Ghost Sniper

30

Fascinated by all types of world matters, from international trade agreements, to corporate espionage, to the extramarital affairs of the rich and powerful, Bob Pope was the quintessential spy. He spied on all governments, all leaders, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. He was addicted to the intelligence he gathered and possessed the photographic memory to store almost all of it. His recall capacity was outstanding, and though he had begun to catch himself overlooking minor details in recent months, he was still near the top of his game, close to realizing his vision for the CIA.

Within the next two years, Islamic terrorism would be financially isolated, cut off from the double-dealing tycoons willing to do business with anyone if it meant an extra million or two at the end of the quarter. Already Pope’s new CIA was making significant inroads into the Saudi government. Soon even members of the royal family, secretly aiding their Wahhabi friends in Iraq and Pakistan, would begin turning up just as dead as their European counterparts, causing terrorist funding to dry up still faster.

Pope had even found a way to strong-arm the National Security Agency into supplying him with intelligence, taking evidence before Congress to demonstrate that too much of the NSA’s time and resources were being wasted in the act of spying on Americans, stressing that the atomic threat, along with 99 percent of all other threats to national security, lie outside the United States, not within.

He was not a politician by any means. He was not delicate in his approach. He was a mathematician, and he knew that wars were won mathematically, believing strongly that the time to worry about politics would come after the defeat of fundamentalist Islam.

“Bob,” the president of the United States had said to him in private the week before, “I worry it’s beginning to get out of hand.”

Pope had put on his most innocent face while making his reply. “What is getting out of hand, Mr. President?”

The president looked at him. “This private war of yours.”

“Sir, our enemies are finally beginning to run scared. And there’s been zero proof of CIA or ATRU involvement in any of our operations.”

“Operations?” the president said. “They’re assassinations, Bob! The world is beginning to see the CIA in the same light it saw the KGB!”

Pope responded in a slightly elevated tone: “Mr. President, with respect, this country was attacked with a pair of atomic bombs — a pair, sir. Now is not the time for us to worry about the world’s perception of the CIA. Our enemies fear the CIA again for the first time since the Cold War—as they should—and it’s because I’ve taken the focus off our own people and put it back where it’s supposed to be: on the enemy.”

“You stop right there!” the president said, rocking forward in his chair, his finger pointed across the desk. “I’m the one who reigned in the NSA.”

Pope was undaunted. “And who’s keeping them in check, Mr. President? You? Congress? I’m the man keeping an eye on them; monitoring their activities. I’m the one they fear, sir. Not you — with all respect.”

At that, the president sat back, recognizing the truth in what Pope had said. The NSA had long grown out of control, all attempts by Congress to reign it in having failed. “Well, Bob, to be honest, I’m beginning to fear you a little bit myself — and you know I can’t allow that paradigm to continue indefinitely.”

“You won’t need to, Mr. President. You’re halfway through your second term. You only need to allow it for two more years. By then, my job will be finished, and we’ll leave the next administration a much safer nation to look after than we have right now.”

The president doubted it could be that simple, but he paused to allow the tension of the moment to pass.

“The Senate Oversight Committee is asking to see your books. Are they going to find any misappropriated funds?”

“Are they unhappy with our results?” Pope asked, knowing that the Senate loved him.

The president darkened slightly. “Don’t answer my questions with questions of your own.”

“I apologize,” Pope said, adequately chastened. “The Senate Oversight Committee won’t find so much as a nickel out of place.”

“Which means you’ve found alternative funding… somewhere.”

“Are you asking me a direct question, Mr. President?”

The president brought up his pointing finger again. “One slipup, Bob. One shred of credible evidence connecting the CIA to one of your assassins, and I’m pulling the plug. The purpose of the ATRU was to target terrorists, for Christ sake, not shady businessmen.”

Pope remained unapologetic, knowing the president still needed him. “I see very little daylight between the two, Mr. President.”

“Have I made myself clear, or not?” the president wanted to know.

“You have, sir.”

That afternoon, Pope punched the security code into the keypad outside one of his private intelligence gathering rooms and entered to find his protégé, Midori Kagawa, sitting at a console with two other young Japanese American women whom he’d hired the year before to help with his ATRU operations. Ever since his time in Southeast Asia during the latter part of the Vietnam War, he’d had a certain affinity for Asian women.

“How are things in Switzerland, ladies?”

“Not good,” Midori said.

Pope stopped midstride, his good humor vanishing. “What’s happened?”

Midori looked up from the console. “Blickensderfer is still alive, and Jarvis Adler doesn’t respond to my communications.”

Pope set down his coffee cup. “Ladies, please give us a moment.”

The other two young woman got up from their chairs and left the room.

The door closed behind them, and Pope turned to Midori. “Are we exposed?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so, but it’s definitely an anomaly. I’m hacked into local traffic surveillance in Bern. Adler’s car is parked on the street across from Blickensderfer’s house, but Blickensderfer is still alive. I’ve just confirmed that he’s present at a fund-raising dinner where he’s scheduled to speak this evening. So either he got lucky and killed Adler himself, or we didn’t check back far enough, and he had private security inside the house. Either way, confidence is pretty high that Adler is dead.”

Pope pulled on his chin. “And Blickensderfer is acting as though nothing happened?”

“It appears so, yes.”

“Interesting. By now he must know that his back-channel message to me has fallen upon deaf ears.”

“I’d say that’s a safe assumption, but it’s only an assumption.”

Pope sucked his teeth. “Any word from Gil?”

She hesitated a fraction of a second. “No.”

“Then he must still be chasing around with Lena Deiss,” he remarked absentmindedly.

“What about Blickensderfer?”

“We’ll back off for a moment — give ourselves time to sort out what’s happened before risking another attempt. For now, get a message to Gil. Have him contact me direct.”

“Priority level?”

“Low.”

“So you’re not sending him back after Blickensderfer?”

Pope shook his head. “No. Gil has too many principles. In hindsight, it might have been a mistake to send him after Blickensderfer in the first place.”

Midori smiled. “You know what they say about the right tool for the right job.”

“Well …” Pope hesitated a moment. “Adler was the right tool for this job, and look how it’s apparently turned out.” He picked up his coffee and turned for the door. “Make sure you get that message to Gil.”