The Sniper and the Wolf

9

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.”