The Sniper and the Wolf

18

Pope was getting into the back of a black government sedan at CIA headquarters when he received a text message from Daniel Crosswhite: “Detained by police. Have temporarily lost contact with target.” He sighed and slipped the phone into his coat pocket. It had begun to rain, and the air was turning cold.

“Keep your eyes open, Lieutenant,” he said casually. “There exists the off chance of an attempt on my life. I wouldn’t want you hit in the cross fire.”

The marine driver looked at him in the mirror. “We’ll deal with it, sir.”

Pope was a tall man in his midsixties with soft blue eyes and a head of thick white hair. “Sorry to put you in harm’s way.”

“That’s where marines belong, sir.”

Pope settled into the seat as they pulled out of the parking deck. They drove across the CIA campus, turning onto George Washington Memorial Parkway and heading south along the Potomac River toward the District of Columbia. The GWM was a scenic highway of four lanes with a wide, grassy median separating northbound and southbound traffic. The trees of Fort Marcy National Park were only beginning to bud, and Pope caught glimpses of the river as he rode along, trying to discern in his own mind whether Gil was still alive. There had been no further contact with him since they were cut off the day before, and the murder of the Messina cops was all over the Italian news.

He wondered how much to tell the president. The commander in chief was entitled to a certain degree of plausible deniability, but it was possible that Gil had been killed and that his body might soon be identified. There would be no evidence that Gil was working for the US government, but, regardless, his identification would cause some friction at the executive level.

The satellite phone rang inside his coat, and he answered it quickly, hoping it would be Gil.

“Pope here.”

“Hello, Robert.” It was Vladimir Federov of the GRU. “Have you heard from your man on Sicily?”

“No,” Pope replied. “Have you heard from yours?”

“I’m sorry to say we have not,” Federov said. “But there is good news. There have been no arrests, and their bodies have not been found.”

“Any word on who killed the Maltese sailors?”

“Our people in Rome have concluded that it was Kovalenko,” Federov said. “Also, they have verified that someone in the CIA’s Rome office has been helping him with his logistics — someone named Walton.”

“Good old Ben Walton,” Pope said, a piece of the puzzle falling into place. “That fits.” He had recently reviewed a dossier on the now deceased Captain Miller of the Palinouros in which Walton’s name was mentioned numerous times. Both men were former US Navy. “Walton’s the agent who tipped us on Yeshevsky, the imposter Dokka Umarov, transshipping from the Greek tanker to the Palinouros. Which leads me to conclude that our man in Athens — an agent named Max Steiner — must also be working with Kovalenko. It was Steiner who tipped us that Yeshevsky was boarding the tanker.”

“How do you plan to deal with them?” Federov asked.

“I’m going to have to give that some thought,” Pope said, brushing a speck of lint from the knee of his corduroy slacks. “I’m on my way to meet with the president now.”

“Here is something else you may wish to consider,” Federov added. “We now have cause to believe the real Dokka Umarov sent Yeshevsky to Paris to meet with Al Qaeda, to strike a deal with them for an insurgency — probably posing as the actual Umarov. Such a display of apparent bravado would be convincing to Al Qaeda — considering the distance between Paris and the safety of the Caucasus.”

“Do you think Umarov still intends to hit the pipeline?”

“Personally, I have no doubt.”

Pope needed to know exactly what kinds of resources the GRU could put forth in southern Europe. “Do your people have anyone else available to help Shannon and Dragunov while they’re stuck in the Med?”

There was a slight pause before Federov replied. “Not immediately; not with the necessary skills and intelligence clearances. Dragunov and his men were brought in special.”

“Which leaves the ball in my court,” Pope said. “Okay then. But if I can get them off of Sicily and back to mainland Europe, you can cover their transportation to Georgia?”

“That I can do,” Federov promised. “But we must first verify they are still alive.”

“Well, you said no bodies and no arrests. That’s good enough for me. For now, though, you’re probably right. We have to wait for one of them to make contact.”

Pope was off the line a few moments later, tucking the phone into his coat. “I trust there’s no need to tell you that conversation was top secret, Lieutenant?”

The marine never took his eyes from the road. “What conversation, sir?”

Pope nodded. “Good man.”

