The American sighed, frustrated. “A Venezuelan spy. I pulled a wire from her.” He dangled a tiny listening device with an antenna no wider than a strand of wet spaghetti out in front of him, then swung it across the coffee table to Orloff.
Gennady caught it and looked it over. He laid it down on the table. “You lie.”
“No . . . I kill. I do not lie.”
Orloff believed. For several seconds he all but forgot about the American in front of him. He wanted to stand and return to the bedroom to beat the shit out of the little lying Latin whore, make good use out of those restraints holding her arms back.
But the American? What was his angle?
“You work for Gregor Sidorenko. The FSB told me this when they questioned me about your disappearance. Are you here to protect me from Venezuelan intelligence?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Does your wife know about the affair?”
Gennady’s eyes narrowed. “Not this one, no. But she would understand. She knows I am a man who is loved by many women.”
“Especially those paid to sleep with you.”
The Russian sighed. Shrugged. “I love my wife.”
“Do I look like I give a flying fuck about your marriage?”
“Then what is this about?”
“I don’t know what the Venezuelans plan to do with the intelligence they’ve gotten from you, but you have to ask yourself if you have ever said one thing in bed with the beautiful Tanya del Cid that you don’t want the FSB to know about. Nothing negative about home? About your work? Nothing significant that could hurt you if Russian state security heard it?”
Gennady shrugged. “I am just a pilot. And a proud Russian. I have said nothing that worries me.”
“You are certain?”
The Russian nodded slowly, perhaps not so sure but unwilling to reveal anything to this American.
The American seemed unfazed. “I need you to do something for me. I am prepared to pay you a lot of money.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Something that you already do well. Talk.”
“Talk about?”
“Talk about flying into Darfur. Talk about ferrying in an assassin from the Russian mafia to do a job for Russian state security. Talk about the types and quantities of weapons you brought into the country, weapons that won’t show up on any invoices. Show the West Russia’s crimes, and show the Sudanese that the Russians killed their leader.”
“What will that prove?”
“What many people already assume. But it will put pressure on Russia, get them kicked out of the country. Damage their influence. It just might prevent a war.”
“Why the hell would I do something so crazy as this? The FSB would kill me if I did.”
“Not if they could not get to you.”
Gennady shook his head. This discussion was madness, completely out of the question. “I have a family. They could get to them. My wife and three children—”
“Five children, actually.” The American said, his voice menacing. “Must be hard to keep up, isn’t it? Three with your wife, Marina, in central Moscow, plus a six-year-old girl with Mina, a Thai factory worker, and a twelve- year-old boy with Elmeera, a Tunisian flight attendant.”
“Yes,” said Gennady slowly, frightened now that the dangerous man knew so much about him. “But my family in Moscow, even if the FSB couldn’t get me. If I talk about Sudan, Sidorenko or the FSB will kill them.”
“A team from the International Criminal Court is in Moscow now. You call your wife and tell her, and I will call the team, and your family will be taken from Russia, to safety, within the hour.”
Gennady shook his head without reservation. “No way. Just leave now, American, and I will not report this. But do not—”
“Your family will be safe if you say yes to my offer. And you will be a wealthy man. Relocated in the West with a new life. A good life. But if you say no . . .” The American leaned forward. His face moved away from the rainwater’s reflection but darkened to black as it lost the light from outside. “You will have no life at all.”
“You are threatening to kill me?”
The American shook his head. “I wish it were that easy. But we need you. You are important. You know important things. We need you to stop the war.”
“Then, what are you—”
“You talk to the ICC, or I will take from you what you hold most precious.”
Gennady Orloff’s face went slack. He felt a weakening in his gut that threatened to cause him to lose control of his bowels. The man in front of him was a cold-blooded, heartless killer. “My children?”
No words were exchanged for a half minute in the living room. Finally the American sat back up, lightened a bit, and said, “But I don’t see it coming to that.”
“I will kill you!”
The assassin shook his head slowly. “No, you won’t.”
Gennady’s fury was absolute. But his fear of the man in front of him was equally powerful. He did not dare attack him. He was a pilot, not a killer. Instead, he thought of his children, about his predicament, and he slowly broke down. He cried softly for a long time on the sofa of the dark room. Only his sobs and the rain outside broke the stillness. The American assassin sat quietly in the chair.
Twenty minutes later Court stood in a phone booth on the avenida el Recero, a block away from the hotel Gran Melia. The rain fell in torrents, and his raincoat was soaked, fogging up the glass inside the tight space. Outside passersby with umbrellas jammed the sidewalk, heading to cafes and concerts and hotels and bars. They moved like the water rushing along the gutter in front of Gentry.
His eyes focused on the water and followed bits of trash floating by the phone booth, traveling downstream. He knew he should be scanning the crowd around him for threats—he was operational, after all—but the narcotics in his bloodstream sent his brain off on little errands that served no purpose. He tracked a crushed can of juice that shot by and watched it swirl down a metal grate in a deluge. He looked for another bit to follow on its path to—
“This is Ellen Walsh.”
Court forgot momentarily that he was holding the phone to his ear. Quickly he refocused and said, “He agreed. I moved him to my room: 422. I didn’t want to leave him there with the girl.”
“I’ll have his family picked up immediately. We will debrief him here at the hotel tonight.”
“You are here? In Caracas?”
“I just arrived an hour ago.”
Court watched the tiny river of runoff flow down the street while he carefully chose his next words. “Are you here for Gennady Orloff, or are you here for me?”
There was a long pause. “I am here for Orloff. I have decided to leave the events on the road to Dirra, back on the road to Dirra. You will not be indicted for what happened.”
“Thanks.”
“Six, I am worried about you. I don’t know what you said to Orloff to get him to agree to provide evidence to the ICC, but I assume it was not something I would approve of.”
“It was not something
“For your sake, I hope you believe that. I told you I was worried that you might become that which you most hate.”
“I’m okay,” he said, but his tone convinced neither Ellen nor himself.
“Listen. Why don’t we meet right now? In the lobby. Orloff can sit and stew by himself with my team. We’ll
