The Sniper and the Wolf (13 page)

33

SICILY

“What the hell is going on out there?” Kovalenko snarled.

Vitsin threw himself against the wall to the right of the window, stealing a quick glance outside to see Anatoly’s body sprawled over Zargan’s. “They’re both dead!”

Without warning, Tapa burst out the back door, headed for the blindside of the house with the submachine pistol thrust before him. Without morphine, his pain had begun to increase exponentially over the past few minutes, and he knew that within the hour, he would be completely useless. It was better to die in combat than to have to be killed by his comrades.

He stalked around the corner of the house to see red and blue strobe lights flashing a hundred feet away by the road, a pair of weapon-mounted flashlights coming toward him through the trees. Hearing the crackle of police radios, he turned back to warn the others and was slugged in the face with a 1911 pistol, falling to the ground unconscious.

Dragunov grabbed Tapa around the head and twisted viciously, breaking the neck and dragging the body into the brush before running off up the hill toward Gil’s position.

A second patrol car skidded to a stop near the first, and two more policemen jumped out, running toward the house with MP5 submachine guns.

Kovalenko saw the police through the front window of the house and ordered Vitsin out the back. “Police!”

They went out the back door, and Vitsin was cut down by a burst of fire from an MP5.

Kovalenko whipped around and fired the AWS rifle. The 7.62 mm round cut through both the cop who had killed Vitsin and the cop right behind him, dropping them both dead in their tracks. He slung the sniper rifle and grabbed up one of the MP5s, taking off cross-country on foot to the west.

The other two cops were storming the front of the house as he disappeared into the night.

ATOP THE HILL,
Gil and Kovalenko pulled back out of sight, preparing to withdraw cross-country to the south.

“The police are in the house,” Midori said. “One of the Chechens is escaping east on foot. Looks like he’s gonna get away.”

“What do you think?” Gil asked Dragunov. “Wanna run his ass down?”

Dragunov adjusted the Beretta tucked in the flat of his belly. “I think we keep moving. There’s no way to know if it’s Kovalenko, and this entire area will be crawling with police very soon.”

That was good enough for Gil. They took off overland to the south.

“I have some good news for you,” Midori announced.

“Gimme,” Gil said, chugging along.

“One of our in-country operatives has just stashed a car for you two miles southeast of your position. It’s parked behind a pizza restaurant. I’ll vector you to it.”

“Where was this guy earlier? We could have used him.”

“It’s taken time to marshal our resources,” Midori replied. “And technically, he’s not really an operative. He’s a pilot from our naval air station there on the island. He was ordered to stash the car for you guys and catch a cab back to the base. We’re playing this off the cuff, Master Chief.”

“Thank God for the navy,” Gil muttered. He hurled the G28 into the brush, knowing it would only slow him down; his right foot was already beginning to give him trouble again. “Gimme my gun back, Ivan.”

Dragunov handed him the 1911, and they made toward a road at the bottom of the hill.

Kovalenko ran without stopping for the next thirty-five minutes, the bullet wound to the back of his thigh throbbing like hell. He finally stopped at a small house in a quiet neighborhood and sneaked in through an open window. He found the owners sleeping in their bed and murdered them with the last two bullets in his suppressed pistol. Then he pulled all the drapes and got on his satellite phone to Rome CIA Chief of Station Ben Walton.

“What kind of fucking game are you playing?” he demanded.

“No game at all,” Walton replied calmly. “The operation is scrubbed, and I’ve gone off the grid. As a matter of fact, I was about to drop this phone in the sewer when you called.”

“The operation is not scrubbed!” Kovalenko shouted. “I’m running for my life over here on this fucking island! My entire team is dead—just like you’re going to be if you don’t find a way to get me out of here! I know where you’re running to, and I have friends there as well!”

“Calm down,” Walton said.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Kovalenko screamed. “I will find you and carve out your liver, you fucking American pig! Are you listening? Are you listening to me?”

“I’m listening,” Walton said. “Tell me what happened.”

Forcing himself to talk in a normal voice with no little effort, Kovalenko gave him the thumbnail version of the past twelve hours.

“Okay, well, you’re in luck,” Walton said. “Shannon and Dragunov are going to be extracted off the point of San Vito Lo Capo via a SEAL delivery vehicle. If you can get there ahead of them, you might manage to pick them off on the beach.”

“How do you know that?” Kovalenko challenged. “How do I know that isn’t more CIA shit?”

“I know because there are loose lips in the White House,” Walton said. “Hell, there are loose lips all over DC these days. But hey, you know what? You can either take my word for it or go fuck yourself, Sasha. We’re both up to our asses in this mess. I’m sorry I can’t get you off the island, but I just gave you Gil Shannon—if you want him.”

