by Scott McEwen
Brooks saw the strained look on Couture’s face. “Look, it’s heartless. I know that. But what we’re talking about here is an American CIA agent flying into Moscow on a Russian passport with eighteen Russian prostitutes. Come on, Bill! We can’t allow that to happen if it’s within our means to stop it. We just can’t. What you said about Putin is exactly right. He’ll think we did it to make him look stupid. Hell, he’d be stupid not to think so.”
Couture was silent for a long moment. “Is that how you’re going to advise the president?”
Brooks nodded. “That’s where I come out, yeah. What about you?”
The general got up from his chair. “I respect you sticking to your guns, Glen, but I’m going to advise we allow the State Department to do their job.”
“Fair enough,” Brooks said, getting to his feet. “Now, let me go and pull him away from the first lady.”
Couture chuckled. “You deserve hazard pay for that.”
“So far she and I get along pretty well.”
When the door closed, Couture reached for the phone again. “Bob, it’s Bill. Listen, you’d better advise Typhoon he might have to find alternate transport for himself and his cargo. I don’t know for sure yet, but the president may elect to ground the flight.”
41
MEXICO CITY,
Mexico
The phone rang on the nightstand beside the bed, and Tim Hagen stepped into the bedroom to answer it. “Hello?”
“Are you alone?” asked Ken Peterson.
Hagen glanced across the hotel suite at his two Mexican bodyguards, who sat watching a soccer game on television. “Hold on a second.” He went to close the door and then returned to the phone. “Okay, what is it?”
“The FBI busted Grieves’s informant inside the White House—we’re all burned. To make matters worse, Shannon got out of Sicily, and Pope’s been given Secret Service protection. I’m calling to warn you because we go back a long time, but I’m striking camp and bugging out.”
Hagen sat down on the bed, weak in the legs. “Bugging out to where?”
“Never mind that. You need to think about where you’re going.”
“But there’s no proof we’ve done anything.”
“There will be,” Peterson said. “The Frenchman is talking, so it’s only a matter of time before the good senator from New York is forced to give us up for accessing the CIA mainframe.”
“What mainframe?” Hagen knew Peterson was shrewd enough to have already turned state’s evidence and that the FBI might be listening in on the call.
Peterson chuckled sardonically. “Tim, don’t get paranoid. Nobody’s listening. I haven’t gone to the Feds. The writing’s been on the wall for a long time now, so believe me, I’ve prepared for this eventuality. With men like Pope and Webb running the CIA, the US is screwed. How long do you think it’ll be before those two clowns let another nuke into the country? I did what I did to try and save the agency, but I failed. So it’s time to fall on my sword or run like hell, and I’m not the type to fall on my sword.”
Hagen sat with his head in his hand, having hardly heard a word. “It should’ve been the simplest thing,” he muttered to himself, unable to believe that Shannon was still alive, with so many others dead. “He’s only one man, for God’s sake. There has to be a way to stop him!”
“Tim, did you hear what I just told you? Killing Shannon doesn’t solve our problems anymore. There’s going to be a federal investigation. We’re burned!”
“Stop saying that!” Hagen flared. “We can handle a goddamn investigation. The evidence against us is practically nonexistent. All we have to do is keep Grieves from opening his fat mouth!”
Peterson sighed at other the end of the line. “And how do you propose we accomplish that? You got photos of him shagging a hooker too?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m talking about something a hell of a lot more certain than blackmail. And with Grieves out of the way, the only one left to worry about is Shannon.”
“Christ Almighty. What is your obsession with that guy?”
Hagen stood up from the bed, his rage finally boiling over. “He’s Pope’s right-hand man, you pompous ass! And Pope destroyed everything I worked ten years to achieve! I was run out of the White House in disgrace because of him! That’s my fucking obsession, Ken!”
Peterson was incredulous. “So that’s what this was all about? You blew our entire operation over a personal vendetta? You stupid, stupid son of a bitch. No. I’m the stupid son of a bitch. I should’ve known you didn’t give a shit about protecting the country. You’ve never given a shit about anyone but yourself.”
Hagen smirked. “Like the country ever gave a shit about you? Wake up, Ken. It’s a zero-sum game. Whoever’s got the most at the end wins, and I don’t plan on walking away from the table anytime soon.”
“At the end of what, Tim?”
“Life!” Hagen slammed the phone down in the cradle. He had one card left up his sleeve, and it was time to play it.
42
ISTANBUL,
Turkey
Gil stood in the street in front of the brothel, watching the end of the alley. The fog had settled in. There were two cars and an unknown number of men blocking the alley at fifty yards.
“We didn’t clear out fast enough.”
The women were crammed into a small van in the parking lot, all of them more than a little anxious to leave.
Dragunov grunted. “You thought this would be easy?”
“The only easy day was yesterday. Any suggestions?”
Dragunov looked at the rooftops, scanning to the end of the alley. The buildings were built wall to wall. “There’s a Kalashnikov inside. I can go over the rooftops and hit them from above.”
“How many rounds for the rifle?”
“One magazine.”
