Ghost Sniper (34 page)

Gil shook his head. “You keep it, partner. One soldier to another.”

Poncho translated, and the farmer nodded, tucking away the pistol as he strolled off in the opposite direction of the church.

Poncho stood watching him. “And now?”

Gil let out a tired sigh. “Now I gotta go see about a girl.”

They mounted up, and Poncho gunned the Jeep back up the trail
toward the jungle road, throwing mud and slimy jungle muck in all directions. By the time they reached the road, both men were completely splattered.

Poncho stopped to disengage the four-wheel drive.

Gil jerked his thumb back toward the village, his face smeared with black muck. “Sure you don't wanna head back down?”

Poncho glanced over his shoulder. “Why?”

Gil wiped the muck from his eyes. “You missed a fucking mud hole back there. I thought you might wanna go back and hit it.”

Poncho gave him a wink. “We didn't get stuck. That's all that matters.”

87

GUADALAJARA, MEXICO

14:00 HOURS

Eight days later, Mariana met with Pope in a fine Italian restaurant in one of the city's wealthiest districts. With a stomach full of butterflies, she stood as he approached the table, offering her hand.

His grip was warm and firm. “Hello, Mariana. You're looking well.”

“Thank you, Bob. I appreciate you making the trip.”

He smiled dryly. “Did I have a choice?”

“Of course. You're the director.”

They made themselves comfortable, and she signaled the waiter. “The driver I sent—his English was sufficient?”

“I'm sure you know that already,” he replied, not unkindly.

Their orders were taken, and Mariana spread a linen napkin in her lap, looking at him and smiling. “I'll come right to the point: Rhett Hancock, Hector Ruvalcaba, Lazaro Serrano, Captain Espinosa, and Clemson Fields are dead.”

“All the heads of the five families,” he said quietly.

Never having seen the film
The Godfather
, the macabre witticism was lost on her. “The southern syndicates have decided to come in under Castañeda in order to avoid a war that would cost everyone a lot of unnecessary blood and treasure. There is one lone holdout: a trafficker down in Tabasco State who hates Castañeda too badly to accept the conditions, but his people are already walking away from him. He won't last the month.”

Pope studied her, his gentle blue eyes calm and focused behind his glasses. “And if Castañeda breaks the truce . . . renews violence along the border?”

“He won't do that. He has everything he could possibly want now. He understands that the DEA will continue to interdict his shipments north of the border whenever they can. And he's even agreed to tip them off from time to time to keep them looking good in the news.”

Pope sipped his water. “Things change.”

“True. Nothing is forever, but if he decides to break the truce, I have someone in place to remove him: someone very close, whose loyalty is more with Mexico than with Castañeda.”

“Interesting.” Pope spread the napkin in his lap, secretly satisfied with the way the situation had developed. “You've been very hard at work.”

“I've had a lot of help.”

“And I'd like to know who from. Not even Crosswhite can be in multiple places at the same time.”

She smiled. “Like you said, I've been very hard at work.”

“And in exchange for this hard work, you expect to be appointed chief of station?”

Mariana hardened her gaze, conveying a confidence she'd actually begun to feel over the past few days. “Your Mexico network is smashed. I've already sent Mike Ortega and his family home with orders never to return. You no longer have any contacts in-country, you don't speak the language, and you have no one to replace me with—not with my qualifications.”

Pope opened his mouth to speak, but she pressed her assault. “I've presented you with a stable border that you can present to the president—taking full credit, of course. I'm the only agent who can guarantee that stability for any foreseeable length of time. Castañeda knows you plotted to have him killed. He respects the power of the CIA, but he no longer has
any
respect for you. Fortunately, he
does
respect me, and he knows that he and I can help each other.

“In short, my network is already in place. It's stable, well connected, and growing more influential by the day. For all intents and purposes, I
am
chief of station. Now, you can fire me, strip me of my affiliation with the agency—even have me killed—but you'd be stupid to consider it, and we both know it.”

“Would I?” he asked, realizing she had the sight now.

