The Sniper and the Wolf

PROLOGUE

Former White House chief of staff Tim Hagen sat beside the pool at his Cancún hotel on the tip of the Yucatán Peninsula sipping a piña colada and skimming a paperback copy of The Art of War by Sun Tzu. Though he knew each of the twenty-seven concepts backward and forward, he enjoyed studying the printed words, searching them for insight into the mind that had written them. He was particularly interested in the concepts covered in chapter thirteen, “The Use of Spies.”

Up until six months earlier, Hagen had been chief military adviser to the president of the United States, but that had changed abruptly upon the president’s asking for his resignation mere minutes after San Diego was nearly destroyed by a Soviet-era suitcase nuke. Of course, Hagen’s ego wouldn’t permit him to see that he’d brought the dismissal upon himself through his constant manipulation of the president to serve his own ambitions. Instead, he blamed Gil Shannon and Robert Pope for undermining his influence.

Now Hagen was waiting to hear that the indefatigable Navy SEAL was either dead or on his way to a French prison. Upon hearing the news, he would return to Washington, DC, with his honor restored to him and begin anew his ambitious pursuits of power and influence. He intended to offer his strategic services to a rising new political star: a handsome, young senator named Steve Grieves from New York, who, with the right guidance, might one day make a successful run at the White House.

A hotel concierge approached from across the patio. “Señor Hagen?”

Hagen looked up from the book. “Yeah, I’m Hagen.”

“There is a call for you, señor, at the front desk.”

Hagen glanced at his phone sitting silent beside his drink on the table. “For a Tim Hagen?”

“Sí, señor.”

Wondering if something had gone wrong, Hagen picked up his phone and left the book on the table. “Show me the way.”

“This way, señor.” The concierge guided him to the hotel lobby, and they stopped at the front desk, where a young woman handed Hagen the landline.

“This is Hagen,” he said, taking the receiver.

“Tim?”

“This is Tim Hagen,” he said impatiently. “To whom am I speaking?”

“Tim, it’s Bob Pope. How are you enjoying the sunshine down there?”

Hagen’s heart skipped a beat, and his sandaled feet felt suddenly cold. “Well enough,” he said, clearing his throat. “What can I do for you, Robert?”

“I’m calling to tell you that Gil Shannon has run into some serious trouble in Paris.”

“I’m awfully sorry to hear that,” Hagen said, a thin smile coming to his lips as the blood began to flow again. “But I’m no longer with the White House. Why would I be interested in anything having to do with Chief Shannon?”

Pope chuckled. “Well, I know how closely you and Lerher have been following his career.”

Pope’s cheerful demeanor sent a chill down Hagen’s spine. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, Robert, but I—”

“Gil’s out of France,” Pope said, his tone suddenly icy. “So if I were you, I’d start looking for a cave to hide in.”

Hagen’s mouth went dry. “Listen, you don’t — who the hell is Lerher?”

“You should be running,” Pope answered, “instead of standing there in the lobby wearing that ridiculous hat.”

The line went dead, and Hagen turned around, searching the lobby for anyone resembling Robert Pope. He spotted a security camera on the wall above the desk. “Is your security system connected to the internet in any way?”

The concierge glanced up at the camera, a puzzled look on his face. “I don’t know, señor. I don’t think so. Why, is something wrong?”

“No,” Hagen said, his paranoia increasing by the moment. “I’ll be checking out within the half hour. Please send someone to the room for my bags.”

“Sí, señor.” The concierge smiled curiously at the young woman as Hagen hurried off across the lobby, watching him drop his Panama hat into a hotel trash container on his way to the elevator, wondering why the caller had asked him to describe what Mr. Hagen was wearing before bringing him to the phone.