The Sniper and the Wolf (15 page)

38

BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL,
Bethesda, Maryland

Pope sat in his hospital bed talking on the phone with Vladimir Federov of the GRU.

“Dragunov is now safely aboard the submarine?” Federov asked.

“That’s right,” Pope said. “He lost a finger on Sicily, but other than that, he’s in pretty good shape. Our man is a bit more banged up. But they’ve both been tended to by the surgeon aboard the
Ohio
, and after thirty-six hours’ rest, we can put them ashore in Europe. All we need is for you to arrange the when and where.”

“What about Kovalenko?”

“That fish got away,” Pope said. “I understand your people attempted to take out Dokka Umarov yesterday? How did it go?”

Federov didn’t respond immediately.

“We overheard some radio traffic,” Pope volunteered.

“Well,” Federov said, “then you must already know how it went.
Umarov wiped out an entire Spetsnaz team. Neither of us is doing very well, Robert.”

“These are still the early innings. Is Moscow giving you trouble?”

“My superiors are not patient men,” Federov said. “The French government has identified Yeshevsky and the other men that Shannon killed in Paris. Their Ministry of Foreign Affairs is giving our ambassador a difficult time.”

“I take it you’re no longer in Paris?”

“I’m in Bern now,” Federov said. “The DPSD wanted to question me. I thought it better to avoid that.” The DPSD was the French military’s Direction de la Protection et de la Sécurité de la Défense, charged with counterespionage.

Pope chuckled. “I can imagine you did. They’ve made a couple of subtle inquiries at our embassy, but our ambassador there doesn’t know anything.”

“My superiors are worried your State Department will leave us holding the bag on this if it goes public.”

“I can understand that,” Pope said. “And while I can’t promise that won’t happen, I do know that my president and his closest advisers are pleased by the level of cooperation we’ve enjoyed thus far. We both have mud on our faces, and if it went public today, I’m confident my president would be willing to accept an equal amount of responsibility—as long as your superiors would be willing to admit this has been a joint operation.”

Federov chortled. “That would certainly cause a certain amount of gossip within the NATO community.”

“I’m not sure
gossip
is the right word,” Pope replied, “but I take your point. Anyhow, it’s a new world. The Islamists are about to join the nuclear weapons community, so Russia and the United States are going to have to learn to work together. NATO may even one day become irrelevant. Regardless, it’s our job to make sure this little mess we’ve created
doesn’t
go public. In fact, the future of the CIA probably depends on it.”

“Senator Grieves is still pushing to dissolve the agency?”

“Yes, and he’s gaining influence within the Senate. Not nearly enough yet, but a scandal like this wouldn’t help our cause.” Pope did not go on to share that Grieves was now the subject of an FBI investigation into possible treasonous activities.

“Have Western oil companies been advised on the plot to disrupt the pipeline?” Federov asked.

“No,” Pope answered. “We’ve decided to leave them in the dark. There was some trouble six months back with an oil platform off the coast of Nigeria, and their mercenaries made our job ten times harder than it needed to be, so we’re leaving them out of it this time.”

“Fine. How soon will the
Ohio
be able to put our men back ashore?”

“That depends on where you make the arrangements.”

“How about Turkey?” Federov suggested. “I have a number of resources there.”

“Good,” Pope said. “I’ll run it through the proper channels and get back to you in twenty-four hours.”

“That will give me the time I need,” Federov said. “Now, tell me: How are you feeling? I was more than slightly relieved to hear you had survived the attempt on your life.”

“The doctors tell me I’m mending well. Thank you for asking.”

“And the filthy traitors who ordered the attempt?”

Pope was quiet for a moment. “Well, you know the old saying, Vladimir: it’s stupid to fail.”

39

ISTANBUL,
Turkey

Istanbul was Turkey’s largest city, with a predominantly Sunni Muslim population of fourteen million. It covered two thousand square miles and was the focal point of Turkish cultural, economic, and historical interests.

Gil and Dragunov were put ashore in the dead of night at Aytekin Kotil Park, where they waited among the Cretan palms for a half hour until Dragunov received a text message from their GRU contact telling them to rendezvous with him at the main entrance.

