“Yes, sir.”
Sixty seconds later, Bradshaw had him on the line, and the president put the receiver to his ear. “Pope?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“You are not — I repeat not—to enter Canada. Is that clear?”
There was a slight pause. “Yes, Mr. President.”
“I’m going to call the Canadian prime minister right now. You will wait for the Canadians to pick up the al-Rashids and deliver them to you there on Grosse Ile. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“I’m serious,” the president said. “This isn’t Afghanistan we’re talking about this time. It’s Canada!”
“We’ll stand by here, Mr. President.”
“You’d better.” The president hung up the phone and looked at Couture. “What are the odds he’s going to listen to me?”
Couture was thinking, You got in bed with these maniacs. I should leave you to them.
“Sir, I don’t think there’s any reason at all to assume he’ll obey that order. I recommend you send the FBI to Grosse Ile immediately with orders to take the entire team into custody. This has gone far enough, Mr. President.”
The president stood from the chair and hitched up his pants. “Do it.”
He looked at Tim Hagen and nodded toward the door. The two of them stepped into the hall.
“This will be the FBI’s operation from here on,” the president said. “So get in touch with Shroyer at CIA and see to it that all of Pope’s clearances are revoked. That man is unemployed as of right now. Also, make sure the FBI knows that he’s to be held for questioning in regards to the Lijuan Chow affair. My God, Tim!” He lowered his voice. “He was actually going to invade another fucking country!”
“What if the Canadians screw it up, Mr. President?”
“What?”
“Sir, we’re wasting time. For all we know, the RA-115 could be set to go off any minute. Pope is directly across the river from the al-Rashids. He can probably have his hands on them within the hour.”
“You’re not actually suggesting—”
“Mr. President, I’m suggesting that you allow Pope to disobey your direct order to stand down. We can have an observation drone over the target area within the hour. That will allow us to wait until the last moment before calling the prime minister to tell him that one of our special operations teams has gone off the reservation. By the time the RCMP can respond to the target area, Shannon’s people will already be back on Grosse Ile with the al-Rashids.” Hagen was referring to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. “Then we’ll not only have the brothers and whatever information they can provide about the nuke, but we’ll also have enough to put both Pope and Shannon where they belong.” Hagen smiled. “Unless, of course, we choose to turn them over to the Canadians, in which case they’ll be completely out of our hair for the next twenty or thirty years.”
“Christ, you’re a devious bastard.” The president held a hand to his abdomen, the burning sensation creeping up his throat. “Okay. Suppose Pope doesn’t disobey me? Then what?”
“We’ll know that within the hour, sir. If he does stand down, then we simply call the prime minister and hope for the best.”
The president thought over the plan, and he could find no flaw in it. “Couture isn’t going to like it.”
“With respect, Mr. President, there’s no reason for you to give a shit what the general does or does not like. He’s a soldier, and it’s his job to do what you tell him to do.”
43
Buck Ferguson was a sixty-seven-year-old rancher who lived across the valley from the McGuthry ranch with his three sons. They were a Marine Corps family, dating back to Buck’s father, who had fought on Guadalcanal during the Second World War, all of them serving with the First Marine Division. Buck had served in Vietnam in the province of Quang Tin. His oldest son, Hal, had served in Desert Storm, and his two youngest sons, Roger and Glen, had served in both of the recent Iraq and Afghan Wars.
They arrived at the McGuthry ranch in a red king cab pickup truck just as the Air National Guard Kiowa helo was lifting into the air to take Kashkin’s computer and passport back to Great Falls Air Guard Base. Dressed in their ranchers’ duds and holding AR-15s, they stood watching it fly away. The Ferguson men were avid sportsmen and gun enthusiasts who enjoyed hunting and fishing more than just about anything else.
Oso left Marie’s side and ran down from the porch to greet them, barking and jumping around, entirely unaccustomed to so much excitement late at night.
Buck walked up the steps and gave Marie a hug. “How are ya, darlin’?”
“I’m okay,” she said. “So good to you see. Thank you for coming. I told Gil it wasn’t necessary, but he insisted on calling.”
“It’s a good thing he did,” Buck said. “I’d’ve been madder’n a rattle snake if he hadn’t.”
She smiled and took him by the arm, leading him inside. Janet greeted Buck with a hug and a kiss to the cheek. The two of them had dated briefly many years earlier as juniors in high school.
She patted him briskly on the back. “You’re looking fit, cowboy.”
He chuckled. “Looks can be deceiving, Jan. I feel older than dirt — but not tonight. Tonight I feel forty years younger.”
“I’ll put some coffee on.”
“Sounds good.” Buck looked at Marie, lowering his voice. “Reckon we can see the heathen you gave what for?”
“Yeah,” she said solemnly. “Mama, we’re goin’ out back a minute.”
“That’s fine!” Janet called from the kitchen.
Marie led Buck out the back and across the ranch to the giant brush pile. His sons walked over, and Buck pulled back the sheet, shining his light on Kashkin’s face. He put back the sheet and switched off the light.
“Odd they’d send a fella my age,” he muttered. “I wonder was that the best they could do?”
“A bullet don’t care who pulls the trigger,” remarked Hal Ferguson. “What kind of rifle did he have, Marie?”
“I described it to Gil, and he said it’s a Mauser.”
Hal nodded, spitting tobacco juice. “That’s a good’n. Old fart likely knew his business.” He smiled in the light of the crescent moon. “Too bad for him you knew yours better.”
Marie felt no pride or sense of accomplishment, only that she’d done what was necessary to protect what she held dear. “Does either of you have a lighter?”
Buck took one from his pocket, and she used it to ignite the nest of tinder and kindling she had built in the center of the brush pile. The juniper branches were dry and sappy, and the pyre began to blaze quickly.
“Want me to say a few words?” Buck asked.
Marie shook her head, her face showing brightly against the rising flames. “He came to kill my husband — and for that, I hope he went straight to hell.”
44
Pope stood in the cargo bay of the C-5, staring thoughtfully at the sat phone in his hand.
“What did he say?” Gil asked.
“They figured out what we’re up to. We’ve been ordered to stand down while the president calls the Canadian prime minister.”
“Shit,” Crosswhite muttered. “We can have our hands on the al-Rashids in less than an hour. Hell, it’ll take that long just to get the Canadians up to speed. Doesn’t the president realize the clock is ticking?”
“Of course he does. That’s why I think it’s a trap.”
Gil stole glances with Crosswhite. “What kind of trap?”
“After what we pulled in Afghanistan,” Pope said, “they have to think we’re as likely to disobey an order as we are to follow it. That’s why we’re the ones chasing the bomb: the more unstable the aircraft, the more maneuverable it is. Same principle.” He took off his baseball cap and stood scratching his head, beginning to see Tim Hagen’s fingers in the pie. “What do you think, Gil? Want to sneak over and grab them anyhow? I honestly think that’s what the president’s counting on, knowing he can’t order us to do it. And this way, he can disavow us all if something goes wrong.”