Ghost Sniper (7 page)

12

MALBUN SKI LODGE, LIECHTENSTEIN

13:45 HOURS

Another man, well dressed in a black suit, came into Gil's hotel room carrying a black leather valise. He was blond with a merciless gaze and fewer tattoos than the other men. He dropped the valise onto the bed and sat down across from Gil with a mirthless smile.

“You are in some big trouble,” he said in accented English.

Gil nodded, resigned to his fate.

“You killed many of my men in Istanbul,” the Russian went on. “You stole my whores and took them back to Moscow. You made me look like a fool in front of very important people.”

Gil stared back at him.

“You don't recognize me, do you?”

Gil shook his head.

The Russian held up his middle finger. “You made this gesture to me at the airport in Istanbul. Do you remember me now?”

Gil did not remember the man's face, but he remembered giving
a pair of Russians the finger at the airport the night that he and a Russian Spetsnaz operative had freed more than a dozen kidnapped Russian women who'd been forced into prostitution. He shrugged, and then he nodded.

“Good,” the Russian said. “Because I want you to remember that it was
you
who made this personal—not me.”

Oddly enough, Gil saw his point.

The Russian opened the valise and took out a pair of common pliers. “I will use these to crush your testicles.” He set them aside and took out a pair of jagged pinking shears. “These I will use to remove your scrotum—which I will feed to you after I break out your teeth. Your penis I will tear off by hand.”

Gil felt himself beginning to sweat. At least the Afghanis just chopped off your head and left it at that. But like the man said, Gil had made it personal.

Note to self
, he thought, snorting in spite of his growing fear.

“Something is funny?” the Russian asked, vaguely amused.

Gil shrugged.

The Russian told a particularly heavily tattooed man in their own language to take the tape from Gil's mouth.

The man arched a dark eyebrow. “What if he screams?”

“Then I will crush his windpipe. Do as I say.”

The tattooed man stepped over and ripped the tape from Gil's face.

Gil pursed his burning lips and sat looking at the men.

“You're not going to scream?” the Russian asked.

Gil was resolute. “Trust me. I'd scream like a little girl if I thought it would do me any good.”

The Russian nodded. “What was funny?”

“I just made a mental note not to let shit get personal in the future.” He smirked. “It still sounds kinda funny.”

The Russian grinned. “It won't sound funny for very long.”

“Maybe we should get started then,” Gil said grimly, sweat running down from his armpits. “I got someplace I gotta be.”

The Russian gestured, and the heavily tattooed man pressed the
tape back over Gil's mouth. A second later, there came a knock at the door. Gil jerked around in the chair, but one of the Russians was fast to put a knife to his throat.

Everyone sat still.

A few moments later, there was another knock.

Someone stole a peek through the peephole, and then came back and whispered to the Russian that it was the Swiss banker's woman.

The Russian looked shocked. “What the hell is
she
doing here?”

The other man shrugged.

Gil knew it had to be Lena.

“What do we do?” the heavily tattooed man asked.

“Shit,” the Russian muttered, wiping his mouth. “Let her in.”

The other man opened the door, and Lena came into the room. Her eyes grew wide when she saw Gil taped to the chair, naked and bleeding from a gash over his eye.

She wheeled on the Russian, hissing in English: “What the fuck are you doing?”

“This man is CIA,” the Russian said. “He—”

“Of
course
he's CIA, you stupid fool! Where do you think Sabastian gets his intelligence? From barbarians like you? Let him loose from that chair—now!”

The Russian gestured lamely at Gil. “He—”

“He
what
?” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips.

The Russian was about to tell her that Gil had stolen thirteen of his sex slaves six months earlier, but he suddenly realized that Sabastian Blickensderfer—a billionaire weapons dealer—couldn't care less about such things. “I didn't know he was here with Blickensderfer.”

“You'd better get your men out of here.” She moved toward Gil's chair. “I have to get this man cleaned up before Sabastian finds out what you've done to him. He's supposed to be under Sabastian's protection! How do you think this makes my man look in front of the CIA?”

Browbeaten, the Russian gestured for his men to leave the room. “We had no idea.”

“Fine. Just go.” She began stripping the tape from one of Gil's wrists. “Get out!”

The Russians left, taking the black valise with them, and she quickly freed Gil's wrists and ankles.

He peeled the tape from his mouth and got to his feet. “What are you doing?”

