetsnaz man and—zooming in for the best resolution—drew a straight line to the bolt on Gil’s rifle.
“Gil, adjust three degrees left.”
She watched as he overadjusted slightly, keeping her eye on a separate screen to make sure the target hadn’t moved. “Now half a degree back to the right.”
Gil adjusted a fraction of a degree, and the barrel came perfectly in line with the line she had drawn across the screen. “Your horizontal aim is perfect,” she said. “How do you think you are on the vertical?”
“Feels good. I’ve been holding this angle all day.”
“In that case, you should be clear to fire.”
Gil didn’t hesitate. She saw the rifle buck against his shoulder and the heat signature of the gasses expelled from the end of the suppressor. In the other screen, the Spetsnaz man flew backward off his feet, writhing on the ground for a moment and then falling still.
“Target down!” she said as the second Spetsnaz man turned and moved toward his downed compatriot. “Ivan! If you move fast around the north side, you can take the second man from behind!”
Dragunov didn’t hesitate, either. She watched him take off around the front of the house, rounding the far corner as Anatoly was pulling Zargan into the lee of the building. He fired twice, with both hands gripping the 1911 before him. Anatoly sprawled forward onto his face, and Dragunov danced away again, sprinting back around the front of the house to return to the safety of the blind side.
“Better than a video game!” his gravelly voice growled excitedly in her right ear.
Midori grinned. “Nice shooting, boys. Two tangos down. Gil, Ivan is back in position.”
“You’re a natural, Midori. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Pope was there watching over your shoulder.”
She glanced over her left shoulder to see Pope smiling at her from the corner, propped up in a hospital chair, flanked on either side by General Couture and White House Chief of Staff Brooks. A pair of navy male nurses sat nearby, monitoring Pope’s vital signs. They had arrived ten minutes before the sun set on Sicily.
“Look there,” Pope said quietly, pointing up at a second bank of monitors.
She looked up at a wider angle of the surrounding countryside. A car with a light bar on the roof was coming quickly up the road. “Master Chief, there’s a patrol car approaching fast a quarter mile from the east. I’m guessing they must have heard Ivan’s pistol shots.”
“Marvelous,” Gil replied.
33
SICILY
“What the hell is going on out there?” Kovalenko snarled.
Vitsin threw himself against the wall to the right of the window, stealing a quick glance outside to see Anatoly’s body sprawled over Zargan’s. “They’re both dead!”
Without warning, Tapa burst out the back door, headed for the blindside of the house with the submachine pistol thrust before him. Without morphine, his pain had begun to increase exponentially over the past few minutes, and he knew that within the hour, he would be completely useless. It was better to die in combat than to have to be killed by his comrades.
He stalked around the corner of the house to see red and blue strobe lights flashing a hundred feet away by the road, a pair of weapon-mounted flashlights coming toward him through the trees. Hearing the crackle of police radios, he turned back to warn the others and was slugged in the face with a 1911 pistol, falling to the ground unconscious.
Dragunov grabbed Tapa around the head and twisted viciously, breaking the neck and dragging the body into the brush before running off up the hill toward Gil’s position.
A second patrol car skidded to a stop near the first, and two more policemen jumped out, running toward the house with MP5 submachine guns.
Kovalenko saw the police through the front window of the house and ordered Vitsin out the back. “Police!”
They went out the back door, and Vitsin was cut down by a burst of fire from an MP5.
Kovalenko whipped around and fired the AWS rifle. The 7.62 mm round cut through both the cop who had killed Vitsin and the cop right behind him, dropping them both dead in their tracks. He slung the sniper rifle and grabbed up one of the MP5s, taking off cross-country on foot to the west.
The other two cops were storming the front of the house as he disappeared into the night.
ATOP THE HILL, Gil and Kovalenko pulled back out of sight, preparing to withdraw cross-country to the south.
“The police are in the house,” Midori said. “One of the Chechens is escaping east on foot. Looks like he’s gonna get away.”
“What do you think?” Gil asked Dragunov. “Wanna run his ass down?”
Dragunov adjusted the Beretta tucked in the flat of his belly. “I think we keep moving. There’s no way to know if it’s Kovalenko, and this entire area will be crawling with police very soon.”
That was good enough for Gil. They took off overland to the south.
“I have some good news for you,” Midori announced.
“Gimme,” Gil said, chugging along.
“One of our in-country operatives has just stashed a car for you two miles southeast of your position. It’s parked behind a pizza restaurant. I’ll vector you to it.”