“I want him,” Kovalenko grumbled. “You
bet
I want him!”

“Well, then, you’d better get a move on, because I doubt very seriously he’ll be hoofing it all the way to San Vito. The US Navy has a lot of resources on that island, and they can’t afford to have their most recent Medal of Honor winner captured and prosecuted by the goddamn Sicilians.”

With much of his anger suddenly abated, Kovalenko began to feel like Walton was one of the few friends he had left in the world. “So you’re a man without a country now, eh?”

“I’m afraid so,” Walton said. “I gambled and lost. Stupid, but that’s how it goes sometimes. I’ll make out all right. So will you. You’ll think your way off that island, and once you get yourself back to the mainland, you’re back in business. Umarov needs men like you—especially if he still plans on hitting the BTC.”

“He’ll never give up on the pipeline,” Kovalenko said.

“You might want to forget Shannon,” Walton advised. “Lay low. Sicily’s a big island. Your friends in the GRU can find you a place to hide until the heat is off.”

“You’re right,” Kovalenko said, realizing there was an off chance someone might be listening. “Forget Shannon. The
podlets
isn’t worth the risk.”

34

WASHINGTON, DC

Head Chef Jacques Bonfils was in the dry goods storage room at the back of the White House kitchen, sorting through a case of caviar, when he heard the door open and close. He stood up and turned around to see a very angry looking General William J. Couture standing there in his chief of staff uniform, his scarred face menacing and cruel.

“Mon général,”
Bonfils said in French, a confused smile on his face. “What seems to be the matter?”

Couture stalked across the room and slugged the chef in the stomach so hard that Bonfils nearly coughed up a kidney on his way to the deck. A jar of caviar fell from the chef’s hand and broke against the tile. “You’ve got one chance to tell me who you’ve been talking to!”

Bonfils was on his knees and holding his belly, unable even to breathe, much less talk.

“NSA just overheard an interesting conversation,” Couture went
on. “Seems there’s a leak here in the White House.” He kicked Bonfils over onto his side and reached down to grab his wrist, twisting it until Bonfils cried out in pain. “Talk!”

“Grieves!”

Couture reduced some of the tension on the wrist. “Who Grieves?”

“Senator Grieves,” Bonfils groaned.

“Bullshit, Jacques. Grieves isn’t stupid enough to talk to you.”

“His aide. I talk to his aide.”

Couture released Bonfils’s arm and let it drop, kneeling down beside him. “Okay. Here’s how this is going to go, you Frog traitor. You’re going to tell the Secret Service everything you know. Otherwise I’m personally going to have you rubbed out! Got it?”

Bonfils retched, still holding his belly in pain. “
Oui,
mon général
.” Tears rolled from his eyes.

Couture stood up and jerked Bonfils to his feet, shoving him toward the door.

Bonfils opened the door and was immediately taken into custody by four Secret Service agents.

“He slipped on some caviar.” Couture then made eye contact with the assistant chef standing across the kitchen, saying, “Better get somebody in there with a mop. There’s caviar and puke on the floor. Though how anybody can tell the damn difference . . .”

COUTURE STOOD BEFORE
the president’s desk a short time later. “It’s my fault, Mr. President. I mentioned Operation Falcon in front of Bonfils. Glen is a witness. I’m prepared to offer my resignation forthwith.”

“Have a seat, General.” The president turned to Brooks, who was already seated. “Is that true? You were present?”

Brooks nodded. “I’m prepared to offer my resignation as well, Mr. President. Strictly speaking, I should have reported the general myself.”

Couture looked at Brooks. “Glen, that wasn’t my point.”

“I know it wasn’t, Bill, but that doesn’t change the facts.”

The president held up his hand. “Stop. Before the two of you rush to fall on your swords before the emperor . . . you should know that I’m equally guilty.” He pushed back from the desk, allowing his gaze to drift around the room for a moment. “Hell, we’ve grown decadent from the top down, haven’t we?”

Couture exchanged uncomfortable glances with Brooks.

“The other day . . .” the president said. “Out there in the hall . . . I told Maddy about my upcoming meeting with Pope. I said to make sure it didn’t appear on my official schedule. I was distracted, and I wasn’t paying attention to who was around. Bonfils was standing just a few feet away, waiting to ask me what I wanted for dinner. The first lady usually handles that, but as you know, she’s in Missouri visiting her family.” He got up from the chair and turned to look out the window overlooking the lawn below.

“So, gentlemen, in all likelihood, I’m the leak that nearly got Pope assassinated.” He turned around. “Regardless, the people who work in this building
all
have top secret clearances, and every goddamn one of them knows they’re not to repeat what they hear within these walls. Christ Almighty! If it’s not safe to talk in the White House, where the hell
is
it safe?”

