Ghost Sniper (18 page)

42

PUERTO VALLARTA, MEXICO

15:20 HOURS

Mariana Mederos had rented a small apartment outside of Puerto Vallarta in order to remain close to Antonio Castañeda, pending completion of Crosswhite's mission in Toluca. After Serrano and the gringo sniper were dead, she would have to make some decisions regarding her future with the CIA. For now, though, she had a purpose, and that was to arrange for any logistical support that Crosswhite might need from Castañeda's people in the South. Under normal circumstances, she would have been afraid to remain in the same city as Castañeda, alone and unprotected, but she was beginning to see that, despite his ruthless nature, the former GAFE operator did adhere to a certain moral code. There was no way of divining the limits of that code, but it did provide a small degree of predictability.

She was walking north along the beach with her feet in the surf when her cellular began to ring in her bag. She did not recognize the number, but it was from the DC area code: 202.

“Hello?” she said, convinced that it would be Pope.

“I'm surprised you answered,” said Clemson Fields.

His voice had a nerve-grating nasal overtone that Mariana recognized at once. “What do you want?”

“I see you're down in Vallarta,” he said. “Do you have time to meet me in Tijuana?”

Mariana's desire to meet Fields in Tijuana—or anywhere else—ranked right up there with her desire to be eaten by a shark. “For what?”

“By now, I'm sure you've heard that Alice Downly was killed by an ex-Ranger sniper working for the Ruvalcabas. I've tracked his spotter, Billy Jessup, to Tijuana, and I need you to get close to him so you can learn the sniper's location.”

“And how do you suggest I do that?”

“That will be up to you,” Fields said, “but Jessup has a fondness for Mexican women.”

“In other words, you expect me to sleep with him.”

“I expect you to do whatever you can to help end this crisis. I won't waste time sparring with you, Mariana. You know the gringo sniper is hunting Agent Vaught and is therefore hunting Crosswhite as well. Even if you no longer care about the future of the CIA, I believe you do care about Dan Crosswhite. Or am I wrong?”

She realized that both Fields and Pope were under the impression that she and Crosswhite had slept together, and this annoyed her, but they were right to assume she cared about him. This annoyed her as well. They had discovered a weakness, and Fields was exploiting it.

Very well. If men were going to exploit her weaknesses, she would fly to Tijuana to exploit one of theirs, but sleeping with anyone was out of the question; she'd sooner resort to using a pair of scissors to get the information she wanted. “The spotter's name is Jessup?”

“Correct,” Fields said. “I'll fill you in on the gory details when you arrive. You can call me at this number with your itinerary. How soon should I expect you?”

“Maybe tomorrow afternoon. But all future meetings between you and me will be in a public place.”

He chuckled. “You've nothing to fear from me, Mariana. I'm not an assassin.”

“I'd never accuse you of possessing the courage, Clemson. I just don't trust you as far as I can pick you up and throw you.”

There was a tense moment of silence at Fields's end before he said, “I'll wait to hear from you.”

With the call ended, she dug the satellite phone from her bag and called Crosswhite to tell him about the conversation.

“What do you think?” he asked her.

“It
sounds
legit,” she said, “but if Pope has been working with Serrano, how can they not already know how to find the sniper?”

“Consider this possibility: Suppose the sniper actually works for Pope. Suppose he's part of a cell within the ATRU? If that's the case, Fields might be in the dark. I don't know how much he knows.”

“But if the sniper was part of the ATRU, Midori would know.”

“Not necessarily,” Crosswhite replied. “Midori said Pope has become more secretive lately—maybe even paranoid—and if
Pope
had Alice Downly assassinated, he's got every reason to keep her in the dark.”

The idea chilled Mariana to the bone. Could Pope have gone that far? “But why would he want Downly dead?”

“Who the fuck knows?” Crosswhite said with disdain. “I've never understood how he thinks. Hell, he stabbed a dude in the face with an ice pick last year during the hunt for the loose nuke. He didn't even give Gil a proper chance to interrogate the guy—just buried an ice pick in his face and started asking questions.”