When they arrived at the White House, Pope was admitted into the Oval Office for a meeting with not just the president but also the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General William J. Couture, and the new White House chief of staff, Captain Glen Brooks — former commander of the United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group (DEVGRU), aka SEAL Team VI.

These were the only men in Washington who knew about the Antiterrorism Response Unit. Not even the vice president was privy to the ATRU.

Captain Brooks was a broad-shouldered, soft-spoken man with discerning brown eyes, and he carried himself with a calm, military bearing. He’d been chosen to replace Tim Hagen — over dozens of more likely candidates — at Couture’s suggestion. Brooks was in no way a qualified political adviser, but his organizational skills and immediate knowledge of foreign intelligence matters was unsurpassed, and his constant presence provided the commander in chief a full-time military adviser who possessed actual hands-on experience — the kind of experience that Hagen had sorely lacked.

Within five days of Brooks’s appointment, the White House had begun to function with the same military efficiency as a US aircraft carrier conducting flight operations. With nuclear terror now a bona fide reality, many on Capitol Hill were wondering if the likes of hard-core warrior types like Brooks and Couture might be the future of White House staffers, and well-known journalists were writing ever-critical op-ed pieces speculating on what an increasingly militarized federal government might mean for the future of the United States.

“Bob,” the president said, standing to reach across the desk. “Glad you could make it.”

“Thank you, sir.” Pope turned and shook hands with Couture. “Bill,” he said quietly, “good to see you.”

General Couture was the only man in the room taller than Pope. He had merciless gray eyes and a wicked scar on the left side of his face, courtesy of an Iraqi RPG-7 grenade launcher. “Bob, you remember Glen.”

“Yes, of course,” Pope said, matching the firmness of Brooks’s grip.

Everyone sat, and the president rocked back in his chair. “Okay, Bob, bring us up to speed on Dokka Umarov and this BTC pipeline business. Is Umarov finally dead?”

Pope pushed his glasses up onto his nose. “No. He’s not. But our immediate problems are much bigger than Dokka Umarov.” He broke Gil’s situation down over the next fifteen minutes, and when he was finished talking, everyone sat waiting to see how the president would react.

If the president was rattled, it didn’t show. In fact, he appeared vaguely intrigued. “General?” he said quietly.

Couture looked at Pope. “How badly is Shannon wounded?”

“I have no idea,” Pope replied. “As I say, he might even be dead, but there’s no reason to assume that yet. My gut tells me he’s still alive and combat effective.”

Couture shifted his gaze to Brooks. “Glen, you’re the navy man. Who do we have in the Med to pluck those two maniacs off that island without the Italians getting wise? We obviously can’t involve any of our people at Sigonella — at least not directly.” He was referring to US Naval Air Station Sigonella, located on the eastern side of Sicily.

Brooks gave a calm, sly smile, reminding everyone present that silent waters ran deep. “There’s a detachment from Group Two aboard the Whitney.” He was referring to Naval Special Warfare Group Two, which commanded SEAL Teams II, IV, VIII and X. The USS Mount Whitney (JCC 20) was the command ship of the US Sixth Fleet, presently on station in the eastern Mediterranean. Brooks turned to the president. “A squad from SEAL Team Eight could be brought to bear rather quickly, sir.”

“What do you propose?” the president asked.

“Well, sir, assuming Shannon and Dragunov are still alive… and assuming we can reestablish contact… our best chance would be a submersible SDV: a SEAL delivery vehicle. It could be used to sneak both Shannon and Dragunov aboard the USS Ohio. The Ohio’s a ballistic missile sub fitted with a pair of dry dock shelters on her hull.” He grinned. “And this is exactly the kind of mission she was fitted out for. I recommend we get a team of SEALs aboard and get her into position ASAP.”

The president sat behind his desk feeling for a moment like Captain James T. Kirk at the con of the Starship Enterprise. It was good to be in command, but it was even better knowing that you were surrounded, at last, by men who knew how to do their jobs. And he was glad to finally have no one in between himself and Pope.

“I’m glad I never fired him,” he thought. “I can’t afford to be without him now.”

