The Sniper and the Wolf (29 page)

76

HAVANA,
Cuba

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.

77

THE CAUCASUS MOUNTAINS

Gil lay on his belly on a ridge beside Colonel Yablonsky, studying Mukhammad’s camp through the scope of the McMillan tactical rifle. At two thousand yards, he couldn’t make out much detail, but he could see enough to gain a good idea of its general disposition.

“We may have gotten lucky, Colonel. It doesn’t look like they’re on a war footing down there.” He passed Yablonsky the rifle. “Tell me what you think.”

The Russian watched the encampment. “I agree they look very relaxed.” He passed back the TAC-338. “But how is it possible they’re not expecting you? We know the outpost had a radio. We’ve been monitoring their traffic for weeks in an attempt to track Umarov’s movement.”

“I must have blown the radio up before they had a chance to put out a call.” He capped the scope fore and aft, and the two men pulled back from the ridge. “Now I just have to get within range and wait for Umarov to show himself.”

Yablonsky noted the sniper rifle did not have a suppressor. “And you think we’ll be able to escape after you make the shot?”

“Did you guys bring any MON-50s with you?” The MON-50 was the Russian version of the American M18A1 Claymore mine.

“Yes. One each.”

“Good. After they run into the second one, they’ll slow their pursuit. We only have to outrun them for three thousand meters or so. I’m supposed to have people waiting at the bridge crossing into Georgia.”

“My men and I cannot cross into Georgia. Moscow would be very angry.”

“But less so if we kill Dokka Umarov, and that’s why we’re here.”

“You don’t know my government very well.”

Gil chuckled as he got to his feet, slinging the rifle around his back. “I’ll bet I know it better than you think I do.”

“You’ll have to get a lot closer than this. Where do you plan to set up?”

“See that tree yonder?” Gil pointed out a hardwood far off to the southeast, higher than the rest. “It’s about eight hundred meters from the camp and should give me a good overview of the target area. If I move out now, I should be in position before the sun begins to set.”

Yablonsky stood staring at the tree. “It’s completely on the wrong side of the camp. You’ll have to run all the way around it to escape.”

“I’m not running around anything,” Gil said. “The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, and I’ve got a bum foot.”

The Russian took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “You’re going to run straight across the camp?”

“More like a zigzag, but yeah.” Gil took a knee, bidding Yablonsky to do the same. “Look, Colonel, I can only take one shot from that tree. Any more, and they’ll pinpoint my location. That means I’ll have to climb down and hunt Kovalenko on the ground. I’d prefer to shoot him first, but both our governments want Umarov dead, so Umarov carries priority.

“If you and your men set up on the west side of the camp and open fire with grenade launchers the second you hear my shot, that will help to cover my position and draw them away from me. Then all you have to do is break contact, fall back through your claymore screen, and haul ass for the bridge.”

Yablonsky took a drag from the cigarette he’d lit while Gil was talking. “How will you find Kovalenko in all the confusion?”

“I won’t have to.” Gil smiled. “He won’t be drawn off by the diversion. He’ll know I took the shot from the tree, and he’ll come after me.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Gil borrowed the cigarette and took a drag. “There’s no time to explain, but trust me, I know.” He gave back the cigarette. “I’ll need some help getting up into the tree. After that, I’ll give you and your men time to circle around to the other side and get set up. Think you can manage in an hour?”

“If all goes well,” Yablonsky said, “but I never count on things going well.”

“Me neither.”

They arrived at the base of the great tree twenty minutes later. The trunk was close to twenty feet in circumference, and the nearest limb was twenty-five feet off the ground. The Spetsnaz threw a hundred-foot rope over it, and the six of them hoisted Gil. He climbed into the crotch of the tree and pulled the rope up after him, giving them a wave to send them on their way. They disappeared in seconds, and he carefully worked his way another thirty-five feet up into the tree, using a section of the rope to secure himself. Once Gil was sure he wasn’t going to fall sixty feet to his death, he unslung the sniper rifle and attached it to the three-point sling, stretching out along a broad limb.

He didn’t have a particular fear of heights, but his palms were sweating from the tedious climb, so he pulled on a pair of tight-fitting black leather gloves and pulled the rifle into his shoulder, popping the lens caps for a look at the encampment eight hundred
yards away. To his shock, Dokka Umarov was one of the first people who came into focus. The Chechen leader was standing in front a command tent talking with Ali Abu Mukhammad. Umarov was by no means the only man in camp with facial hair, but his long, Jeb Stuart–style beard caused him to stand out.

Gil checked his watch. Only thirty minutes had passed since Yablonsky and his men had moved out. He stretched a patch of panty hose tightly over the end of the scope, fixing it in place with a thick black rubber band. The panty hose would prevent the descending sun from glinting off the lens without significantly reducing resolution of the sight picture. He pulled back the bolt to load a .338 Lapua Magnum into battery. Then he released the five-round magazine and loaded a sixth cartridge to top off the weapon.

Now Gil was ready to do battle. He only had to give the Spetsnaz team time to get into position. He was busy studying Umarov when it occurred to him that he had never fired this particular rifle before. The TAC-338 had an adjustable trigger pull of 2.5 to 4.5 pounds, and there was no way to know if Mason preferred a light or heavy trigger without dry-firing the weapon, so he tucked the magazine into his leg pocket and carefully ejected the leader round. He pushed the bolt forward and pulled the trigger, satisfied to find that the rifle’s owner had left it on the factory setting of 3 pounds.

Gil made the weapon ready once more and scanned around for Kovalenko. There were dozens of tents and ramshackle huts, numerous cooking fires, and Gil was wondering why the Russians hadn’t bombed the place when—suddenly—he was stunned to see three children chasing after a puppy. Upon closer study, he realized there were at least twenty women in the camp as well, along with a half dozen other children. He guessed they were the families of Chechen insurgents, but it was possible they were Chechen or Ukrainian refugees displaced by a decade of war.

