by Scott McEwen
“Now, about this shadow cell you mentioned, Bob. Do you have recommendations?”
Pope didn’t need to explain the CIA’s troubled state; everyone was acutely aware of how badly the aging intelligence agency was foundering. Many on Capitol Hill were even calling for the CIA to be broken up, its responsibilities distributed across the FBI, the NSA, and the DIA—the Defense Intelligence Agency, which presently handled all military-based espionage operations. It was obvious even to the president that the CIA was in genuine danger of slipping into obsolescence in the post–Cold War era, and he was secretly on the verge of going public with that exact sentiment. The ATRU could easily—and probably should—be placed under the auspices of the DIA.
“First,” Pope said, “I’d like to bring Cletus into the fold.” Cletus Webb was the acting director of the CIA, his confirmation still on hold in the Senate. “This intelligence coup is happening on his watch, right under his nose.”
“Do you suggest making him privy to the ATRU as well?” Couture asked.
“I don’t see how we could avoid that.”
The president shifted in his seat. “Is Cletus the right man, Bob? Did I make a mistake with his appointment? You can speak frankly.”
Pope noted how much more relaxed the president was now that Hagen had left the White House; how much more reasonable and willing he was to ask for advice. “Cletus is not the problem, Mr. President. He’s a good man.”
The president glanced at Couture. “What do you think, Bill? Is today the day?”
Couture nodded. “I think so, Mr. President.”
Pope looked between them. “The day for what?”
“Bob,” the president said, “I’ve given this a lot of thought, and the three of us have spoken about it at length. I’m going to withdraw Webb’s appointment.”
Pope didn’t like the sound of that. Anyone else they brought in to fill Webb’s position would have too many scores to settle, and that would serve only to further destabilize the agency.
“Mr. President, in all honesty, I think that would be a mistake.”
“I’m going to appoint you as director of operations instead.”
Pope sat back, his spine stiffening involuntarily.
“Effective today,” the president went on. “When I make the official announcement, I also intend to make it clear that you almost single-handedly saved San Diego from nuclear destruction last September—a necessary minor embellishment.” He traded glances with Couture, a smirk coming to his face. “Let Senator Grieves try and delay this confirmation.”
“Mr. President, I’m not the—”
“I’m sorry, Bob, but I’m leaving you no choice. You’ll relieve Cletus of his duties today.”
“But, sir, he’s—”
The president held up his hand. “Don’t worry about Cletus. I agree he’s a damn fine man. So if you want him for your DDO, that’s entirely fine by me. To be honest, I don’t give a damn if you let him run the show—I know how you like to spend your time in private doing whatever it is you do—but I want your name on the goddamn door.”
Brooks sat back and chortled. “That’s going to set a cat among the pigeons.”
The president puffed up his chest, nodding with satisfaction. “It damn well better. If not, I’ll close down that entire shop over there—then we’ll see how they like it.”
“What about the Joint Chiefs?” Pope asked. “I’ve never exactly been their favorite person.”
The president pointed at Couture. “There sits the chairman—and this was his idea.”
Pope looked at Couture. “And I haven’t exactly been your favorite person, either.”
Couture smiled. “I think we’ve come to understand one another rather well these past couple years. Don’t you?”
Pope nodded, sat thoughtfully for a couple of moments, and then looked at the president. “Mr. President, if Shannon is still alive, I intend to send him into the Caucasus to kill Dokka Umarov.”
The president exchanged brief glances with each of his military advisers, and then, hearing no objections, said, “There’s something you’re not telling us, isn’t there?”
“Do I have a free hand, sir, to root out the people who exposed Shannon in Paris?”
“It’s your agency now, Bob. Do what you have to do to clean it up, or I’ll have to throw in with Grieves and the other radicals over there on the Hill, and we will shut it down.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
A short time later, as Pope was settling into the back of the sedan in front of the White House, the marine lieutenant asked as a politeness, “Everything go okay, sir?”
Pope met the lieutenant’s gaze in the mirror. “Just the way I’d planned, as a matter of fact.”
19
WASHINGTON, DC
During the drive back to Langley, Pope spoke on the phone with Midori, his young Japanese-American assistant, directing her to gather and collate all available intel on the CIA traitors Ben Walton and Max Steiner. He had deliberately not told the president of Hagen’s suspected involvement—or that Peterson had hired the assassin Jason Ryder—because it was his intention to have all five men in question terminated, and that was precisely the kind of thing the president of the United States didn’t want to know about.
Pope’s next call was to agent Mariana Mederos, a CIA analyst in Langley. “Mariana, are you still able to contact Antonio Castañeda?”
Castañeda, a former Grupo Aeromóvil de Fuerzas Especiales (GAFE) operator with Mexican special forces, was head of the deadliest drug cartel in Mexico. The tacit deal he had struck with the Mexican and American governments the previous September in exchange for his help in locating the Russian suitcase nuke—along with his promise to cease the violence against civilians—had allowed him to eliminate virtually all of his competition in northern Mexico, with only limited interference from the Mexican army and the American Drug Enforcement Administration.