The contact was a big, dirty-looking Russian with an unshaven face, and at three paces he smelled as though he hadn’t bathed in weeks. His name was Vlad, and it was obvious that he hated Gil on sight.

“You brought an American,” he said to Dragunov in Russian. “Why wasn’t I told?”

“You were told there were two of us,” Dragunov replied in the
same language. “That was all you needed to know. Now, let’s move. I don’t like standing around in the open.”

They got into a small car with Gil sitting in the back, and Vlad drove out of the park onto Kennedy Avenue, a coastal road named for the US president John F. Kennedy. Gil saw the street sign that read “Kennedy Caddesi” and smiled. He was a long, long way from home, and seeing the Americanism was a comfort.

“Where are we going?” Dragunov kept a hand in the pocket of his US Navy peacoat, where he gripped a concealed 9 mm Beretta M9 pistol.

“Whorehouse,” Vlad answered, eyeing Gil coldly in the mirror. “We won’t be bothered. Prostitution is legal here, and we’re protected by the police.”

Unable to understand a word of what was being said, Gil pretended not to notice Vlad’s disdain, keeping his facial expression neutral and avoiding all eye contact. The last thing he wanted was to get into a pissing contest with the GRU in a Muslim country. Still, like Dragunov, he too had his hand in his peacoat gripping a navy-issue M9. Gil also had two spare magazines in his left hip pocket.

They drove through the lighted streets of the city until Vlad turned down a dark alley and pulled up to an unassuming-looking concrete building with two men standing outside in a dimly lit parking lot. A heavy fog was setting in, and the air was cold. There were six cars parked in the lot.

Vlad killed the motor, and they got out. A fat man with a bald head took Vlad aside and spoke with him in a low voice as Vlad lit a cigarette. When they finished talking, Vlad waved for Dragunov to follow him inside.

Gil nodded at the two men standing watch as he brought up the rear, keeping a wary eye out as they crossed the threshold into the building. The pervading scent was unmistakable: heavy perfume and marijuana. At a table inside the door, two more men sat watching television, and nine scantily clad young women lounged around on sofas and chairs in the shadowy foyer. A couple of the
girls met Gil’s gaze, one managing a halfhearted smile, but most averted their eyes.

Gil felt his gut start to churn. “What the fuck is this place?” he muttered to Dragunov as Vlad stood talking with the men at the table.

Dragunov glanced around at the women. “What does it look like?”

“I thought we were going to a GRU safe house.”

“This is it,” Dragunov said. “What were you expecting? Something from a Jason Bourne movie?”

“Back here.” Vlad led them through a red-beaded curtain and down a long corridor of closed doors to a well-lighted kitchen area. Two more young women sat slurping soup at a card table, and he barked at them in Russian, causing them to get immediately up and flee the room.

“All they do around here is eat,” he griped to Dragunov. “If they’re not eating, they’re bitching about something. Ungrateful cunts.”

Dragunov nodded. “Coffee?”

“Over there.”

“Want some?” Dragunov asked Gil.

“Sure.” Gil took his cigarettes from the other coat pocket and lit one as Vlad walked out of the room through a blue-beaded curtain down a second corridor, growling orders at someone unseen. “He speak English?”

Dragunov shrugged. “Probably not, but watch what you say around him.”

“These girls are sex slaves. You know that, right?”

Turkey was one of the world’s most popular destinations in human trafficking. It was estimated that as many as eight thousand women may have been enslaved there, and the Russian mafia controlled a big part of the industry. They imported their women primarily from Russia, Poland, and Ukraine, but other crime organizations imported them from Armenia, Azerbaijan, Belarus, Bulgaria, Georgia, Greece, Indonesia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Moldova, Romania, Turkmeni
stan, and Uzbekistan. This overt abuse of Turkey’s liberal prostitution policies had caused many Turkish municipalities to stop issuing licenses for new brothels and to refuse the renewal of licenses for existing brothels. This did little, however, to stem the flow of human traffic. The syndicates were too well established, and police officials were too easily bribed into compliance.

Dragunov took a seat at the card table with his cup of coffee. “It’s not our responsibility,” he said.