“Saving your life, obviously.” She grabbed his pants from the floor. “Hurry and get dressed. The second Sabastian finds out about this, they'll be back.”

He began to get dressed. “They work for Sabastian?”

“They're regular customers.” She handed him his shirt. “They buy guns. I didn't know they were here until I saw them down in the lobby, but I knew they weren't here to see Sabastian, so that left only you—
because they sure as hell don't ski
.”

He put on his shoes, grabbed the Springfield from the dresser, and slipped it beneath his jacket.

“So you're CIA,” she said, looking at him, a half smile on her face.

“Kinda.” He moved toward the door. “How soon before they talk to Sabastian?”

“About this? Hopefully never. But I guess that depends on what you did to make them mad.”

Gil recalled that, in addition to flipping the Russian the bird at the airport, he had also mouthed the words
Fuck you
, making it even more personal. “I'm guessing it probably won't be too long.”

13

AJIJIC, MEXICO

13:30 HOURS

Without telling anyone other than Paolina where he was going, Crosswhite hopped an early Volaris airline flight to the city of Guadalajara, northwest of Mexico City, to meet with a CIA/ATRU agent he trusted. Agent Mariana Mederos had agreed to meet him in the American retirement community of Ajijic near Lake Chapala, where Crosswhite wouldn't look out of place. Chapala was the largest freshwater lake in the country; dozens of launches were tied up along a concrete pier that tourists could hire to take them for rides along the shoreline.

Crosswhite had worked with Mariana in both Mexico and Cuba the previous spring, eliminating two key traitors to the US government who had attempted to assassinate both CIA Director Robert Pope and Crosswhite's best friend, Gil Shannon.

They met in a restaurant overlooking the lake. “Thanks for coming down,” he said.

“It's no trouble.” Mariana was a Mexican American in her early thirties, with dark hair that she usually wore in a ponytail. “Pope's got me based out of Austin now. He wanted me in position to help you if anything happened down here. I swear that man has a sixth sense. He told me last week that Downly coming down here was a bad idea.”

Crosswhite signaled the waiter. “I joke about Pope having superpowers, too, but he's just a man—a man with a helluva lot of information at his disposal and a brain big enough to make sense of it.”

She chuckled. “Sounds like a superpower to me.”

“Touché.”

They placed their orders with the waitress.

“How's Paolina?”

He smiled. “Three months pregnant.”

She sat back, a little stunned, a little envious. Crosswhite was so much different from the last time she'd seen him. Calmer somehow. He had saved her life in Havana, and she'd kept a special place in her heart for him since then—which was odd, because she couldn't stand him when they'd first met. “Congratulations,” she said quietly.

“Thank you,” he said, knowing that Mariana had initially disapproved of him marrying a former prostitute.

“Aren't you afraid of starting a family, considering the work you do?”

He stared across the lake. “It's not something I think about. Life's too short.”

“And it can turn on a dime,” she warned. “We both know that.”

He looked at her, recalling her rape in Havana; how she'd nearly been killed and how he'd beaten both of her assailants to death. “How are you?”

“I'm okay,” she said truthfully. “I have days that are tough, but the work helps, and I've got a good therapist.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

She nodded. “He's a nice guy—a lawyer. He has no idea what I really do for a living, so I'm not sure how long it will last. I don't make a very good liar.”

Crosswhite took a pensive drag from a cigarette. “One day at a time.”

She was squeezing a wedge of lime into her beer. “So exactly what the hell is going on down here?”

“I've been shanghaied by the PFM.”

“Because of the Downly assassination?”

He nodded. “You heard they reported Chance Vaught dead this morning?”

“Yeah, Pope gave me the heads-up.”

“Well, he's been shanghaied along with me as a witness against Serrano—which Pope must already know as well—but I'm not sure he knows there's an American GI running down here doing hits for the Ruvalcabas. A Ranger sniper. He's the one who blew Downly away.”

The latter came as a surprise to Mariana. “Have you told Fields?”

“Fields knows, but I don't know how much intel he's kicking upstairs to Pope. He told me over the phone this was
his
operation. I don't like the sound of that, so I want you in the loop.”

“That's fine with me, but Fields might not like it.”

“Fuck Fields. He's a spook. I understand why Pope is using him, but I don't trust the guy.”

“But if Pope trusts him, doesn't that sort of—”

“Sort of what?” He watched her eyes. “Do you assume we can trust Pope?”

She sat up straight. “Since when don't
you
trust him?”

