The Sniper and the Wolf

15

Hagen met with Peterson in the restaurant El Cardenal on the south side of Mexico City in a zone densely populated with hotels and restaurants. It was a quiet place with good food. “So what’s going on?” Hagen asked, spreading the linen napkin in his lap. “What couldn’t we talk about over the phone?”

“We have an anomaly,” Peterson said, opening the wine list. “A number of them, actually. Eight Maltese sailors were killed last night by machine-gun fire, and their patrol boat is still missing. Also, the Palinouros was found anchored off the coast of Sicily with her entire crew murdered.”

“Miller?” Hagen asked.

“Dead,” Peterson said, scanning the wine list. “Shot right between the eyes — or so I’m told.”

“Who killed the Maltese sailors?”

Peterson looked up. “Shannon. Who the hell else?”

“It might have been Kovalenko if he was—”

“Kovalenko doesn’t exist,” Peterson said. “There is no Kovalenko. Only Gil Shannon — murderer. Get it?”

Nettled, Hagen spoke through gritted teeth. “Who the fuck killed the Maltese sailors?”

“Quick answer is, we don’t know,” Peterson said. “But it gets pinned on Shannon. I’ve already put the word out to the right people in Malta, and they’re moving on Sicily.”

“Well, my first guess for the Maltese sailors wouldn’t be Shannon,” Hagen said. “So you’d better tell your people not to waste too much time on that lead.”

“Why not?”

Hagen sucked on a shrimp cocktail. “Because Shannon’s a fucking idealist, Ken. He doesn’t like to kill people who don’t have it coming. I’d tell you to ask your buddy Lerher about that, but, then, Lerher’s already dead, isn’t he?” He closed the menu and nudged it aside. “You’d better find a way to kill him, and soon. I’m telling you!”

Peterson reached for a tortilla chip. “You’re the one who insisted on fucking the guy.”

Hagen’s temper flared. “And you’re the one who said it could be done, no problem!”

“Lower your voice,” Peterson warned, cutting him a glance as the waitress approached.

They ordered their food and drinks and sat in strained silence until the other patrons were entirely refocused on their own tables.

“So what about Pope?” Hagen asked, smoothing the table cloth.

“The contract has been accepted. He’ll be dead within thirty-six hours.”

“Oh, really? And suppose he never comes out of that damn cave of his?”

“He’s coming out tomorrow.” Peterson wanted to punch Hagen in the face. “There’s a meeting scheduled with the president for the afternoon. He’ll be exposed all the way from Langley to DC and back.”

“It’s not exactly going to look like an accident, is it?”

Peterson shook his head. “This isn’t TV, Tim. It’s war.”

“I’m glad you realize that.” Hagen took a drink of water. “By the way, I need a security detail. Do you have one you can supply me with?”

Peterson gaped at him.

“What’s that look?”

“You can hire your own team — locally.”

“You mean Mexicans?”

“No, Chinese!”

“You’re the Central America chief of station,” Hagen said. “You’re telling me you don’t have a detail you can spare?”

Peterson made an effort to keep his own voice down. “Any detail I could spare would be made up of indigenous personnel: Mexicans. And the allocation could draw attention from within the agency — which we don’t need — so hire your own team. There are plenty of private firms here in the city.”

Hagen’s lips puckered, and he looked almost as though he were pouting.

Now it was Peterson’s turn to smirk. “Jesus, it’s the money, isn’t it? All those millions, and you’re too cheap to pay for your own goddamn security.”

Hagen sat back so the waitress could pour their wine. “Find me a firm that isn’t going to cost me an arm and a leg. I don’t think that should be too difficult, considering where we are.”

Peterson waited for the young woman to leave the table. “Remember, tight-ass, you get what you pay for.”

Hagen took umbrage. “It should occur to you that I have money because I know how to manage it.”

“You have money because your father left it to you,” Peterson retorted. “Speaking of which, you’re picking up the tab for this meal. I flew down from Monterrey at my own expense.” This was, of course, untrue, but Peterson had learned to enjoy the small victories in his dealings with Tim Hagen.