Gil felt bad for the women and children and hoped they wouldn’t be hit by the Spetsnaz diversionary barrage, but their ultimate fate was out of his hands.

He spotted Kovalenko coming out of the command tent, and his adrenaline began to surge as the ex-Spetsnaz sniper approached Umarov and Mukhammad. Having all three ducks lined up in a row was almost too much for Gil to take. Then Kovalenko made it worse by putting his arm around Umarov’s shoulders, giving Gil a golden opportunity to kill them both with a single shot. All three of them stood laughing in the silence of the rifle scope.

“You motherfucker,” Gil muttered to Kovalenko. “You’re doin’ that to tempt me.”

It killed him not being able to squeeze the trigger at such a pristine moment, but breaking with the plan could easily spell his death, as well as the deaths of his Russian allies, so all he could do was watch the clock and hope for an equally pristine shot in twenty-five minutes.

78

HAVANA,
Cuba

Crosswhite and Mariana had borrowed Ernesto’s car. Now they sat parked in the shade up the street from Peterson’s
finca
, staring at a white Nissan parked outside the gate.

“They’re definitely watching the place,” Crosswhite said.

“I’ll bet they’re cops.”

He thought it over, deciding, “This isn’t all bad. If the prick thinks he needs cops at the gate, he probably doesn’t have security inside the house.”

“Are you going to have to kill them?”

“Hope not,” he muttered. “I plan on living here when this is over, and I don’t need any more trouble with the local heat.”

“You two barely know each other, Dan.”

“That’s not a problem for me,” he said. “I’m old enough to know what I want. If she decides she doesn’t like me a month from now, all she has to do is say so.”

“And if you decide you don’t want her?”

He turned to look at her. “You’ve seen her. That’s not gonna happen.”

Mariana realized that was probably true, admitting to herself that the young Cuban woman was as precious as a woman could be. “If you go back to her, you should leave this life.”

“I just might do that.”

They sat watching for a while, hidden from view inside the car by the shadow of the tree.

“Any ideas?” she asked.

“Nothing’s jumping to mind. Those electrified wires around the top of the wall are a real problem.”

“Can’t we just cut them?”

“That would almost definitely set off an alarm inside the house.”

“What if we pay the cops to leave?”

Crosswhite sat up straight behind the wheel. “You know, with the right pair of cops, that could work.”

She smiled. “But are they the right pair of cops?”

“Exactly. If they’re not, there’s no do-overs. It’s off to the clink.”

“Unless you shoot them.”

He nodded. “Unless I shoot them, and without a silencer, that’s a risky proposition at best.” He started the car and shifted into drive.

“What are you doing?”

“Fortune favors the bold.”

He drove down the block and slowed to a stop alongside the Nissan, smiling at the driver.

“Good afternoon,” he said in Spanish, the pistol in his lap.

“Good afternoon,” the cop said, very businesslike. “Have you been watching us?”

“No, we’ve been watching the
finca
,” Crosswhite said. “Same as you.”

The cop narrowed his gaze. “What’s your interest in the
finca
, señor?”

“That’s not really important, but I’ll tell you this: there’s ten thousand dollars in it for both of you if you’ll let us inside for a
look around.” Crosswhite knew they earned less than $2,500 a year.

The cop looked at his partner, and his partner told him to power up the window. They sat talking for a minute, and then the driver put the window back down. “Who are you, señor?”

“I’m the guy with twenty thousand US dollars,” Crosswhite said, his gaze set. “And all you gotta do is look the other way while we climb over that gate.”

The cop in the passenger seat was obviously ready to jump on the money, but the driver was very hesitant. “You should go back to your country,” he said, staring off down the street.

“Look, amigo, my business inside the
finca
, it’s between Americans. It doesn’t have anything to do with you or your government. But I’ll tell you what: my country and your country? Things are changing. Castro’s out of power. Pretty soon real business is going to open up again. Why not be in a position to capitalize on it when it happens?”

The cop looked at him. “What does that mean?”

Crosswhite pushed all of his chips forward. “It means I’m going to be around awhile, and I’ll be needing things from time to time. Simple things. No blood.”

“You’re CIA . . . like him inside?”

Crosswhite laughed. “No, amigo. I’m a whole lot worse. I’m a corporate point man. I work for a group of Yankee corporations that are very eager to do business here in Havana. It’s only a matter of time before they pressure my government into ending the trade embargo, and when that happens, I’ll be needing friends in the police. You can turn me away, but you know and I know the other cops won’t.”

The driver put the window back up, and the two cops talked for another minute. Then he put the window back down. “If our captain finds out we let you—”

“Your captain won’t know anything,” Crosswhite said, knowing he had them.

“But if that man in there ends up dead—”

“There’s a swimming pool.”

“A what?”

“A swimming pool.”

The cops looked at each other. “You’re going to drown him?”

Crosswhite turned to Mariana, knowing it was time to flash some cash. “Gimme ten grand.”

Mariana unzipped the pouch and quickly counted out the money.

Crosswhite put the money in a greasy paper sack from the backseat of Ernesto’s car and offered it to the cop. “This is ten thousand. You can have the other half when we come back out.”

The driver looked nervously at his partner.

“Take it!” his partner said. “What do we care about a CIA man?”

“No blood!” the driver said in a hushed voice.

“No blood,” Crosswhite said, tossing the bag across. Then he looked at Mariana and winked. “We’re in.”

“Go now,” the cop said, waving them off. “Park up the block and walk down to the gate.”

Crosswhite pulled off and parked a block away. “You ready?” he said to Mariana.

She nodded. “Scared shitless, but I’m ready.”