50
THE WHITE HOUSE
Chief of Staff Brooks hung up the phone and turned to where the president and General Couture sat eating a dinner of prime rib and red wine. “That was Jay Tierney.” The US ambassador to Russia. “Shannon just made his shit list.”
The president looked at Couture as he poured himself a third glass of wine. “He’s been known to have that effect on people. Where is he now?”
Brooks retook his seat at the table. “Apparently he and Dragunov parachuted into the Caucasus about fifteen minutes ago. They’re going after Kovalenko and Umarov.”
The president lifted his glass. “What business does Tierney have being pissed about that?”
“None, sir.” Brooks reached for his glass of ice water. “He’s pissed because Shannon had lunch with Putin this afternoon and then took off without bothering to call Tierney to tell him what was discussed.”
Couture kept quiet, waiting to hear what the president would say.
The president sat back and sipped calmly from his glass of Merlot. Neither Couture nor Brooks was aware of it, but Pope had phoned two hours earlier to let him know about Gil’s meeting with Putin and that Gil was en route to the Caucasus. Pope had also mentioned to the president that he no longer had anything to worry about concerning his celebrations after the Iowa caucuses.
He smiled at Brooks. “Get Tierney back on the phone.”
Brooks wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “Sir?”
“Yeah, get him back on the phone.” The president gave a wink to Couture. “Tell him now he knows what it’s like to have Shannon treating you like you don’t fucking count.”
Couture chortled, and Brooks realized the president was kidding about the callback. “You don’t seem surprised that—”
“I’m not,” the president said. “It’s been Pope’s plan all along to send Gil after Umarov. The pipeline is still under threat, and Putin has saved us valuable time.” Then he chuckled, unable to deny feeling the wine. “I sure wish I could be there to see Putin’s face when Shannon finds a way to fuck him.”
Couture was caught completely off guard and laughed out loud.
“Hey, you really wanna laugh?” the president asked. “This is true: Pope told me Putin made Shannon give his word that he wouldn’t deviate from the mission.” He threw back his head with a raucous guffaw, slamming his free hand down on the table. “Goddamnit, how come
we
never thought of that?”
Couture choked on his wine, putting the glass down as he laughed.
Brooks, who hadn’t had a drop to drink all evening, sat gaping at them both.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” chortled the commander in chief. “Lighten the fuck up, Glen. After all, you helped train the disobedient son of a bitch.”
In truth, Brooks had had nothing at all to do with Gil Shannon’s training, but he knew there wouldn’t be any use in trying to make that point, so he smiled and reached for the bottle of wine.
“Drink up,” the president said. “We leave for the Pentagon in five minutes. We don’t want to miss the show.”
51
THE CAUCASUS MOUNTAINS
Gil knew the Chechens might spot Dragunov dangling above them at any second. He picked up a fallen branch the size of a ball bat and hurled it through a gap in the trees behind his own position. The branch landed with a heavy thud, and the Chechens fell silent, bringing their AK-47s to bear. He watched as the leader gave orders to fan out left and right, and considered how best to deal with them; even a single rifle shot might be enough to bring the entire forest down on his head.
Two men flanked right around the boulders, and two flanked left, cutting into the forest at an oblique angle. The leader came directly toward Gil’s position. Gil drew his knife. The Strike One was loaded with subsonic ammo, but even with the suppressor, it would make too much noise given the close proximity. The Chechen leader came on, and he was almost within striking distance when one of the limbs supporting Dragunov’s weight snapped with a sharp crack. The parachute ripped, and Dragunov plummeted toward the
forest floor, jerking to a stop with his heels twelve inches off the ground.
The Chechens scrambled back in that direction, calling out as they moved.
Gil pounced on the leader from behind, ramming the knife into the side of his neck to sever the trachea and ripping it out the front. He tossed the body aside and joined in the wild dash toward Dragunov’s position, taking advantage of the enemy’s confusion to sweep in among them as they converged on the helpless Russian dangling in the harness and struggling to draw his pistol.
One of the Chechens punched Dragunov in the face, and another slugged him in the ribs with the stock of an AK-47.
Gil buried the knife in the back of the slugger’s head, whipping around to open fire on the others at point-blank range. His assault was so swift and sudden, they scarcely had time to realize what was happening. He shot all three in under a second and holstered the pistol, retrieving the knife from the dead man’s skull. Then he cut Dragunov loose from the harness and helped him to rest against a log.
“You okay?”
“The
ublyudok
cracked one of my ribs,” Dragunov growled.
Gil wasted no time getting him ready to fight, attaching the night vision goggles to his helmet and unslinging his AN-94. “Rest here and catch your breath.” He shoved the rifle into the major’s hands. “I gotta grab the rest of my shit.”
When he returned, Dragunov was on his feet and shrugging out of his combat harness.
“What’s wrong?”
“You have to wrap my ribs. I can’t shoulder a rifle with this kind of pain.”
They stripped his gear, and Gil bound his torso tight with an elastic bandage. Dragunov was suited back up and ready to move within a couple of minutes.
He bumped Gil affectionately on the shoulder. “If that branch had broken before you drew them off, they’d have torn me apart.”
