“Dokka Umarov is dead?” Federov asked.
“Very,” Gil answered.
“He has been mistaken for dead many times,” Federov said. “I need to know every detail of your mission leading up to this moment. This is a condition which has already been agreed to by your superior.”
Gil knew it didn’t much matter whether Pope had agreed to the condition or not — though he believed he probably had — so he told Federov every detail of the mission, from the moment he had set up on top of the railcar to his arrival at the embassy gate.
Federov appeared slightly surprised that Gil had killed Agent Lerher. “Did Lerher truly reach for his weapon? Or is that the story you plan to tell your people? Don’t worry, your secret will be safe with us.”
“He really did go for his weapon,” Gil replied, “but I would have shot him regardless.”
Federov glanced at the one-way mirror before returning his attention to Gil. “And you have no idea who shot the French gendarmes?”
“If I had to guess,” Gil said, “I’d say it was the same sniper covering the Umarov meeting, but that’s speculation. Pope lost sight of him after he displaced.”
“Who was Umarov meeting with?”
“Our intelligence had him meeting with members of Al Qaeda to discuss infiltrating Al Qaeda fighters into Georgia to help him with his war against Russia.”
“Where in Georgia? South Ossetia?” South Ossetia, the northern part of the Republic of Georgia, had attempted to claim independence in 1990. Georgia had refused to recognize its autonomy, however, and civil war erupted soon after. Battles were fought in 1991, 1992, and then again in 2004. Still more fighting broke out in 2008, and Russia finally invaded northern Georgia in support of South Ossetia. The region had been completely reliant upon Russian military and economic support ever since.
Gil shook his head. “South of Tbilisi, the Georgian capital. Intel indicates Umarov wanted to coordinate a series of attacks along the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan pipeline.”
The BTC pipeline was 1,100 miles long, running northwest from Baku, Azerbaijan, on the Caspian Sea, to Tbilisi, and then southwest to Ceyhan, Turkey, on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. It afforded Western powers access to oil fields in the Caspian Sea without having to deal with Russian or Iranian interference, and though operated by British Petroleum, the pipeline was owned by a consortium of eleven different oil companies around the world, including Chevron and ConocoPhillips.
“Tell me,” Federov said, “did you not find it strange for Umarov to take a meeting so far from the Caucasus?” The North Caucasus was Dokka Umarov’s home territory, a mountainous region of European Russia located between the Caspian and the Black Sea.
“Well, he was observed boarding a Grecian tanker in Athens, and then again transshipping to a private yacht off the coast of Sicily thirty-six hours later. He landed at Marseille the next day, and from there made his way north to Paris.”
Federov rested his chin on his fist. “The CIA tracked him?”
“One of their people in Athens made the initial identification, yes. It was just dumb luck, really. Once he boarded the tanker, it was easy to keep tabs.”
“I see.” Federov sat back in his chair with a sigh. “Agent Shannon, you did not—”
“Master chief,” Gil said good-naturedly. “I’m retired navy, not CIA.”
Federal smiled dryly. “Mr. Shannon, you did not kill Dokka Umarov tonight. You killed a GRU operative named Andrei Yeshevsky.” The GRU was the Chief Intelligence Directorate, Russia’s version of the CIA.
Gil dominated the nausea that immediately rose up in his gut. “How is that possible?”
“The GRU sent Yeshevsky into North Ossetia six weeks ago as an imposter to undermine the real Dokka Umarov’s credibility in the Caucasus. He made speeches in small towns where his face was not well known, renouncing Chechen terrorist attacks on Russian military targets and urging Chechen Muslims to accept Russian authority.” Federov smiled blandly. “Now, of course the GRU did not expect this to stop the attacks. What was hoped was that the real Dokka Umarov would be forced to show himself and create an opportunity for our Spetsnaz to finally eliminate him.” Spetsnaz were Russian Special Forces, basically Russia’s version of the US Navy SEALs.
Gil was not amused. “So what the hell is this Yeshevsky doing here in France?”
Federov sat back scratching his chin. “To be honest, we have no idea. We thought he was dead. He disappeared two weeks after he was sent into North Ossetia along with his entire Spetsnaz team. It wasn’t until Robert called me this evening for help with your predicament that we had any idea Yeshevsky might still be alive.”
“That means it’s possible I killed the real Umarov.”
Federov shook his head. “Yeshevsky has a tattoo of a woman on his chest. One of our informants with the French police has verified the body to have such a tattoo. What’s more, we believe the sniper who was shooting the French gendarmes to be a Spetsnaz operative named Sasha Kovalenko. Kovalenko was attached to Yeshevsky’s security team, and he has always been somewhat — shall we say — unstable?”
“An entire Spetsnaz team went off the reservation?”
There was a knock at the door, and the sergeant stepped into the room, speaking briefly to Federov in Russian and stepping back out again.
Federov turned back to Gil. “It’s been verified the other two men you killed at the apartment were also members of Yeshevsky’s Spetsnaz team.”
Gil sucked his teeth. “I don’t suppose one of them was this Kovolenka fella.”
“Kovalenko,” Federov said, correcting Gil’s pronunciation. “No, his body was not found — and that is very unfortunate.”
Gil rubbed his face, feeling the fatigue catching up to him. “I’m going to need to fill Pope in on this. There’s a good chance he’ll be able to piece some of it together.”
“Was it him who tracked Yeshevsky from Athens?”
“No.” Gil shook his head. “The Mediterranean chief of station did that. The intel wasn’t passed on to Pope until after Umarov’s — Yeshevsky’s — arrival here in Paris. He’s in charge of a top-secret antiterrorism unit now, and there wasn’t time to vet the intel properly before moving on it. Things are bit disorganized within the CIA at the moment. There’s been a huge shake-up since the September nuke attacks six months ago.”
Federov nodded, obviously aware of the CIA’s internal problems. “That is always the trouble when there are too few competent men to go around.”
Another knock. The sergeant stepped in, handed Federov a dark red passport, and left, failing to close the door behind him.
Federov examined the passport briefly before sliding it across the table to Gil. “This document is one hundred percent authentic. You are no longer Gil Shannon of the United States of America. You are Vassili Vatilievich Siyanovich of the Russian Federation.”
“You’re shitting me.” Gil opened the slightly weathered-looking passport to see the photo they had taken of him less than two hours before. He noted that the passport had been issued the previous year and that many of the back pages had apparently been stamped in a number of different European countries.
“You’ll need that to get out of France.”
Gil looked up from the passport. “But I don’t speak Russian.”
Federov chuckled. “Neither do the French. So don’t worry. We’ll teach you a few words to mumble at the customs agent.” He offered his hand across the table. “Good luck to you, Vassili. You’re going to need it.”
Gil took his hand. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means you’re coming with me,” said a gruff-looking Russian who’d appeared in the doorway. He spoke in a gravelly voice and wore the blue-and-white-striped shirt of the Spetsnaz. His head was shaved, and he had pale, merciless blue eyes with a thick five o’clock shadow. Standing an inch or so taller than Gil, he appeared to be in his mid to late thirties and looked like he’d been carved from black oak. His face cracked into a grin as he stepped into the room.