The Sniper and the Wolf Read Online Free PDF

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 inhis 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.
    Gil noted the lower part of the Spetsnaz wolf tattoo protruding beneath the sleeve, glanced briefly at Federov and then back to the Russian. “You’re the man behind the mirror?”
    “This is Major Ivan Dragunov of the Tenth Independent Spetsnaz Brigade,” Federov said. “His grandfather was Yevgeny Dragunov—the inventor of the Dragunov rifle, which I understand you’re well acquainted with.”
    Gil looked at Dragunov. “If you’re with the Tenth, that means you’re assigned to the Southern Military District—the Caucasus?”
    Dragunov was noticeably impressed by Gil’s immediate knowledge of the Tenth ISB. “I’ve also served with the Black Sea Fleet.”
    “Where exactly do you think we’re going?”
    Dragunov shrugged. “Where else but to kill Kovalenko and the rest of the Chechen traitors you fought with tonight?”
    Gil looked to Federov for an explanation.
    Federov put his hands into his pockets. “Yeshevsky and his Spetsnaz team were all ethnic Chechens from the Vostok Battalion. They were born in South Ossetia. For whatever reason, they’ve gone rogue.”
    “How many are left?”
    “Ten—counting Sasha Kovalenko.”
    Gil crossed his arms. “And I suppose it’s purely a coincidence that a Spetsnaz major from the Tenth ISB happens to be here in Paris on the same night Mr. Yeshevsky gets himself killed during a meeting with a crooked CIA agent.”
    Federov deferred to Dragunov.
    Dragunov stretched and let out a long yawn. “No coincidence,” he said, his eyes watering with fatigue. “We thought Kovalenko murdered Yeshevsky in Ossetia, and I’ve been tracking him for a month. All Spetsnaz traitors have to be hunted down and killed. That’s our creed.”
    “Well, then you don’t need me,” Gil said. “My job here is done.”
    Dragunov took