“What’s the GRU doing working with the Russian mob?”

A shadow crossed Dragunov’s brow as he sat looking up at Gil. “You’re saying the CIA never works with criminals? That no one ever gets fucked?”

Gil sat down across from him. “One of those girls out front can’t be a day over sixteen.”

Dragunov gazed at him. “What do you want me to do about it?”

Gil leaned back in the folding chair, exhaling with a sigh. “Nothin’.”

“Good,” the Spetsnaz man said. “Because there’s nothing that can be done. This is Turkey, and even if it was Ukraine or Belarus, what are we going to do, eh? Start a war with the Russian mafia?”

“Doesn’t sound like the worst idea I ever heard.”

One of the older women, perhaps twenty-six or so, came into the kitchen, her black hair flowing around her shoulders, and went to the coffee pot. It was empty, so she took a coffee can down from the cupboard. Her black nightgown was transparent and left nothing whatsoever to the imagination, her upturned nipples and dark patch of pubic hair clearly visible.

Gil couldn’t help being stirred, so he turned away.

Vlad came into the kitchen, grinned when he saw the woman making coffee, and said something to Dragunov.

Dragunov looked at Gil. “I guess she speaks English, if you’d like to fuck her.”

Gil glanced at Vlad and shook his head. “Tell ’im no thanks.”

“He says no charge—professional courtesy.”

Gil looked at the girl, who immediately lowered her eyes. “No thanks,” he muttered.

Vlad chortled, speaking at length with Dragunov before leaving the room again.

“What was all that about?”

“He says we’ll leave in the morning and drive to Georgia. We’ll cross the border with one of their shipments. It’s all set up with the border guards. There won’t be any trouble.”

“Shipments of what?”

An ironic grin crossed Dragunov’s face. “What do you think?”

A short time later, they were busy discussing their plan to eliminate Dokka Umarov, when Vlad marched one of the teenage girls into the room, gripping a handful of her blond hair. He took a half-inch dowel rod from behind the refrigerator and began to beat the girl across her backside, snarling at her in filthy-sounding Russian as she squealed in pain.

Gil stood up from the chair. “That’s enough, goddamnit!”

Dragunov was on his feet an instant behind him. “Gil, this isn’t our business.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn!” Gil was on the verge of drawing the M9.

“What’s he saying?” Vlad demanded.

Two more big men appeared through the blue-beaded curtain, one with a submachine pistol slung under his arm.

Dragunov ignored Vlad, his eyes cutting into Gil. “Do you want to get us both killed? The girl too? Because this foul-smelling bastard will cut her throat just to spite you.”

“What did he say?” Vlad demanded again. “Tell me what he said!”

Dragunov turned around. “He’s not used to this. You know how soft the fucking Americans are. Maybe you could beat the bitch in the other room.”

Vlad glanced at Gil and laughed. “You’re serious? Is he queer or what?”

Dragunov shook his head, realizing it was going to be long
twelve hours with this gang. “He just doesn’t want to see you beating the girl, that’s all.”

Vlad let go of her hair and tossed the dowel rod onto the table. “Then he can do it. She refused to suck the customer’s dick, so she gets thirty lashes with the stick. That’s the rule.”

Dragunov knew he had to defuse the situation. “That’s not his job. All I’m asking is for you to do it in the other room. I’m asking you one Russian to another.”

Vlad shook his head. “This has nothing to do with you and me.” He pointed at Gil. “It has to do with him and that fucking look in his eyes. You tell him he can give the girl her thirty lashes, or I’ll give her sixty—right here in front of him.”

“This isn’t professional,” Dragunov said, his tone suddenly peremptory. “He’s just a sheltered American.”

Vlad shook his head, staring at Gil who stared right back at him. “No, he’s not sheltered. Not this one. This one is a killer—I can see it. He’s already killed me fifty times in his mind. You tell him what I said, or I’ll beat this fucking whore to death. Tell him!”

Dragunov looked at Gil. “He wants you to beat the girl—or he’ll kill her.”

Gil smiled, his gaze still locked with Vlad’s, silently consigning himself to death. “Let him kill her.”

“What?”