He sat back down, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Is Falcon going forward?”

“As we speak, sir,” Brook replied. “The
Ohio
is in contact with Shannon, and the SDV team is preparing to launch.”

“What about this maniac Kovalenko? Where’s he?”

“We’ve lost him,” Couture said. “The satellite couldn’t track him and Shannon both.”

“So the possibility remains that he
will
attempt to interfere with Shannon’s extraction—despite what he said to Walton?”

“Affirmative,” Brooks said.

“Should we postpone Falcon? Change the extraction point?”

“At this point, sir, the dangers of having Shannon and Dragunov on that island far outweigh any threat posed by Kovalenko. Sicil
ian and Italian authorities realize that elements of the CIA and the GRU have both violated their sovereignty, and they’re extremely determined to obtain proof to that effect. At least four Sicilian police officers are dead, and a number of civilians as well.”

“How many of those killings are Shannon’s doing?”

“According to Shannon, none.”

The president looked at Couture. “Do you buy that?”

Couture nodded. “I do, sir.”

The president drew a breath and sighed. “Okay. So what about the mysterious Agent Walton? Is he really off the grid?”

“It appears so,” Brooks answered. “But I’ve spoken with Pope about him, and I’m confident that situation will work itself out.”

An ironic grin spread across the president’s face. “
Work itself out
, Glen?”

“Those are Pope’s words, Mr. President. I asked him what he thought we should do about Walton’s betrayal, and he said to me, ‘Glen, I wouldn’t worry too much about Ben Walton. These things have a way of working themselves out.’ ”

Maybe it was the tension, but Couture couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. Forgive my levity. It’s just that Pope—oh, hell, I don’t know.”

The president sat nodding. “I think I understand, Bill. No one has any business being so valuable and so dangerous all at the same damn time.”

35

CAPO SAN VITO,
Sicily

The Cape of San Vito was on the northwestern point of the island, two miles wide and five long with particularly rocky terrain running the length of the western shoreline. Gil and Dragunov were now well ensconced among the rocks, having ditched their car in the village of San Vito Lo Capo a click and a half to the east. Nothing but a lonely stretch of dirt road lay between them and the open waters of the Mediterranean a hundred yards away.

Gil scanned the water through a pair of infrared binoculars that had been stashed beneath the driver’s seat of the car, watching for the telltale flash of an infrared strobe that would be invisible to the naked eye.

“Typhoon actual, this is Typhoon main. Do you copy? Over.”

Gil picked up the sat phone, answering the USS
Ohio
’s
transmission: “Roger that, main. I copy. Over.”

“Actual, be advised your driver is parking the car. Over.”

“Parking the car” meant that the SEAL team from the
Ohio
had arrived at its insertion point and was now in the process of “parking” the SDV on the ocean floor in 5 fathoms, or 32 feet, of water. The divers would be using rebreathers for stealth, recycling their unused oxygen to eliminate the large bubbles released by standard scuba tanks. The
Ohio
waited silently three miles out in international waters, 160 feet below the surface.

“Roger that, main.”

Gil looked at Dragunov. “Ready to get wet again, partner?”

Dragunov rubbed a hand over his face in the darkness. “This is always when I am most nervous—waiting for extraction.”

“Me too. Glad to hear it’s the same for Russians.”

“It was the same for the British at Dunkirk,” Dragunov said grimly. “The same for the Greeks when Themistocles ordered the evacuation of Athens. It’s always the same when the enemy is on your heels, and you’re about to show him your ass.”

The captain of the
Ohio
had already advised them that the extraction point was compromised, and they had agreed to proceed with the exfiltration; given their collective physical condition, another twenty-four hours on the island without food and water would be too dicey. Both men suffered from dehydration and suppurating wounds, and Gil had begun to run a low-grade fever, signaling the onset of infection. Without proper hydration, such a fever could quickly turn severe, particularly under the stress of combat conditions.

“How much longer?” Dragunov asked.

“They’ll park the SDV two hundred meters out then swim in beneath the surface. They’re lugging our dive gear, so that’ll slow ’em down a bit, but we should see the strobe in ten minutes or so. Only thing that concerns me is the delay in comms.” The
Ohio
had to relay its sat phone communications to the SDV team by radio, and this made it impossible to communicate with the divers in real time.

Dragunov grunted. “Kovalenko’s here. I can feel him.”

“Sorry to hear it. That fucker’s too good with a rifle.” Gil scanned up and down the coast through the binoculars, seeing nothing but jagged rocks on their side of the road in both directions. “At least it’s inside-a-black-cat dark out here.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have thrown away our rifle.”

“Woulda, coulda, shoulda,” Gil muttered. “You can stay here on the island if you want. I’m not sure we need a Spetsnaz major aboard one of our subs anyhow.”