“Thirty rounds goes fast once you start taking return fire.” Gil glanced around for another option, but there wasn’t one. “How fast will the police respond, do you think?”
Dragunov shrugged. “That depends on their relationship with these people. Vlad said they were protected, so if they do come, it won’t be to help us.”
Gil got on his sat phone to Langley, giving Midori their location and asking for satellite surveillance. “What I need is an exact head count on how many men are blocking our escape.”
“I’m sorry, Gil, but I don’t have a satellite over your location. The satellite we used for the Sicily op has already been retasked.”
“Can’t you free it up?”
“Not in time to help you with your situation. Also, I just got off the line with Pope. He said you may have to find another way out of Turkey. The president is considering using assets to delay any flight you board with those girls—citing engine trouble. They’re worried a rescue of this nature could cause political trouble with Putin.”
“Shit,” Gil swore. “Again with Putin.”
“So far, grounding the flight is still just an option,” Midori clarified. “Apparently Couture supports letting you proceed. He’s the one who warned Pope.”
“Well, I’ll have to count on Couture, because there ain’t no other way outta here with these girls. Make sure Pope understands that.”
“He does.”
“Okay. Typhoon out.” Gil tucked away the phone. “We’re on our own, Ivan, so be fast up there.”
“What did she say about Putin?”
“The White House is afraid of pissing off the Kremlin.”
“This is a stupid idea,” Dragunov said with a sigh. “I should have shot you.”
“There’s still time to do that,” Gil said with a grin.
Dragunov glanced at the desperate female faces peering back at him through the van’s fogged-up windows. “Get ready to fight.”
“Roger that. I’ll move the se
cond you open up.”
Dragunov went back inside the brothel, and a couple of minutes later, he signaled Gil from the roof. He made his way over four rooftops with the AK-47 until he reached the street, peering over the edge of the roof to see six men waiting below in the fog. The streetlights along the block were burnt out, and visibility was dim. He listened to them talking and realized they were confused about what exactly had taken place in the brothel. One of Vlad’s men had apparently gotten a call off, but he hadn’t lived long enough to give much in the way of details. They were concerned about walking into an ambush, and one of them kept calling someone on the phone but got no answer. Dragunov guessed he was calling Vlad, who was already dead with a bullet between the eyes. One of the men had a machine gun slung over his shoulder, but the others seemed to be carrying nothing more than pistols beneath their jackets. Dragunov switched the select-fire lever to single shot and sighted on the chest of the man with the MP5.
The report of the rifle was like a cannon blast, shattering the foggy silence. The man with the machine gun was thrown to the ground with his heart exploded in his chest, and Dragunov dropped two more men within a couple of seconds as the other three pulled their pistols and began firing at the rooftop.
With Dragunov’s first shot, Gil had bolted up the alley. He covered half the distance and ducked into a doorway, opening up with the M9 and dropping one man who had taken cover on his side of the roadblock.
The last two Russians poured fire in Gil’s direction, driving him behind the cover of the doorway, but Dragunov shot them both down from above.
“Clear!” he shouted.
Gil dashed toward the roadblock to drag the bodies into the shadows as Dragunov ran back to the brothel. Within three minutes, Gil had both cars moved out of the way, and Dragunov pulled up with the van.
On the way to the airport, Gil threw his pistol out the window into a vacant lot. With only a few rounds left in the magazine, there was no point to risk getting caught with it. He took the passports from his pocket and began passing them out, telling Katarina to make sure they didn’t lose them.
Many of the young women kissed their passports, clutching them to their breasts with tears streaming down their faces.
“In your coat pockets!” Gil said, pantomiming, and they quickly tucked them away.
They arrived at the airport without incident, parking in the parking deck. Dragunov killed the motor and turned around in the seat, admonishing the girls in Russian to remain calm and to act natural no matter what happened inside the airport.
“Our passports haven’t been stamped at the port of entry, so there are going to be questions,” he explained. “If we can’t bribe our way onto the plane, we’ll have to involve the Russian Embassy, and that will mean a very long night. So let me do the talking. Understood?”
The women nodded in earnest, and Dragunov looked at Gil. “We could take them to the embassy and drop them off. I can call Federov and arrange for another—”
Katarina began to protest, and he whipped his head around. “What did I tell you?”
“Look, the longer they’re in Turkey,” Gil said, “the longer they’re at risk. Too damn much can go wrong. Let’s see if we can get on a plane.”
The airport was busy even at that late hour, but the moment the twenty of them entered the airport, they drew the immediate attention of security personnel. The armed men watched closely, talking furtively into their radios. The group was stopped before making it anywhere close to the Aeroflot ticket counter, and two stern-looking Turkish officials appeared from behind a wall, giving instructions to the chief of security.
“This means trouble,” Dragunov muttered. “They were expecting us.”
“Roger that,” Gil said. “I told you we shoulda gone to the embassy.”
Dragunov turned and gaped at him.
43
THE WHITE HOUSE
The door to the Oval Office opened, and Secretary of State John Sapp entered the room.