Hearing this told Mariana that Pope was capable of anything. “Speaking of Gil, can you reach him by sat phone?”

“No. As long as he's in China, he's completely blacked out, and you can bet that's exactly why he picked China, too. Whatever the fuck he's up to, he doesn't want Pope poking his nose in it.”

“What if he doesn't make it back? Can you and Vaught handle the sniper without him?”

Crosswhite snorted. “Will we have a choice?”

That made up her mind. “I'll leave for Tijuana in the morning.”

“Listen, I don't want you taking any unnecessary risks for me.”

“Would you say that to me if I was a man?”

“You being a woman doesn't have shit to do with it. The difference is that I care about you, and I don't trust Fields any farther than I can throw his skinny ass.”

She laughed without sharing why. “This is the business we chose, remember?”

“That it is,” he admitted, knowing she had to go to Tijuana—­regardless of the danger.

43

TOLUCA, MEXICO

15:25 HOURS

Dressed in a black SWAT uniform, Crosswhite tucked the phone into his leg pocket. “Fields is on the move.”

Vaught stood leaning against the outside wall of the police station, a dip in his lower lip, an M4 slung over his shoulder. “What's he up to now?”

“He's drawing Mariana north to Tijuana, away from Castañeda; says he's got a line on the sniper's spotter. Sounds like it might be a legit lead, but it's too soon to tell.”

Chief Diego Guerrero was there too, equally armed, but he understood almost none of what was being said. “What's happening?” he asked in Spanish.

“Our enemy in the CIA is making his move.”

Diego carried an ugly cut over his right eye from where he had collided with the barrel of another officer's carbine the day before during a house-clearing exercise. He had begun to move much more
like a soldier over the past couple days of drilling. Crosswhite and Vaught were both satisfied with his progress, and they never passed on an opportunity to build him up in front of his men, who were catching on faster than he was.

All of the officers had taken to wearing black balaclavas over their faces whenever they patrolled in public now, as did Crosswhite and Vaught. This was not an uncommon sight in Mexico, and it solved the problem of Crosswhite's drawing unwanted attention because he looked like a gringo. As expected, the Mexican Federal Police had spent less than a day investigating the ill-fated assault, rushing back to Mexico City as soon as possible, where they were still badly needed to maintain order in the wake of the earthquake.

“Does that mean the sniper will return?” Diego asked.

“It means that from this day forward,” Crosswhite said, “we should assume he's already here. I suggest that everyone—you included, Chief—continue wearing their balaclavas when patrolling the city. That will make it impossible for him to single any of us out. He might decide to shoot some men at random to scare us off the streets. If he does, we'll zero his position and outflank him.”

“How difficult will that be?” Diego's fear of the sniper was evident.

Crosswhite put a hand on the young police chief's shoulder. “A sniper always has the first shot. There's nothing we can do about that, so we have to accept it. The trick is in knowing which direction to move after he pulls the trigger. Your men need to be vigilant at all times.”

A lieutenant stepped out the back door of the building, gesturing urgently with a sheaf of papers. Diego excused himself.

“What's that about?” Vaught wondered.

“Looks serious, whatever it is.”

Diego returned, offering the papers to Crosswhite. “My men found these bodies on a road outside of town. We haven't seen this type of civilian execution since before my brother was appointed chief.”

Crosswhite sorted through print-offs of a half dozen cell phone pictures. Three naked bodies had been found dumped on a dirt road: a man, a woman, and a girl, all of them obviously shot in the head. The printer quality was not the best, but there was no mistaking Agent Luis Mendoza's protruding Adam's apple in the profile pic of his blood-smeared face. Mrs. Mendoza's charred breast was equally evident.

“Like I said,” he muttered, passing the pictures to Vaught and walking off. “He's already here.”

Vaught opened the file. “Oh my God,” he whispered, seeing the little girl's exploded head.

Diego saw the blood drain from his face. “Do you know those people?”

“It's Agent Mendoza and his family.” Vaught turned away and vomited his lunch onto the ground between the wall and a parked police cruiser.