“There’s no accounting for luck in combat, partner—we got lucky.” Gil took out his GPS unit to double-check their bearings, and Dragunov got on the radio to Archangel with a situation report.
“Ready to go?” Dragunov asked, holding the cracked rib on his left side.
“Yeah, let’s get the fuck outta here before another patrol comes along. We got a lotta real estate to cover, and I wanna be in position to take that fucker out before first light.”
Kovalenko had been spotted in a truck near the South Ossetian–Russian border the day before, and they were headed for his projected insertion point: a one-lane bridge at the bottom of a river valley north of the remote Sba Mountain Pass. Dokka Umarov was known to have teams of insurgents operating in that region, and according to GRU intelligence, it was the most expedient location for Kovalenko to link up with Umarov’s people. The fact that Gil and Dragunov had already run afoul of a Chechen patrol seemed to confirm the intel.
They moved out with Gil on point, and he set a brisk pace, relying on their night vision to give them an edge.
An hour after Gil and Dragunov cleared the DZ, a hooded figure cloaked in a ghillie suit crept into the kill zone, gripping a suppressed AK-105 assault rifle in 5.45 mm. He carried a Russian-manufactured ORSIS T-5000 precision sniper rifle in .338 Lapua Magnum with folding stock slung over his back. Crouching low in the darkness among the bodies of Umarov’s men, he removed his night vision goggles and used a thermal monocular to scan the terrain for any lingering footprint-shaped heat signatures. When he was sure that he was alone, he examined the bodies and weapons, drawing back the bolt of each AK-47 to sniff the breach. The bodies were cool to the touch, and the breaches of the rifles smelled like clean gun oil.
Sasha Kovalenko then threw back the hood on the ghillie suit and rose up, studying the grisly scene of battle with prurient interest. Whoever had killed the four men at his feet had done so at point-blank range, and with such speed that not one of them had gotten
off a single shot. Looking up into the tree, he saw the camouflaged canopy hanging torn from a broken limb.
Sixty feet away, he found the patrol leader’s body and knelt beside it, taking note of the grisly manner in which he’d been slain—stabbed through the side of neck, instantly severing the larynx for a guaranteed silent kill. Instinct told Kovalenko this was the work of the American. He must have taken the leader from behind before engaging the rest of the patrol where they had found Dragunov hanging from the tree. Had Dragunov been unconscious? Was he injured? And how had the American gotten so bloody close to them without drawing fire? It was all open to surmise, but one thing was certain: the prey had taken the bait, and this time Kovalenko held every advantage.
Within three minutes, he picked up their trail and moved out at a comfortable pace. There was no need to hurry. His job wasn’t so much to kill them as to prevent their escape.
52
HAVANA,
Cuba
It was growing dark when Daniel Crosswhite landed at José Martí International Airport in Cuba.
The customs officer held the rubber stamp poised over his passport.
“Quieres el sello, señor?”
He was asking if Crosswhite wanted his passport stamped. Cuban customs officers were aware that Americans could get into trouble with the US government for traveling to Cuba—more specifically, for spending American money in Cuba—and they rarely stamped American passports because of it.
Crosswhite shook his head and smiled.
“No, gracias.”
The official returned his smile and gave him the passport, welcoming him to Cuba.
“Bienvenido, señor.”
“Gracias.”
Crosswhite bought a cheap cellular phone from a kiosk and then caught a cab in front of the airport.
“
Mercure Sevilla Hotel,
por favor.”
Built in 1908, the Mercure Sevilla Hotel was famous for its Moorish architecture and ornate rooms, but Crosswhite barely paid the decor any attention, dumping his bag in the closet and heading back downstairs to the lobby. He found the doorman outside and slipped him a fifty-dollar bill. Most tourists used US currency in Cuba, though the euro was widely accepted as well.
“Dónde puedo encontrar una muchacha, amigo—una muchacha buena?”
Where can I find a woman—a fine woman?
The doorman was dark complexioned, in his early thirties. He smiled, answering in good English, “You can’t bring a girl here to the hotel, señor
.
”
A shadow fell over Crosswhite’s face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
The doorman took him aside out of earshot. “This is the tourist section,” he explained. “Local woman aren’t permitted inside the hotels, so they take you to their homes.”
Crosswhite’s eyebrows soared. “You’re shitting me.” He began to dig around in his pocket. “What’s your name, amigo?”
“Ernesto, señor.”
“Ernie, I’m Dan.” They shook hands. “I’m gonna be here a few days on business. You gonna be around if I need you?”
Ernesto smiled.
“Estoy a sus órdenes, señor.”
I am at your orders, sir.
“Excellent,” Crosswhite said, slipping him another fifty. “Now, listen. I need to know if any other Yankees show up here at the hotel—military-lookin’ assholes like me.
Comprendes
?
”
Ernesto continued to smile, enjoying the sudden intrigue. “I’ll keep my eyes open, señor. Rely on me.”
“I will,” Crosswhite said, giving him a slip of paper with the number to the cellular he’d purchased at the airport. “If you see anything unusual around here—any fucking thing at all—you call me.