Mederos knew Pope. She had briefed him on her experiences in Mexico during her time there, but she was not attached to the Special Activities Division, so she was not subordinate to him.
“I can if it becomes necessary,” she said. “Why?”
“I need you to fly down there and meet with him as soon as possible,” Pope said. “Make sure he understands that his ongoing cooperation will be part of the ongoing truce that has allowed him to become such a wealthy man.”
“He won’t like that,” Mederos said. “Does Mr. Webb know about this?”
Pope decided now was a good time to start letting people know there was a new sheriff in town. “The president has appointed me the new director as of today, so there won’t be any need to contact Mr. Webb. Just arrange the meeting with Castañeda, then swing by my office so Midori can fill you in on what I want done.”
“Mr. Pope, I’m sorry, but I’ll need confirmation of that before I can—”
“Mariana, listen to me very carefully,” Pope said, not unkindly. “Do you want to be dismissed the day my appointment becomes official?”
She paused, clearing her throat. “No, sir. No, I don’t.”
“Then please do as I’ve asked, and speak of this only to Midori—it’s classified top secret. You’re one of the few people I trust over there, so keep it that way, and I’ll take good care of you. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.” Pope put away the phone.
They crossed the Francis Scott Key Memorial Bridge, and the driver stopped for a red light behind a line of four other cars. Pope noticed a man in street clothes on the far side of the intersection with his hand inside the signal box that controlled the traffic light. The man was very definitely looking in their direction.
“Get us out of here, Lieutenant. We’re about to be hit.”
The marine didn’t hesitate, dropping the shifter into re
verse and pressing the accelerator just as Jason Ryder was stepping from the pine trees to their right.
Ryder was dressed in a black North Face rain jacket and black wool cap. He cursed and gave chase, firing twice through the windshield with the suppressed USP .45 and hitting the marine driver center mass. Ryder fired three more times into the backseat as the car continued in reverse, and Pope fell over on the seat. The car slammed into another car coming off the bridge and came to a stop.
The marine managed to open his door, rolling out on the opposite side of the car and drawing a Springfield Armory .45. He sprang into a crouch as Ryder went in to finish Pope. The lieutenant fired a quick shot through the windows of the car and hit Ryder in the side of the neck, knocking him off balance. The marine stood up and fired over the roof three more times in quick succession—tac-tac-bang!—hitting Ryder twice in the torso and once in the head to drop him in the street beside the car.
The marine made sure there were no more targets to engage, and then climbed into the backseat and ripped open Pope’s coat to find him bleeding from a single hole in the right side of his chest.
Pope was conscious but having trouble breathing.
The marine turned him onto his wounded side to keep the blood from draining into the good lung and yanked a military med kit from beneath the seat, tearing away the green plastic from a combat field dressing. “You should’ve worn your vest, sir.”
Pope was going into shock. “You’re right,” he croaked. “You okay?”
“Some cracked ribs—nothin’ I can’t handle.” The marine pressed the compress to Pope’s wound and held it. “I don’t know what tipped you, sir, but you saved both our asses. I thank you for my wife and kids.”
“You did all the work,” Pope muttered, starting to shiver. “Jesus, this really hurts. I’m getting cold.”
“It’s just shock, sir.” They could hear sirens on the far side of the Potomac now. “You’re gonna be fine. I promise.”
“Semper fi,” Pope said, closing his eyes. “I’m going to have a little nap while we wait.”
The marine gave Pope a painful sternal rub with his knuckles to bring him back around. “Sir, I need you stay to awake for me. No sleeping on the job.”
Pope opened his eyes wide, the sharp, unexpected pain to his sternum worse than that of the bullet wound. “Good Christ, Lieutenant! I’d rather you not do that again!”
The marine chuckled, patting him on the shoulder. “Just hang in there, sir. Help’s almost here.”
20
BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL,
Bethesda, Maryland
Flanked by a pair of Secret Service agents, the president of the United States stepped into Bob Pope’s hospital room to see Daniel Crosswhite standing beside Pope’s bed. The last time he’d seen Crosswhite had been at the White House two years earlier when he’d pinned the Medal of Honor to his chest. Gil Shannon had received the medal at that same ceremony.
Crosswhite stood up straight. “Mr. President.”
Pope turned his head. “Hey! Nice of you to stop by.” He was slightly loopy from the pain medication—though not as loopy as he intended to make out. “I got shot down over Macho Grande.”
The president smiled. “I was going to ask how you’re feeling, but that’s apparent.”
“Haven’t felt this good in years.” Pope chuckled, his blue eyes glassy from the morphine. “I’m hoping they’ll let me stay awhile.”
The president nodded, having been told by the doctors that Pope would probably be released in a week or so. He looked at Crosswhite. “Why am I not surprised to find you here, Captain?”
“I’m like a bad penny, Mr. President.”
Pope chuckled again. “He came by to see if I needed any nudie magazines.”
“That’s the morphine talking,” Crosswhite said.
“I understand,” the president replied, his expression turning serious. “Should I take it the young woman killed at your hotel this morning was not really killed by her pimp?”
