The Sniper and the Wolf

25

Fresh off the plane from Athens, agent Max Steiner showed up at the CIA safe house in Rome for a meeting with Chief of Station Ben Walton. They had served together in the Med with US Naval Intelligence during the latter part of the Cold War, and Steiner had been the CIA’s go-to man in Greece for the past seven years.

“So what’s going on?” Steiner asked. He was in his midforties, very tanned by the Grecian sun, and with thinning dark hair. “I got an operational immediate pulling me out of my province and sending me here. I don’t even speak Italian.”

Walton was a thick, barrel-chested man in his early fifties with a deep voice and close-cropped gray hair. “I sent the OI,” he said. “A rogue element of the GRU hit the Palinouros and greased her entire crew — including Miller. The Italian navy is all over it.”

“A rogue element?” Steiner’s confusion was evident. “You’re talking about Kovalenko’s people — our people?”

“That’s right.”

“What the hell they do that for?”

“They’re tying up loose ends,” Walton said. “Yeshevsky’s dead in Paris; so is Lerher. The entire op is blown.”

Walton and Steiner had both helped to dupe Pope by falsely identifying Yeshevsky as the real Dokka Umarov during his voyage across the Mediterranean.

“Sounds like the nutty professor Pope went on the warpath.”

“He did,” Walton said. “And somebody just tried to kill his ass back in DC, but the hit went bad, and he survived. Now the president’s naming him as director, and that can only mean one thing.”

Steiner’s tan complexion turned white. “Hell, they’re on to us. It may even have been Pope’s people who wiped out the Palinouros.”

“Not likely.” Walton turned to pour from a pot of coffee. “My GRU contacts here in the city tell me it was Kovalenko’s men. I just got off the phone with the Maltese chief of station about ten minutes before you got here, and he said he was ordered by our people back home to hit Gil Shannon in Messina. And that operation fell flat on its face, too.”

“Shannon got away twice?”

Walton nodded. “He’s a slippery fucker.”

Steiner took a chair, massaging his temples. “This isn’t good, old buddy. If Shannon’s operating in the Med, then he knows about us — he has to — and that means he knows who set him up in Paris. Does Pope know about the plot to sabotage the pipeline?”

“I think we have to assume so.” Walton pushed a cup of coffee across the table. “But if we’re blown — or even just under suspicion — why haven’t we been recalled to Mannheim for debrief?” Mannheim, Germany, was the location of the United States’s military holding facility in Europe.

“Shit, that’s obvious, old buddy. We’ve been disavowed.”

Walton shook his head. “It’s only forty-eight hours since the Paris op went bad. That’s not time enough for all the facts to filter up. I’m thinking Peterson put the contract on Pope to prevent him consulting the president.”

“But he fucked up,” Steiner said. “It’s only a matter of time before we’re either recalled or disavowed.” He got back to his feet, ignoring the steaming cup of coffee. “Look, it’s obvious we backed the wrong horse. Senator Grieves’s little intel coup isn’t going to happen. The president pulled an end around and named Pope as director — which none of us saw coming. So the wishy-washy young Webb doesn’t matter anymore. Pope’s an entirely different animal. His nomination will absolutely be approved, and that bastard’s gonna run the Langley guillotine day and night until he’s cleaned out the entire agency.”

Walton sipped calmly from his coffee, peering over the rim of the cup. “So what are you saying?”

Steiner smirked. “I’m saying it’s time we sold our secrets to the Arab Emirates and got ourselves a change of venue, old buddy. A couple of million for what we know about the CIA is more than reasonable, and I don’t know about you, but I can live just fine on a million bucks.”

Walton sipped again. “You haven’t touched your coffee.”

Steiner picked up the cup, obligingly taking a sip. He retched instantly, dropping the cup and stumbling back against the counter, his face contorting horribly as he grabbed his throat, just managing to croak out “You fuck—!” before crashing to the floor, dead of cyanide poisoning.

Walton stepped over and stood looking down at the body, an ugly white drool oozing from the corner of Steiner’s mouth. “Sorry, old buddy, but two million goes twice as far as one, and I’ve put in too much time to spend my retirement living beneath my means.”

He went into the operations room and picked up a secure line, dialing a stateside telephone number from memory.

“Senator Steve Grieves’s office,” answered a young woman’s voice.

“This is Ben Walton. Put the senator on the phone.”

“Just a moment, sir.”

The senator came on the line a minute later, saying, “I hope you’re calling from a secure line.”

“Secure as they come,” Walton said. “Is it true what I heard about Pope? That he’s going to be named director?”

Grieves replied, “I guess bad news does travel fast.”

“Have you been in contact with Peterson?”

“Peterson knows better than to call me directly — as do you.”

“I’ve called to tell you that I’m out,” Walton said. “Don’t bother looking for me. You won’t find me. From here on, I think we should agree to keep each other’s secrets and leave it at that. What do you say, Senator?”

There was a slight pause at Grieves’s end. “I thought you’d want money.”

“I’m covered for cash,” Walton said. “Besides, this was never about money. It was about keeping the agency out of the hands of men like Webb and Pope. We tried, and we failed. That’s just how it goes.”

“What about Miller and Steiner?”

“Both dead. Miller was killed in the Med by the GRU, and I just found Steiner’s body here in Rome. Looks like cyanide. It could’ve been anybody. That’s why I’m getting out now — today — before it happens to me.”

“What about Peterson?” Grieves asked. “Can I trust him?”

Walton chuckled. “You can trust Ken Peterson about as far as you can throw him, but I wouldn’t worry too much. He’s extremely good at keeping his ass covered, which means yours is probably covered too. Besides, people don’t assassinate senators. It doesn’t look good on CNN.”

“Well, I guess this is good-bye and good luck then, Ben. You’re right. We tried.”

“One more thing before I go,” Walton said. “If Peterson asks you for help with Gil Shannon, I seriously suggest you give him whatever he asks for.”