Comprendes
?
”
“I understand exactly what you need, señor. Do not worry.”
“One other thing: the last digit isn’t really a four—it’s a
five
. Can you remember that?”
“Sí,
señor.”
“
Bueno
,” Crosswhite said. “Now, about the girl? I want her thin . . . early twenties . . . long, dark hair. You got one in mind?”
Ernesto grinned. “Paolina will be perfect for you, señor.”
“Paolina!” Crosswhite reached into his jacket for his smokes. “You and me are gonna get along, I think.” He shook loose a pair of cigarettes and gave one to his new friend.
“Paolina is a good girl,” Ernesto said, lighting the cigarette as Crosswhite held the lighter. “You have to be a gentleman. Her parents are very proper.”
Crosswhite’s mouth fell open. “Her fucking parents? Dude, what the fuck are you talkin’ about?”
Ernesto laughed. “This is your first time in Havana?”
Crosswhite took a drag. “I’m guessing you can tell.”
“I will take care of everything, señor. She will arrive here by taxi in twenty minutes. Then you can ride with her to her home. Her mother will cook you a nice meal.”
“Ernie, I don’t wanna meet her goddamn parents.”
“Relax,” Ernesto said. “You hired me, no? Allow me to do my job.”
Crosswhite pointed at him, a half grin on his face. “If this gets fucked up, Ernie, I’ll jerk a knot in your dick. I mean it.”
Ernesto smiled, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “You are going to love her. I swear it. You won’t want to ever leave Cuba after tonight.”
Paolina’s cab pulled up in front of the hotel a half hour later, and Ernesto opened the door for Crosswhite to get in with her.
The moment their eyes met, his heart melted, and he almost got back out of the cab. She couldn’t have been a day over twenty-one, and she was the very picture of innocence, with soft, dark eyes, brown skin and long, kinky black hair.
“Soy Paolina,”
she said in a soft voice.
“Mucho gusto.”
It’s nice to meet you.
“Soy Dan. Mucho gusto.”
They arrived at her house in a poor neighborhood about fifteen
minutes later. Paolina led him inside by the hand and introduced him to her parents—Duardo and Olivia Garcia—who stood waiting for them in the kitchen beside a table set for four. A television played cartoons in another room where a pair of small children could be heard romping around.
Crosswhite had never been more uncomfortable in his entire life, and he regretted having come, but he smiled at her father, who looked the same age as him, and offered his hand.
“Mucho gusto, señor.”
Duardo’s grip was firm, and his gaze was steady.
“Mucho gusto. Bienvenido.”
He motioned Crosswhite into a chair and sat down across from him with a friendly smile as Paolina set about helping her mother to serve the meal. When the table was ready, she took the chair beside him.
No one in the family spoke English, so dinner conversation was entirely in Spanish. Early in the meal, Paolina’s mother excused herself from the table and went into the other room to settle a dispute between the children. Crosswhite had assumed the children to be Paolina’s siblings, but when one of them used the word
abuela
, meaning “
grandmother
,” he realized that at least one of them was probably Paolina’s. He had already made up his mind there was no way he was going to bed her with her parents right in the other room, so he didn’t see any reason not to ask a few personal questions.
Paolina admitted one of the girls was her three-year-old daughter and that the other was her four-year-old sister. Paolina’s father chuckled proudly, boasting that both little girls were beautiful and hot tempered like their mothers.
Crosswhite glanced at Paolina, trying to imagine such a meek girl being hot tempered. He smiled at Duardo, liking him, and asked what he did for a living.
Duardo said he worked as a gardener in a gated neighborhood, and the second he learned that Crosswhite had been a soldier in Afghanistan, the conversation turned to guns. It wasn’t long afterward that Duardo asked his wife to get out a bottle of seven-year-old Havana Club rum. The bottle had never been opened, and Crosswhite
began to protest, but Duardo insisted, and soon both men were laughing like old friends. It grew late, and Paolina’s mother excused herself once again, saying that she needed to put the children to bed. As she left the kitchen, it was obvious she would not return, and Duardo got to his feet. He offered Crosswhite his hand and told him that he had enjoyed meeting him and followed after his wife, bidding Crosswhite good night.
Crosswhite stared after him for a moment and then turned to Paolina, saying that he should probably be getting back to the hotel. The atmosphere became immediately awkward, and he came clean with her, explaining that he had never been to Cuba before and that he had not expected to be received so kindly by her family or to end up making friends with her father.
She stared at him, and for a second he thought she was going to cry.
“No, don’t cry,” he said in Spanish. “I’m still going to pay you for your time and everything.”
Tears spilled from her eyes, and he realized he’d given offense where he hadn’t meant to.
“I’ll call the cab,” she said, getting up from the table. “I don’t want you to pay me. There’s no reason.”
He caught her gently by the hand, and she sat back down.
“Look, I’m not accustomed to girls like you,” he said softly. “You’re too . . . you’re too precious and sweet. I’m accustomed to women who are wild and reckless. Do you understand?”
She touched his face.
“Tal vez es por eso que estás tan solo en el mundo.”
Perhaps that’s why you’re so alone in the world.