“I’ll leave the details to you, General.” He knew that Brooks would cut the actual orders to the navy, which was not strictly within the authority of the White House chief of staff, but the White House now ran on a perpetual war footing, for all intents and purposes, and everyone in the Joint Chiefs understood it.

“Now, about this shadow cell you mentioned, Bob. Do you have recommendations?”

Pope didn’t need to explain the CIA’s troubled state; everyone was acutely aware of how badly the aging intelligence agency was foundering. Many on Capitol Hill were even calling for the CIA to be broken up, its responsibilities distributed across the FBI, the NSA, and the DIA — the Defense Intelligence Agency, which presently handled all military-based espionage operations. It was obvious even to the president that the CIA was in genuine danger of slipping into obsolescence in the post — Cold War era, and he was secretly on the verge of going public with that exact sentiment. The ATRU could easily — and probably should — be placed under the auspices of the DIA.

“First,” Pope said, “I’d like to bring Cletus into the fold.” Cletus Webb was the acting director of the CIA, his confirmation still on hold in the Senate. “This intelligence coup is happening on his watch, right under his nose.”

“Do you suggest making him privy to the ATRU as well?” Couture asked.

“I don’t see how we could avoid that.”

The president shifted in his seat. “Is Cletus the right man, Bob? Did I make a mistake with his appointment? You can speak frankly.”

Pope noted how much more relaxed the president was now that Hagen had left the White House; how much more reasonable and willing he was to ask for advice. “Cletus is not the problem, Mr. President. He’s a good man.”

The president glanced at Couture. “What do you think, Bill? Is today the day?”

Couture nodded. “I think so, Mr. President.”

Pope looked between them. “The day for what?”

“Bob,” the president said, “I’ve given this a lot of thought, and the three of us have spoken about it at length. I’m going to withdraw Webb’s appointment.”

Pope didn’t like the sound of that. Anyone else they brought in to fill Webb’s position would have too many scores to settle, and that would serve only to further destabilize the agency.

“Mr. President, in all honesty, I think that would be a mistake.”

“I’m going to appoint you as director of operations instead.”

Pope sat back, his spine stiffening involuntarily.

“Effective today,” the president went on. “When I make the official announcement, I also intend to make it clear that you almost single-handedly saved San Diego from nuclear destruction last September — a necessary minor embellishment.” He traded glances with Couture, a smirk coming to his face. “Let Senator Grieves try and delay this confirmation.”

“Mr. President, I’m not the—”

“I’m sorry, Bob, but I’m leaving you no choice. You’ll relieve Cletus of his duties today.”

“But, sir, he’s—”

The president held up his hand. “Don’t worry about Cletus. I agree he’s a damn fine man. So if you want him for your DDO, that’s entirely fine by me. To be honest, I don’t give a damn if you let him run the show — I know how you like to spend your time in private doing whatever it is you do — but I want your name on the goddamn door.”

Brooks sat back and chortled. “That’s going to set a cat among the pigeons.”

The president puffed up his chest, nodding with satisfaction. “It damn well better. If not, I’ll close down that entire shop over there — then we’ll see how they like it.”

“What about the Joint Chiefs?” Pope asked. “I’ve never exactly been their favorite person.”

The president pointed at Couture. “There sits the chairman — and this was his idea.”

Pope looked at Couture. “And I haven’t exactly been your favorite person, either.”

Couture smiled. “I think we’ve come to understand one another rather well these past couple years. Don’t you?”

Pope nodded, sat thoughtfully for a couple of moments, and then looked at the president. “Mr. President, if Shannon is still alive, I intend to send him into the Caucasus to kill Dokka Umarov.”

The president exchanged brief glances with each of his military advisers, and then, hearing no objections, said, “There’s something you’re not telling us, isn’t there?”

“Do I have a free hand, sir, to root out the people who exposed Shannon in Paris?”

“It’s your agency now, Bob. Do what you have to do to clean it up, or I’ll have to throw in with Grieves and the other radicals over there on the Hill, and we will shut it down.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

A short time later, as Pope was settling into the back of the sedan in front of the White House, the marine lieutenant asked as a politeness, “Everything go okay, sir?”

Pope met the lieutenant’s gaze in the mirror. “Just the way I’d planned, as a matter of fact.”