“I said, let him kill her. He’ll be dead before her body hits the floor.”

To give himself and everyone else a moment to decompress, Dragunov took Gil’s cigarettes from the table and shook one loose from the pack, taking time to light it before finally saying to Gil, “I’m not going to tell him that.”

“Then I guess we got a problem,” Gil said, still locked in a stare-down with Vlad.

“What’s he saying?” Vlad asked, glad for the excuse to break eye contact with the American who obviously wasn’t afraid to die.

Dragunov drew from the cigarette. “He said he doesn’t beat
women, but you should be his guest to beat her as many times as you want.”

“Good!” Vlad grabbed the stick from the table and seized the girl by the hair again, giving her a thrashing the likes of which no one in the room had ever seen. She screamed the entire time, trying to block the blows with her hands, and receiving a couple of broken fingers for her troubles. The stick finally snapped after sixty-five lashes, and Vlad threw her on the floor at Gil’s feet, where she lay sobbing in agony.

“Fuck you!” Vlad said with a sneer in passable English. “This is my house!” he added in Russian. “These whores belong to me!”

Gil was as calm as the sea on a windless day, having decided his course of action after the first couple of blows, tuning out the girl’s agonized cries.

“That was your doing,” Dragunov told him quietly. “Has he made his point now?”

Gil nodded. “He’s made his point.”

Vlad shouted for the other women to take the girl to her room, to get her cleaned up and back to work.

The girl was taken away, and Gil crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table, exhaling from the corner of his mouth. “You might wanna finish that smoke, partner.”

Dragunov looked at him, his adrenaline surging. “Why?”

“’Cuz there’s gonna be a gunfight, and I don’t think you wanna be standin’ there with your dick in your hand.”

“Don’t.” Dragunov’s face was composed, but he was readying himself for violence. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

“Before this shit kicks off,” Gil said, casually tucking the pack of cigarettes away in his pocket, “I wanna thank you again for saving that SEAL’s life on the beach. You taught me something about Russians I never knew.”

Dragunov leaned forward to crush out the cigarette, knowing there was no way to stop what was to come. “What was that?”

“That you’re no worse than the rest of us.” Gil jerked the M9 from
his pocket and shot Vlad right between the eyes. Vlad’s head snapped back, and his body dropped to the floor like a sack of cement.

Dragunov was only barely behind on the draw, whipping around and shooting the two men behind him as they grabbed for their guns.

Women screamed, and men began shouting from what seemed like all over the building. Chaos reigned during the next ten or fifteen seconds, as panicked customers stumbled into the corridor, hopping clumsily into their pants as they made for the exit.

“Grab the Uzi!” Gil ducked clear of the doorway as both Russians from the front of the house came barreling up the hall, slugging the customers aside with their pistols in their haste to reach the kitchen.

Gil shot one dead the second he appeared, and the other pulled back, throwing himself into one of the bedrooms.

Dragunov made sure the Uzi pistol was ready to fire, and stole a look through the blue-beaded curtain. “There are more men in back.”

“Any idea how many?”

“Enough that I should shoot you and offer them your fucking head,” Dragunov growled in his gravelly voice.

Gil changed out the partial magazine for a full one. “Think it would do any good?”

“It’s worth a fucking try!”

Gil stole a look down the corridor leading to the exit. The woman with long black hair stared back at him from two doors down. “Come here!” he said, beckoning with his hand.

She stole a glance toward the exit and came scurrying into the kitchen. He grabbed her arm and swung her around him into the corner. “Where do they keep your passports?”

“A safe in the office.” Her Russian accent was strong, but she was easily understood.

“What fucking passports?” Dragunov snarled from across the room. “What are you talking about?”

“Extraction! You think I’d let him beat that girl if I wasn’t getting her out of here?”

“That’s not our mission!”

Gil chuckled. “Yeah, well mission parameters change, Ivan.” He looked at the woman. “What’s your name?”

“Katarina.”

“Who can open the safe besides that asshole over there?”

She glanced at Vlad’s body. “His brother Lucian. The bald one out front with the big belly.”

“Hear that, Ivan? Don’t shoot the fat bald fucker. You clear the back while I clear us a way out.”