“You always have a plan B. I admit it took me awhile to realize that it was me, but once I saw it, the rest was easy.”

Befuddled by the rapid expansion of her acumen, he toiled to perceive its breadth. “Crosswhite's not sharp enough to have discerned that. Who's been counseling you?”

She ignored the question. “Are you going to make my appointment official? Or am I to be recalled?”

“Did Fields try to kill you?”

A dark shadow creased her. “The son of a bitch is dead, isn't he?”

He rested back in the chair. “Then he acted against my instructions. I want that clear between us.”

“Are you going to make my appointment official?”

He nodded. “Yes. Congratulations, Mariana. You're chief of station.”

She breathed a hidden sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

Their salads arrived, and the wine was poured by a waiter with a linen napkin draped over one arm. When he was gone, she took a sip and set down the glass.

“Crosswhite has asked to be retired from service, and I've granted his request. He's no longer available to you.”

This didn't surprise Pope at all. “Should I take it he remains available to you?”

“A trust like ours is rare.”

He sucked his teeth. “Does he know you're in love with him?”

“
I
don't know that I'm in love with him—nor does it matter. He's married with a baby on the way, and I'm not his type. You shouldn't expect to disarm me with these adolescent jibes, Bob. I'm not the same person I was the last time we spoke.”

“It's a damn good thing,” he murmured, half to himself. “What about Chance Vaught?”

“I'm glad you bring him up. His career with DSS is over. That much is clear. And the agency needs to cauterize the Downly bleed as soon as possible”—she locked eyes—“for the good of all.

“Not only does Chance know Mexico, he looks the part, has family in-country, and speaks the language like a Mexican; not to mention he's a damn good operator. I've offered to make him my principal operative in-country, and he's accepted. I assume you can handle the paperwork to start getting him paid—retroactive to last week?”

Pope chuckled, liking what he was hearing. “What makes you so sure this wasn't my plan A?”

In no humor for playful banter, she didn't so much as blink before replying, “Too much has happened down here you know absolutely nothing about.” His smile disappeared. “Mexico is mine. If you want things to run smoothly, you'll stay out of it. What's more, if I catch any of your ATRU people—men
or
women—operating in my province without my knowledge, I'll send them back to wherever they came from in rubber body bags marked ‘Return to Sender.' ”

Pope's smile returned, satisfied fully that Mexico station was in the right hands. He reached for the glass and took a sip of wine. “It's too bad you had to lose your innocence. Personally, I liked you better the other way, but you were too soft; too trusting. That's obviously changed.”

Seeing an opening, she decided to take it. “From what Crosswhite tells me, Gil Shannon trusted you with his life—and apparently that's exactly what it cost him.”

Believing that Mariana had never met Gil in person, Pope took the barb as it was intended, unable to mitigate the offputting effect of it. “No one from the ATRU will set foot in Mexico without advance notice from me and close coordination between you and Midori. You have my guarantee. If I should happen to change my mind on this point, I'll let you know. Fair enough?”

Having just gotten everything she'd hoped for—as Gil had assured her she would—Mariana lifted her glass. “To Mexico?”

He touched the rim of his glass to hers. “To a stable border. I don't care a tinker's damn about Mexico.”

88

BERN, SWITZERLAND

16:00 HOURS

Lena Deiss looked resplendent in her wedding gown. Her heart thudded in her chest as she walked up the aisle toward a smiling Sabastian Blickensderfer, a bouquet of white roses clutched to her breast. Both sides of the towering cathedral were filled to capacity with admiring friends and adoring family. There was a genuine buzz in the atmosphere—a buzz akin to that of a royal occasion—and Lena was content with her decision to marry.

Sabastian had matured since their reconciliation, and he had begun to pay her more attention. Lena had matured as well in the short term, forcing herself to admit that chasing a life of adventure was childish and fanciful. Not even the men who lived that life lived it for very long. They died young, and they died tragically, and they left heartbreak in their wake.

