The Sniper and the Wolf

13

Gil and Dragunov were parked on the side of the road, waiting for Kovalenko to show his face at the ferry crossing to Villa San Giovanni on the far side of the Strait of Messina. It was late in the day, and Gil sat dozing in the passenger seat when Dragunov spotted Eli Vitsin and three other Spetsnaz men driving off the ferry in an old Italian LaForza SUV.

“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.”