44

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

17:30 HOURS

Strolling casually into Pope's office, Fields took a chair across the table near the window. The CIA director did not acknowledge him, sitting with his eyes focused on a laptop screen, his fingers moving slowly over the keys in gentle taps. Fields didn't know it, but Pope was hacked into the Chinese Guojia Anquan Bu mainframe (Chinese Ministry of State Security), and he was searching to see if the Chinese had discovered an ex–Navy SEAL operating in their country. So far there was no such indication.

He closed the laptop and looked across at Fields. “How are things in Mexico?”

Fields took off his glasses and began cleaning them with a handkerchief. “Crosswhite and Mederos have met with Castañeda,” he said. “I don't know what was discussed, but I doubt it was in the interest of the agency.”

Pope set aside the computer with a sigh. “I'm sure they mean well.”

“I'm not.” Fields put the glasses back on.

Pope stared with his powder-blue eyes. “Is this in reference to missing gold again?”

“Gold or no gold,” Fields said. “You need to accept that all three of your most trusted children are up to something.”

While Pope did believe that Gil and Crosswhite were up to something, he didn't believe they were up to the
same
thing. And he knew for a certified fact that, whatever they were up to, it had nothing to do with any missing gold. He knew this because every ounce of bullion stolen from the
Palinouros—
a yacht owned by a corrupt Turkish banker in the Mediterranean
—
the year before, had been accounted for behind door number nine of the French storage unit.

How silly
, he thought, his mind drifting.
People are so prone to conspiracy theories. As if Gil and Crosswhite could ever sell gold bullion on the black market without me catching them
. But this was the lens through which Fields viewed the world, and the reason that Pope had put him in charge of the Mexico crisis in the first place. Fields was predictable.

“They didn't steal any gold,” he said, dismissing the notion. “What's happening with Serrano?”

Fields let the question of gold pass for the moment. “He's cooperating, but if things go bad for him, he'll attempt to throw you under the bus—he as much as said it.”

“There's no record of our dealings with Hancock,” Pope said. “It would be my word against Serrano's. No one paid attention when Manuel Noriega accused Bush I of colluding with him as director of the CIA in the midseventies. Everyone believed it was probably true, but nobody paid attention.”

“Still, we might have backed the wrong horse,” Fields went on. “There's some low-level buzz in the Mexican media. They're accusing Serrano of arranging Ruvalcaba's ‘escape' from prison last year. Few journalists have been brave enough to write about it, but if the story picks up momentum, it could put Serrano out of the race for president. Meanwhile, Castañeda continues to honor the truce.”

“Castañeda's intelligent,” Pope conceded, “but he has no political ties; no one to run interference for him with the Mexican government. That makes him problematic in the long term. It's true that Ruvalcaba is less intelligent, but he's easier to control. Our most immediate problem is Vaught. How do we stand?”

Fields sat up in the chair. “I've told Serrano to send Hancock after him. It's the most expedient solution.”

Pope nodded. “In that case, Hancock will have to go too—­eventually.”

“I already thought of that, so I've tracked Billy Jessup to Tijuana. Once I have him, I should be able to learn quite a bit concerning Hancock's movements.”

“I trust you have the necessary assets in Tijuana?”

“I'm leaving tonight.” Fields was satisfied that Pope was not asking for details because he wasn't sure how he would have reacted to him manipulating Mariana. “I'll have things in order within a few days. Jessup isn't going anywhere soon. He's too busy living the Tijuana nightlife.”

“Hancock won't be easy to remove,” Pope warned. “I misjudged his mental stability, but his skill set is sound. Has he figured out the CIA put him in touch with the Ruvalcabas?”

“Not that I know of.”

Pope's mind began to drift again, but he came back on tangent. “Midori asked me what you were doing in Mexico City. Did you meet with anyone other than Serrano while you were there?”

“I did. I made it a point to drop in on the head of the PFM. He thanked us for our cooperation in allowing them to use Agent Vaught—though the quake seems to have derailed their investigation for the time being.”

“Good,” Pope said. “That will make it easier to explain why you took a company jet to Mexico, if anyone ever comes asking. Continue to be careful, Clem; there's no way to know who's watching what anymore.”