The Sniper and the Wolf

29

General Couture was in the White House kitchen drinking coffee and chatting with the French chef, who was making him an early breakfast, when the White House chief of staff came looking for him.

“I heard I might find you in here,” Brooks said with a smile.

Couture shook his hand. “I learned as a second lieutenant to make friends in the kitchen.” He gave the chef a wink. “Whattaya got?”

Brooks hesitated, glancing at the chef, who stood over the stove sautéing a pan of mushrooms.

“Don’t worry about old Jacque,” Couture said, patting the chef on the shoulder. “He’s on our side. What’s up?”

“The SDV team’s been transferred aboard the Ohio,” Brooks said. “She’ll be on station off the point of San Vito Lo Capo within the hour, ready to bring Shannon and Dragunov aboard.”

“Comms?”

“They have a sat phone. It’s less than ideal, but it’s going to have to do. As we speak, they’ve got Kovalenko cornered in a house outside of Palermo. Pope’s technician says it’s still touch and go.”

“Sicilian authorities?”

“Still searching for them to the south in Corleone.” Brooks shrugged. “Don’t ask me why.”

Couture answered with a shrug of his own. “Small mercies.” He took a drink from his coffee. “Latest intel out of Georgia says the Spetsnaz are moving against Umarov, so with any luck, Shannon won’t have to go to Georgia.”

“Speaking of Georgia, the president is wondering whether to call a meeting with British Petroleum. He thinks maybe we should brief them on the pipeline plot. Thoughts?”

Couture shook his head, leading Brooks away from the stove and out of earshot from the chef. “Fuck BP. It’s not even an American corporation. We’re not letting that camel’s nose back under our tent. If the pipeline gets hit, they can learn about it in the news like everybody else. All they have to hear is a whisper about trouble along that pipeline, and they’ll have their Obsidian mercenaries tear-assing all over southern Georgia — doing God knows what — and the last thing we need is a bunch of corporate warriors getting in the way if Shannon ends up in-country.”

“Okay. So how should I put that to the president?”

“Just like that,” Couture said evenly. “You don’t have to sugarcoat shit with him anymore. He gets it now. That fucking idiot Hagen is out, and you’re in. No more dog and pony show.”

“About Hagen…” Brooks lowered his voice even more. “I’ve just been given reason to believe that Pope may have something clandestine in mind for him.”

Couture took another drink of coffee, locking eyes. “Glen, do you know how many men I’ve lost under my direct command during my long and storied career?”

Brooks shook his head.

“Six hundred forty-three men and women,” Couture said. “That’s not counting the suicides among those who made it home. Tim Hagen’s no better than any of them, and if Pope’s got something clandestine in mind for him, then I’m guessing he’s earned it — in spades.”

“Okay. Suppose I had direct information — proof?”

“Do you?”

Brooks thought it over and then let out a sigh. “I don’t know. Not for sure.”

“Then look at this way,” Couture said. “If not for Pope, we’d have lost two supercarriers and a huge chunk of the Pacific Fleet to that nuke last summer — not to mention half a million lives or more. Now, I know you’ve never met Hagen personally, but I know the little prick as well as anybody, and I wouldn’t piss in his mouth if his teeth were on fire.”

Brooks grinned. “Senator Grieves speaks rather highly of him.”

Couture’s scarred face turned to stone. “Senator Grieves would. Leave Hagen to Pope — that’s my recommendation.”