Now she was focused on being a wife and eventually a mother. There would always be plenty of money, and Sabastian had promised
to build her the house she had dreamed of. Well, to be honest, it would be more of a modern castle than a house, but wasn't that a rich husband's job, to treat his wife like a queen? Besides, if she would be expected to tolerate his occasional indiscretions, a castle wasn't too much to ask.

Halfway up the aisle, however, all of her contentment and focus went out the window.

At the far end of a pew on Sabastian's side of the aisle, she glanced at the set and chiseled visage of a man she had believed dead, his piercing gray eyes staring back at her.

Certain that her own eyes were playing tricks, she blinked and shook her head. In that space of time, the ghost had disappeared.

My God!
she thought to herself, stealing a backward glance down the wall to make sure she hadn't seen whom she thought she'd seen, flashing a smile to some friends to cover her awkward lapse.

Her friends smiled back excitedly, giving her a collective thumbs-up of encouragement. The rest of her trip up the aisle was spent in the panicked realization that she could never be content as a wife and mother. She suddenly saw herself taking lovers behind Sabastian's back, as he would take lovers behind hers, both of them living the same mutual lie their respective parents had lived, raising a son or a daughter who would in turn grow up to perpetuate that same lie.

She took her first step at the base of the altar and, for an alarming moment, thought she was going to be sick. Sabastian saw it on her face and stepped down to offer his hand.

“Thank you,” she whispered, stepping up to his side and taking his arm.

“Are you okay?” the priest asked for their ears alone.

She nodded, her breath coming in shallow drafts.

“Very well,” he said, switching on his tiny microphone and lifting his gaze to the congregation.

“Dearly beloved,” he began in a gentle voice, “we are gathered here today in the presence of witnesses to join Lena and Sabastian in the bonds of holy matrimony. Commended to be honorable among
all, this is not a union to be entered into lightly, but reverently, passionately, and lovingly. These two persons—”

Lena cleared her throat, and for a fraction of a second, the priest's attention faltered.

“—present now to be joined—”

She cleared her throat again, and this time he looked directly at her, switching off the microphone. “Are you sure you're okay?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head, breaking out in a sweat and pulling Sabastian's arm to bring him closer. “I can't,” she whispered. “I'm sorry, but I can't do this!”

Sabastian closed his hand over hers, looking into her eyes and smiling. “You might have said something a little sooner, my love.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I'm sorry . . . I truly thought I could, but I can't.”

The cathedral could not have been quieter in that moment had it been completely empty.

He kissed her lips and caressed her face.

“I'm so sorry,” she croaked, the tears flowing.

“For what?” he asked softly, brushing away the tears. “For being the smarter of us?”

She put her arms around him, and they held each tightly for a long moment. Finally, he whispered into her ear, “Don't be afraid. I'll take care of everything.”

They separated, and he asked the priest for the microphone. The perplexed young priest took the slender wire from around his neck and handed it to him.

Sabastian switched on the microphone, put his arm around Lena's waist, and turned to face the congregation, confident and composed.

“Dear friends,” he said, seeking out faces on both sides of the aisle that he knew he could count on. “Dear family.” He kissed Lena's hair. “Lena and I thank you from the bottoms of our hearts for the love you have shown us both by coming here today. We apologize for
this last-minute change in plans, and we beg your forgiveness. We are all imperfect human beings—I more imperfect than most—and we have all made mistakes in our lives.” He paused to smile compassionately over the crowd. “Lena and I have decided
against
making a mistake here today . . . but will you please—
if you love us
—will you
please
join us at the reception hall? There is a fine meal and some very expensive champagne awaiting us all, with an orchestra and dancing that will last the entire night. So please,
please
honor us by joining us in a celebration of this life which we are all so
privileged
to live.”

With that, he handed the microphone back to the priest, and to Lena's astonishment, the congregation began to applaud as Sabastian took her by the hand and led her down the aisle. They arrived at the entrance, and he turned them both to face back toward the altar, waving airily as everyone began standing.

“How was that for poise?” he said into her ear.

Her eyes flooded again. “You'll be a legend.”

“No,” he said, laughing, “but nor will I look the fool.”