“Why? Do you think I have a microcamera hidden up my prick?”

Gil snorted, secretly aware that Dragunov would be sequestered immediately aboard the
Ohio
, kept in the wardroom. There he would be well treated and well fed but unable to mingle with the crew or see anything of any intelligence value whatsoever.

“What are the chances they’ll let me see the con?” Dragunov asked, smiling from the side of his face.

“Ivan, you got a better chance at seein’ a Swiss combat medal than you do the con of that submarine.”

A little over a hundred meters to the south, also well hidden among the rocks, Kovalenko lay in wait with the AWS, still cursing the GRU operative who had failed to supply a nightscope for the rifle.

“Hey, what the hell do you want from me?” the smartass had said to him. “You’re lucky I came up with anything on such short notice.”

“Tvayu mat’,”
Kovalenko murmured, biting off a chunk of chocolate and chasing it down with a long drink of French mineral water taken from the house where he had killed the Sicilian couple in their sleep.

There was no rolling surf along the shoreline, and that was good because it meant there was less noise, and any wake kicked up by a boat would be more likely to stand out. He knew how much the
American SEAL teams liked their high-speed Zodiac boats, and he was looking forward to shooting one of them up.

There had been no sign of the Italian navy since his arrival the hour before, and he assumed this was because the Americans had probably
suggested
that the Italians steer clear of the cape for the night, but there was never any telling how much cooperation took place between the two governments. The Italians and the Americans were forever pretending to be at odds while secretly jerking each other off under the table.

“Kozly.”
Jackasses.

Kovalenko pulled the rifle into his shoulder and scanned the shoreline for movement, looking for lights or reflections out on the water. Unable to see much of anything, he settled in to wait, certain that Dragunov was hiding somewhere along the shore and that the American sniper was with him.

Watching through the binoculars, Gil spotted the infrared strobe beneath the surface of the water and grabbed the sat phone.

“Typhoon main, I have visual on the strobe. Team is clear to surface. Over.”

“Roger that, actual. Relaying now.”

A couple of moments later, the heads of two SEALs from SEAL Team IV appeared above the surface.

“Let’s go, Ivan! We’re on.”

They moved out of the rocks, taking it slow as they covered the fifty yards to the dirt road. Once across, they double-timed it to the waterline, slowing again as they moved into the water to avoid making noise or kicking up a froth.

The waiting SEALs crouched low in the waist-deep water fifty yards from the water’s edge, having switched out their full-face diving masks for night vision goggles. They watched for danger as the Spetsnaz man and their fellow SEAL waded out to meet them. Then they rose up to their full height, each of them holding a second set of dive gear. They were armed only with suppressed M11s (SIG-Sauer P228s).

No one said a word as the SEALs began helping them into their dive gear. They were almost home, and no one wanted to risk ghosting the mission.

KOVALENKO WAS STILL
studying the shoreline when a car came around the curve to the north, stopping abruptly with its headlights shining on four divers standing out in the water 150 meters from his position.

“Blyat’!”

He swept right and fired without even bringing the rifle to a stop, picking off one of the divers. The other three dropped below the surface as Kovalenko steadied the rifle and fired into the water. The water began to bubble, and one of the divers resurfaced with air hissing from his rebreather, which he immediately threw off.

Kovalenko fired again, and another diver resurfaced holding his chest.

Dragunov hurled the hissing rebreather into the water, jerking the Beretta from his pants and firing at the car. The car immediately backed away through the curve, and darkness swallowed them again.

Gil barked into the radio-equipped face mask of the wounded SEAL cradled in his arms: “Typhoon main, be advised we are taking fire! Repeat. Taking fire. One KIA. One severely wounded. Request immediate surface evac—over!”

Dragunov waded over to him. “I can use the dead man’s gear. Let’s go!”

“We can’t,” Gil said, pushing the wounded SEAL into Dragunov’s arms. “He’s hit through the lung. The dive would kill him.”

The
Ohio
answered his transmission: “Typhoon actual, stand by for immediate surface evac. Over.”

“Roger that, main—expedite! We’re standing by in the shallows.” Gil dropped the mask and pulled on the SEAL’s night vision goggles. Then he took the M11 pistol from the holster on his leg. “Keep him alive, Ivan. I’m going after Kovalenko.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dragunov hissed. “Stay here in the goddamn water! Your people are coming for us.”

“They’re three miles out, coming in rubber boats that make a lot of noise. Right now Kovalenko is displacing for a closer shot, and if I don’t take him out before the surface team gets here, he’ll kill every damn one of us.”

“Shit!” Dragunov swore, holding the wounded SEAL so that his head and chest were out of the water. “Don’t get killed!”