The Sniper and the Wolf

76

Peterson was back on the phone with Roy, his Mexico City contact, astounded by the news that Walton had shown up in Maryland and gotten himself killed.

“What do you mean he shot Pope?”

“All I know,” Roy said, “is that he walked into Pope’s room, shot him, and got gunned down by the Secret Service two seconds later.”

“I don’t fucking believe it!” Peterson said. “He never said a word about going back to the States.”

“Well, it gets even more bizarre than that,” Roy said.

“How? What the hell else don’t I know?”

“It looks like he probably killed Steve Grieves before he paid Pope a visit. The senator’s car blew up down the street from the Capitol less than an hour before Walton showed up at the hospital. So if it wasn’t Walton’s work, it’s one hell of a coincidence.”

Peterson stood with his jaw hanging down. “Christ Almighty. I must have been next.”

“That’s probably a safe bet,” Roy said. “It looks like Ben was cleaning house all across the board. You know, I never did think he was all that stable. The guy enjoyed waterboarding people way too much.”

“That’s why he was taken off the detail,” Peterson muttered. “Listen, you’re sure he’s dead?”

“Yeah, that’s confirmed. You don’t have to worry about him. How are things going with Crosswhite?”

“Last I heard,” Peterson said, “my guys were about to pop the Mederos bitch.” He chuckled. “Then they were gonna move against Crosswhite. They weren’t supposed to risk a callback unless something went wrong, and I haven’t heard from them or Captain Ruiz, so it’s looking like everything went according to plan this time — no bodies in the street. I’ll get confirmation tomorrow and let you know.”

“Do that,” Roy said. “I’d like to be able to close the file at my end. Depending on how things work out in the future, I may be able to use your eyes and ears in Havana. Hey, maybe we’ll get lucky, and Pope will throw a clot. If he croaks, I might even be able to get you white-listed in a couple of years — get you some room to breathe.”

“We can sure as hell hope,” Peterson said. “Let me know when you want to do business, and I’ll get you my account numbers.”

“Okay, but there’s no hurry. We’re talking eighteen months or so down the road.”

They ended the call a couple minutes later, and Peterson stepped to the window for a look down at the street, where two off-duty cops sat in a white car outside the gate to the finca. Satisfied that all was in order, he went downstairs, took a small snub-nosed .38 revolver from his back pocket, and set it on a table inside the backdoor.

Then he changed into a pair of shorts and went outside for a swim. It was good to be alive.