“Where was this guy earlier? We could have used him.”
“It’s taken time to marshal our resources,” Midori replied. “And technically, he’s not really an operative. He’s a pilot from our naval air station there on the island. He was ordered to stash the car for you guys and catch a cab back to the base. We’re playing this off the cuff, Master Chief.”
“Thank God for the navy,” Gil muttered. He hurled the G28 into the brush, knowing it would only slow him down; his right foot was already beginning to give him trouble again. “Gimme my gun back, Ivan.”
Dragunov handed him the 1911, and they made toward a road at the bottom of the hill.
Kovalenko ran without stopping for the next thirty-five minutes, the bullet wound to the back of his thigh throbbing like hell. He finally stopped at a small house in a quiet neighborhood and sneaked in through an open window. He found the owners sleeping in their bed and murdered them with the last two bullets in his suppressed pistol. Then he pulled all the drapes and got on his satellite phone to Rome CIA Chief of Station Ben Walton.
“What kind of fucking game are you playing?” he demanded.
“No game at all,” Walton replied calmly. “The operation is scrubbed, and I’ve gone off the grid. As a matter of fact, I was about to drop this phone in the sewer when you called.”
“The operation is not scrubbed!” Kovalenko shouted. “I’m running for my life over here on this fucking island! My entire team is dead—just like you’re going to be if you don’t find a way to get me out of here! I know where you’re running to, and I have friends there as well!”
“Calm down,” Walton said.
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Kovalenko screamed. “I will find you and carve out your liver, you fucking American pig! Are you listening? Are you listening to me?”
“I’m listening,” Walton said. “Tell me what happened.”
Forcing himself to talk in a normal voice with no little effort, Kovalenko gave him the thumbnail version of the past twelve hours.
“Okay, well, you’re in luck,” Walton said. “Shannon and Dragunov are going to be extracted off the point of San Vito Lo Capo via a SEAL delivery vehicle. If you can get there ahead of them, you might manage to pick them off on the beach.”
“How do you know that?” Kovalenko challenged. “How do I know that isn’t more CIA shit?”
“I know because there are loose lips in the White House,” Walton said. “Hell, there are loose lips all over DC these days. But hey, you know what? You can either take my word for it or go fuck yourself, Sasha. We’re both up to our asses in this mess. I’m sorry I can’t get you off the island, but I just gave you Gil Shannon—if you want him.”
“I want him,” Kovalenko grumbled. “You bet I want him!”
“Well, then, you’d better get a move on, because I doubt very seriously he’ll be hoofing it all the way to San Vito. The US Navy has a lot of resources on that island, and they can’t afford to have their most recent Medal of Honor winner captured and prosecuted by the goddamn Sicilians.”
With much of his anger suddenly abated, Kovalenko began to feel like Walton was one of the few friends he had left in the world. “So you’re a man without a country now, eh?”
“I’m afraid so,” Walton said. “I gambled and lost. Stupid, but that’s how it goes sometimes. I’ll make out all right. So will you. You’ll think your way off that island, and once you get yourself back to the mainland, you’re back in business. Umarov needs men like you—especially if he still plans on hitting the BTC.”
“He’ll never give up on the pipeline,” Kovalenko said.
“You might want to forget Shannon,” Walton advised. “Lay low. Sicily’s a big island. Your friends in the GRU can find you a place to hide until the heat is off.”
“You’re right,” Kovalenko said, realizing there was an off chance someone might be listening. “Forget Shannon. The podlets isn’t worth the risk.”
34
WASHINGTON, DC
Head Chef Jacques Bonfils was in the dry goods storage room at the back of the White House kitchen, sorting through a case of caviar, when he heard the door open and close. He stood up and turned around to see a very angry looking General William J. Couture standing there in his chief of staff uniform, his scarred face menacing and cruel.
“Mon général,” Bonfils said in French, a confused smile on his face. “What seems to be the matter?”
Couture stalked across the room and slugged the chef in the stomach so hard that Bonfils nearly coughed up a kidney on his way to the deck. A jar of caviar fell from the chef’s hand and broke against the tile. “You’ve got one chance to tell me who you’ve been talking to!”
Bonfils was on his knees and holding his belly, unable even to breathe, much less talk.
“NSA just overheard an interesting conversation,” Couture went on. “Seems there’s a leak here in the White House.” He kicked Bonfils over onto his side and reached down to grab his wrist, twisting it until Bonfils cried out in pain. “Talk!”
