“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
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
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?”