The Sniper and the Wolf

69

Bob Pope had fallen asleep shortly after the helicopter flew off and left Gil behind. He opened his eyes a half hour later to see a barrel-chested doctor with close-cut gray hair standing at the foot of his bed, reading his chart. He glanced over and saw that the door to the room was closed. Then he studied the ID tag hooked to the doctor’s pocket. The name didn’t match the face on the tag. “Ben Walton, I presume?”

Walton looked up, taking a silenced Walther PPK pistol from inside his white doctor’s smock and tossing the chart onto the foot of the bed. “Where’s the key?” he asked in his deep voice.

Pope was immediately puzzled. “What key?”

“The key Shannon took from Miller aboard the Palinouros.”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Pope said. “Shannon hasn’t mentioned any key.”

“I searched Miller’s body myself, along with his cabin. Don’t play with me. Shannon has the fucking key.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Pope said, “but he hasn’t mentioned it to me.”

Walton held the pistol level. “Where is he?”

Pope pointed at the laptop sitting on the adjustable table angled across his bed. “That’s him moving through the woods.”

Walton stepped around to see the screen more clearly. “Where the hell is that?”

“Somewhere in the Caucasus.”

Walton cocked a suspicious eyebrow. “You mean he’s still chasing Kovalenko?”

Pope shrugged. “He’s a very willful boy. I thought you were headed for Cuba.”

“I know you did.” Walton smirked. “That’s why I’m here. Also, Senator Grieves needed to be dealt with.”

“You’ve already paid him a visit?”

“Yeah.” Walton gestured at the red telephone on the table beside the computer. “Nobody’s called you on the bat phone yet to tell you about it?”

Pope shook his head.

“Maybe it’s because they suspect you had something to do with it.”

“I’m sure somebody does.” Pope’s gaze was set. “If they didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing my job correctly.”

Walton took an empty 100 cc syringe from the pocket of his smock and set it down on the table, with the shiny needle pointing right at Pope. “I want you to inject all that air into your IV line.”

Pope looked at the syringe. “And if I don’t?”

Walton put the muzzle of the silencer against the side of Pope’s head. “Then your brains go all over the wall. Now stop stalling.”

Pope reached for the syringe, and Walton took a step back.

“I can’t reach the line very well.”

Walton stepped around and used his foot to push the IV stand closer to the bed. “Get this heart attack on the road, Bob. You’re not stalling your way out of this.”

“Did you kill Steiner?” Pope asked, reaching to pull the IV stand closer. “I ask because—”

Walton jammed the muzzle of the silencer back up against Pope’s head, saying through gritted teeth, “Do it now, asshole!”

Pope fumbled with the line for a moment. Then he made a sudden grab for the weapon, snatching the muzzle away from his head before Walton could squeeze the trigger.

“Help!” he screamed at the top of his voice, holding onto the gun with both hands, his thumb over the hammer.

Walton twisted the weapon free and shot Pope in the chest as two Secret Service agents burst into to the room. He had time to fire once and miss before they shot him down. He collapsed to the floor between the wall and the bed.

Pope lay back holding his chest. “Goddamn, he got in the same lung.” Then he leaned over the rail and vomited onto Walton’s legs. “Hey. He’s still alive over here.”

One of agents came around the bed and kicked Walton’s gun across the room.

“Finish him,” Pope said. “Finish him before someone comes in.”

“I can’t do that, Mr. Pope. He’s down and disarmed.”

Walton looked up at Pope, holding his shoulder and grinning. “Fuck you, Bobby. By the time I get done testifying to Congress, there won’t be anything—”

Pope shot him in the forehead with a Glock 26 taken from beneath his blanket.

He looked at the stunned Secret Service agents and put the pistol on the table. Then he sat back and closed his eyes. “Sweet Jesus, if this doesn’t hurt worse than it did the first time.”

The agents stood looking at each other. “What do we do?” one of them whispered.

“I suggest putting that gun back in his hand,” Pope said quietly. “You two are in enough trouble already for letting him get past you.” He opened his eyes. “I can make that trouble go away — or not. It’s your call.”

One of the agents retrieved the Walther and dropped it into Walton’s lap. Ten seconds later, a pair of hospital cops appeared in the doorway, weapons drawn.

“All clear in here!” said the agent. “Director Pope needs a surgeon! He’s been shot!”