“Grieves!”
Couture reduced some of the tension on the wrist. “Who Grieves?”
“Senator Grieves,” Bonfils groaned.
“Bullshit, Jacques. Grieves isn’t stupid enough to talk to you.”
“His aide. I talk to his aide.”
Couture released Bonfils’s arm and let it drop, kneeling down beside him. “Okay. Here’s how this is going to go, you Frog traitor. You’re going to tell the Secret Service everything you know. Otherwise I’m personally going to have you rubbed out! Got it?”
Bonfils retched, still holding his belly in pain. “Oui, mon général.” Tears rolled from his eyes.
Couture stood up and jerked Bonfils to his feet, shoving him toward the door.
Bonfils opened the door and was immediately taken into custody by four Secret Service agents.
“He slipped on some caviar.” Couture then made eye contact with the assistant chef standing across the kitchen, saying, “Better get somebody in there with a mop. There’s caviar and puke on the floor. Though how anybody can tell the damn difference . . .”
COUTURE STOOD BEFORE the president’s desk a short time later. “It’s my fault, Mr. President. I mentioned Operation Falcon in front of Bonfils. Glen is a witness. I’m prepared to offer my resignation forthwith.”
“Have a seat, General.” The president turned to Brooks, who was already seated. “Is that true? You were present?”
Brooks nodded. “I’m prepared to offer my resignation as well, Mr. President. Strictly speaking, I should have reported the general myself.”
Couture looked at Brooks. “Glen, that wasn’t my point.”
“I know it wasn’t, Bill, but that doesn’t change the facts.”
The president held up his hand. “Stop. Before the two of you rush to fall on your swords before the emperor . . . you should know that I’m equally guilty.” He pushed back from the desk, allowing his gaze to drift around the room for a moment. “Hell, we’ve grown decadent from the top down, haven’t we?”
Couture exchanged uncomfortable glances with Brooks.
“The other day . . .” the president said. “Out there in the hall . . . I told Maddy about my upcoming meeting with Pope. I said to make sure it didn’t appear on my official schedule. I was distracted, and I wasn’t paying attention to who was around. Bonfils was standing just a few feet away, waiting to ask me what I wanted for dinner. The first lady usually handles that, but as you know, she’s in Missouri visiting her family.” He got up from the chair and turned to look out the window overlooking the lawn below.
“So, gentlemen, in all likelihood, I’m the leak that nearly got Pope assassinated.” He turned around. “Regardless, the people who work in this building all have top secret clearances, and every goddamn one of them knows they’re not to repeat what they hear within these walls. Christ Almighty! If it’s not safe to talk in the White House, where the hell is it safe?”
He sat back down, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Is Falcon going forward?”
“As we speak, sir,” Brook replied. “The Ohio is in contact with Shannon, and the SDV team is preparing to launch.”
“What about this maniac Kovalen
ko? Where’s he?”
“We’ve lost him,” Couture said. “The satellite couldn’t track him and Shannon both.”
“So the possibility remains that he will attempt to interfere with Shannon’s extraction—despite what he said to Walton?”
“Affirmative,” Brooks said.
“Should we postpone Falcon? Change the extraction point?”
“At this point, sir, the dangers of having Shannon and Dragunov on that island far outweigh any threat posed by Kovalenko. Sicilian and Italian authorities realize that elements of the CIA and the GRU have both violated their sovereignty, and they’re extremely determined to obtain proof to that effect. At least four Sicilian police officers are dead, and a number of civilians as well.”
“How many of those killings are Shannon’s doing?”
“According to Shannon, none.”
The president looked at Couture. “Do you buy that?”
Couture nodded. “I do, sir.”
The president drew a breath and sighed. “Okay. So what about the mysterious Agent Walton? Is he really off the grid?”
“It appears so,” Brooks answered. “But I’ve spoken with Pope about him, and I’m confident that situation will work itself out.”
An ironic grin spread across the president’s face. “Work itself out, Glen?”
“Those are Pope’s words, Mr. President. I asked him what he thought we should do about Walton’s betrayal, and he said to me, ‘Glen, I wouldn’t worry too much about Ben Walton. These things have a way of working themselves out.’ ”
Maybe it was the tension, but Couture couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. Forgive my levity. It’s just that Pope—oh, hell, I don’t know.”
The president sat nodding. “I think I understand, Bill. No one has any business being so valuable and so dangerous all at the same damn time.”