The president stood up from behind his desk. “Thank you for coming on such short notice, John.”
“I came as quickly as I could, Mr. President.” Sapp crossed the office and shook hands with the commander in chief, turning to shake hands with Couture and Brooks before sitting down.
“Gentlemen,” the president said, “I’ve asked John to weigh in on the stalemate between the two of you. He probably has a better understanding of the Russian mind than any of us.”
The sixty-year-old secretary of state had spent ten years as the US ambassador to the Soviet Union during the Cold War. He was a tall, slender man with gray hair and discerning gray eyes.
“Glen,” the president said to the White House chief of staff, “give John your thoughts on grounding the plane in Istanbul.”
Brooks sat forward in the chair and explained to Sapp why he thought Gil Shannon should be prevented from flying what he referred to as “a planeload of prostitutes” into Moscow.
Sapp listened thoughtfully, nodding after Brooks had finished. “It’s absolutely a possibility that Putin will take offense at this. He doesn’t trust us. He doesn’t trust anyone with altruistic motives. But, then again, sociopaths aren’t capable of altruistic emotion. He sees everyone as the enemy, even those within his own government. He’s much like Stalin in that regard.”
Brooks, feeling vindicated, sat back in his chair. “That’s my exact point.”
“But I don’t recommend grounding the flight,” Sapp went on to say, “and I’ll tell you why.”
Brooks stiffened.
Sapp crossed his legs, calmly resting his hand on his knee. “Consider this emergence in the broader scope: Russia knows they’re indirectly responsible for last year’s nuclear attacks on American soil. It’s a significant embarrassment for them, and they’ve been trying to wriggle out of it, but they’re going to have to acknowledge their culpability very soon now, and they know it. China’s finally ready to confirm the isotope test results, and that’s going leave Russia as the odd man out on the UN Security Council. Everyone—the Russians included—are going to have to face up to the fact that the uranium was enriched at the Ural facility.
“And make no mistake: Putin is as aware of the paradigm shift as we are. It’s not Russia versus the United States anymore. It’s Russia and the US versus Islamic extremism. Imagine the results of a man like Dokka Umarov getting his hands on a stolen nuke. He’d incinerate Moscow. Putin’s willingness to work with us on this pipeline plot has nothing to do with protecting the pipeline. He’s afraid of Umarov and his network, and anything he can do to weaken Umarov is good policy. What Russia is attempting to do, however, is manipulate us into helping them on their terms. They want to be in a position to dictate policy well into the future.
“What Master Chief Shannon has inadvertently given us here is an opportunity to level the playing field; a chance for us to do the manipulating. My recommendation is to let the plane take off. I can talk with Prime Minister Medvedev over the phone once it’s in the air. He and I have a rapport, and contrary to popular belief, Putin does listen to him—more than anyone has any real idea. I can suggest that Russia use this little rescue as an opportunity to improve their public image in the wake of their failure with the suitcase nukes. Taking a public stand against human trafficking will play well for them, and if they’re worried about creating unnecessary friction with the Russian mafia, they can always say these unfortunate young women were being held by Islamic terrorists. Who’s going to be the wiser, except for the victims?”
“What about the Turks?” Brooks interjected. “They’re holding Shannon and the others for us at the airport, and they’re not at all happy about this ‘little rescue.’ ”
Sapp shrugged. “The Turks have to play this however we ask them to.”
“Oh?” Brooks smiled. “And why is that?”
“Because of the earthquake la
st month,” Sapp replied easily. “We’ve pledged more than a billion dollars in relief—only half of which has been paid so far—and that doesn’t include our recent increase in military aid. So the Turks are not going to be a problem. The only problem is Putin, and I’m confident I can get Medvedev to make him see the opportunity in this.”
The president looked at Couture. “How soon do we have to make a decision?”
“Next flight leaves in ninety minutes.”
“John, do you see any possible downside?”
“Nothing long lasting,” Sapp answered. “The only real risk is to Master Chief Shannon. Once he arrives in Moscow on a Russian passport, he could become a pawn, but I don’t think they’ll hurt him. They may hold on to him for a while, long enough to make their point, but Major Dragunov was well treated aboard the Ohio, so I think they’ll return the courtesy. As I’ve said already, they’re going to need us in the future, and they’re smart enough to see this opportunity for what it is—provided it’s put to them in the correct tone. Tone is always very important with the Russians, especially with Stalinists like Putin.”
“General,” the president said, “make sure Shannon and his people are aboard that plane when it takes off.”
“Yes, sir.” Couture got up from his chair and left the room.
The president’s phone chimed on the desk, announcing an incoming text message. He picked up the phone expecting to see a text from his wife, but to his surprise, the message was from Tim Hagen. “What the hell could this possibly be about?” he muttered, warily opening the message to see a frozen video image himself and a young Asian woman. The shock effect was instantaneous. His heart began to race, and he began to sweat immediately.
Brooks exchanged glances with Sapp, both of them seeing the color drain from the president’s face. “Sir, are you okay?”
“Get my car ready, Glen. I’m going over to talk with Pope.”