Crosswhite exchanged glances with Pope, both of them surprised to learn the president was so up-to-date.
“Dan’s one of mine,” Pope said, suddenly lucid. “The girl was his cover, and she somehow gave herself away. I think a personal phone call from you to her aunt in San Diego will probably satisfy the family’s concerns.”
“I’ll handle it,” the president said reluctantly, signaling his Secret Service agents to wait in the hall. He closed the door after them and turned back toward the bed, his index finger poised peremptorily. “I don’t want any more blood on American soil. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” Pope said. “But this wasn’t our fault. Ryder was hired by someone inside the agency.”
“Who inside the agency?”
“Someone presently not on American soil,” Pope said. “Do you require the name?”
The president judiciously allowed the question to go unanswered. “The media already knows Ryder was an ex–Green Beret. That’s a possible problem.”
“Not really,” Pope said. “All the Pentagon has to do is let them know Ryder had a severe case of PTSD—which is documented. It’s also true he had a bone to pick with the Veterans Administration. For most Americans, that will be enough to convince them he was certifiably nuts.”
“Possibly,” the president said.
Pope reached for his hand, and the president awkwardly took it. “You can use this assassination attempt as an excuse to demand more funding for the VA.” Pope gave him a wink. “That will help the vets and draw attention away from the CIA—two birds with one stone.”
The president nodded, half liking the idea and looking at Crosswhite. “So what’s next for you?”
Crosswhite was still angry over Sarahi’s murder and greatly disappointed at not getting to kill Ryder himself. “I’m the tip of the spear, Mr. President. I go in whichever direction I’m thrust.”
The president pursed his lips, releasing Pope’s hand. “Robert, I’ll send someone to look in on you daily. And you’ll have Secret Service protection from now on.”
“Has my driver been taken care of?”
“I’ve spoken with him,” the president said. “He’s got a cracked sternum, but he’s fine otherwise. He suggested that I demote him for allowing you to be shot, but I told him not to be foolish. He credits you for saving both of your lives; says that Ryder would’ve had you both ‘broadside-to-a-barn-door’ if you hadn’t spoken up when you did. What tipped you off?”
Pope adjusted the oxygen hose beneath his nose. “Ryder had an accomplice on the far side of the intersection with his hand in the signal box . . . making sure the light was red instead of green. He was wearing street clothes, and it looked odd to me. I could just as easily have been wrong, though. The lieutenant deserves all the credit.”
“It’s partly my fault as well,” the president admitted. “I should have seen to it you were issued a sedan with bulletproof glass. Pure oversight on my part. Well, I’ll leave you men to it.” He shook their hands and left the room abruptly.
“So what now?” Crosswhite asked, relieved to have the president gone.
“Get to Mexico and find Peterson,” Pope said. “Check with Midori before you leave. She’ll have the latest intel.”
“And when I find his ass?”
Pope looked at him, his eyes still glassy. “What do you think?”
Crosswhite chewed the inside of his cheek. “And what about Hagen?”
“We’ll play Hagen by ear,” Pope said. “What the hell were you thinking bringing that poor girl into this?”
The question brought them back to the point where they’d left off when the president interrupted. Crosswhite still didn’t have the courage to admit that he’d been coked out of his mind when he first decided to bring Sarahi along.
“I was stupid,” he said. “There’s no o
ther explanation. No excuse.”
“You’d better get your head screwed on straight,” Pope warned. “One more loose-cannon event from you, and you’re out of the ATRU. Is that clear?”
“It won’t happen again, sir. You’ve got my word.”
Then Pope chuckled, the morphine making it difficult to remain completely serious. “At least not until I require you to be a loose cannon. That is, after all, part of what makes you so damn useful.” He shook his head. “Poor girl, though. Hell of a way to die.”
Crosswhite grimaced, thinking to himself that only a fourteen-karat piece of shit would put a twenty-three-year-old girl into harm’s way like he had. “I want Walton and Steiner, too.”
“I’ll think about them,” Pope said. “For now, I want you completely focused on Peterson. You’ll have to be careful with him. He must have somebody in the White House feeding him intel—otherwise he could never have gotten Ryder into such a perfect position.”
21
SICILY
Night had fallen. Gil and Dragunov were parked behind a crowded shopping mall on the outskirts of Palermo with the young Italian woman—a brunette named Claudina—still crammed between them. Dragunov had wanted to put her in the Nissan’s trunk, but Gil had vetoed the idea. Using Claudina’s cellular, Gil tried again to reach Pope but had been unable to establish a connection. Dragunov finally managed to contact Federov at the Russian Embassy in Paris, arranging for a GRU doctor from Rome to meet them the next morning.
Both men were in pain from their festering gunshot wounds, and Dragunov—who had never been shot before—was acting even more cantankerous than normal. Both of them were too bloody to risk going into a store for supplies.
“The doctor will bring a pair of satellite phones tomorrow,” he said, giving the phone back to Claudina, who had stopped crying hours earlier. She seemed to have figured out they weren’t going to hurt her and no longer gave the impression that she was terrified of them.