He shrugged, his wary eyes scanning the passersby. “Let's say I've learned a few things about him. Nothing to doubt his patriotism, but it's still the last refuge of a scoundrel.”

Her face twisted into a sardonic smile. “Remember what you told me last spring? You said this is the business that we're in, and if I couldn't live with it, to find something else to do.”

“And I stand by that. All I'm saying is that Pope's trust in Clemson Fields shouldn't automatically translate into
our
trust in Clemson Fields.”

“Fair enough,” she conceded. “Should I mention your doubts about Fields to Pope or keep them to myself?”

“Pope's sharp enough to read between the lines. Besides, we're not going to change his mind about anything. He's already a dozen moves ahead of us, and he's going to do whatever the hell he wants.”

“You do realize,” she remarked, “that he's probably the single most powerful man in Washington now—after the president.”

Crosswhite exhaled smoke through his nose. “And Congress loves him. After saving San Diego from the nuke last year and surviving two assassination attempts in the same week, they see him as the hero-protector.”

She sat chewing her lip, lost in thought. “Damn, why do I feel like we're sitting here speaking treason against Caesar?”

He smiled. “Are we? Is Pope like Caesar now? I don't know.”

“Well, the ATRU
is
slowly becoming his own private army, isn't it?”

“You don't know the half of it.”

She stared. “What don't I know?”

After a moment's hesitation, he told her about the gold bullion and Pope's plan for the money. “He's hitting whoever the hell he wants—based on his own judgement—and he's hiring free agents off the books; pipe hitters from all over the world.”

She sat back and took a sip of beer. “Men like you and Gil?”

He nodded. “And Chance Vaught has just been added to the list. Little by little, Pope is putting together a lethal team—a team of assassins; let's be honest. And I have no idea how many other cells there are. Or will be.”

“Will the president stand for it?” Mariana wondered, but seeing Crosswhite's frown, she checked herself immediately. “Forget I asked that. The president's never going to know what the ATRU is really being used for or how many men are being recruited.”

“Or women.” He gave her a wink. “Don't forget, honey, you helped me remove two of Pope's enemies from the board. So
our
little cell already has four assassins—not three.”

“My God,” she muttered. “He really has become like Caesar. What does Gil think?”

Crosswhite shrugged, watching off across the lake again. “Therein lies the problem.”

“Gil believes in him, doesn't he?”

“With every breath he breathes.”

“So what's going on with the PFM?” she asked, changing the subject. “Why are the Mexicans so keen to use you?”

“Because of Lazaro Serrano,” he said. “Serrano's probably going to be PRI's candidate for president next year, and if he is, he'll probably win because PRI wins ninety percent of the time down here. If that happens, the cartels are gonna take over this country, and the border war is gonna explode.”

PRI stood for
Partido Revolucionario Institucional—Institutional Revolutionary Party—and it had been Mexico's most powerful political party over the last thirty years. The PRI was purportedly the more liberal wing of the Mexican government, with PAN supposedly the more conservative, but the two were not as clearly defined as the political parties in the United States were, and, in reality, there was hardly any daylight between them. PAN stood for Partido Acción Nacional, or National Action Party.

“Is that what Serrano wants? More trouble on the border?”

“Serrano hates the US, so anything that makes trouble on the border is okay with him, but what he
wants
is money.”

“Did the PFM tell you this?”

He shook his head. “No. There's something Pope doesn't know. I've been involved in the internal politics down here for a few months now—before this Downly shit kicked off.”

That worried her. “What are you up to?” she asked quietly.

“I'm acting as a military advisor to a police chief down in Toluca who's been fighting his own private war against the Ruvalcaba cartel. It's what I was trained for.”

She gaped at him. “Are you crazy? You've got a wife and baby to worry about.”

“I know,” he said. “I know, but I couldn't sit around with nothing to do, and the guy needed help, so I've been spending time down in Toluca training his cops to fight—with American tactics.”

“You'd better hope Serrano never finds out about
that
.”

Crosswhite flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette. “If that fat bastard can hire American mercenaries, why can't the people who actually give a shit about this country?”

She glanced around. “How much are you being paid?”

He laughed.
“Ni un peso.”
Not a dime.

Her surprise was evident. “You're shitting me.”

“Nope.” He pulled from his beer and set the bottle down on the table. “I took the job for the love of the game.”

“I think you took it for more than that,” Mariana said, seeing through him.