“Incredible.”
“We’ve done it before. Admittedly on a smaller scale, but we’ve had cause in the past to bring in multiple teams to vie for a single objective.”
“But I don’t understand. Why would these governments help us?”
“Not the governments themselves. The intelligence agencies. Can you imagine what a bounty of twenty million dollars added to the coffers of the secret police in the nation of, shall we say, Albania, would do to the security and stability of the state? Or to the Ugandan Army? Indonesia’s Directorate of Internal Intelligence? These organizations work independently of their heads of state from time to time, when it suits the purposes of the organization or its leaders. I know which countries’ internal security apparatus will sanction their men to kill for cash; I have no doubt of it.”
There was a pause before Lloyd responded. “I get it. These intelligence agencies won’t worry about American retribution. They will know the CIA won’t hunt down the killers of the Gray Man.”
“Lloyd, the victorious team will probably tell the CIA themselves, seek bounty from the Americans, as well. Langley has been after the Gray Man for years. He killed four of their own, you know.”
“Yes, I know. I like your plan, Riegel. But can we do this quietly? I mean, without negative impact on LaurentGroup?”
“My office maintains shell corporations for deniability’s sake. We’ll use LaurentGroup aircrews in planes flying under the shells to infiltrate the kill squads and their weapons onto the Continent. It will be expensive, but Marc Laurent has instructed me to succeed by any means necessary.”
Riegel’s connections to the upper levels of the company couldn’t be denied, but Lloyd’s political instincts demanded that he reassert his position. “I remain in charge of the operation. I will coordinate the movements of the watchers and the shooters. You just get me this manpower.”
“Agreed. I’ll arrange our little contest, get everyone on station, but I will let you guide the teams. Keep me posted on the progress, and don’t hesitate to seek out my counsel. I am a hunter, Lloyd. Hunting the Gray Man on the streets of Europe will be the greatest expedition of my career.” He paused. “I just wish you didn’t fuck with Fitzroy.”
“Leave him to me.”
“Oh, I have every intention of doing just that. Sir Donald and his family are your problem, not mine.”
“No problem at all.”
NINE
Gentry allowed himself to admit that his fortunes seemed to be changing. After limping northward towards the Turkish border for less than an hour, he was picked up by a patrol of local Kurdish police. The Kurds in northern Iraq love Americans, especially American soldiers, and from his tattered uniform and injuries, they presumed him to be an American Special Forces operator. Court did nothing to dissuade them of this assumption. They drove him into Mosul and cleaned him up and rebandaged his leg wound in a clinic built by the U.S. government. Within seven hours of dropping from the ass of an airplane without a parachute on his back, the American assassin found himself dressed in pressed slacks and a linen shirt, boarding a commercial aircraft bound for Tbilisi, Georgia.
The improvement in his circumstances was not due entirely to luck. One of Court’s fallback plans involved him finding his own way out of Iraq, and to prepare himself for this eventuality, he’d sewn a forged passport, forged visas for Georgia and Turkey, cash, and other necessary documents into the legs of his pants.
No, Gentry benefited from a little luck from time to time, but he did not rely on it. He was nothing if not a man prepared.
After passing through Georgian customs with a Canadian passport identifying himself as Martin Baldwin, freelance journalist, he bought a ticket to Prague, Czech Republic. The five-hour flight was nearly empty, and Court landed at Ruzyne Airport just after ten in the evening.
He knew Prague like the back of his hand. He’d worked a job here once and often used the neighboring suburbs as a place to hide out.
After a cab and a metro ride, he walked through the cobblestone streets of the Stare Mesto District, then checked into a tiny attic hotel room a quarter mile from the Vltava River. After a long, soaking shower, he had just sat down to redress his thigh when the satellite phone in his new backpack began to beep.
Court checked it, saw that Fitzroy was calling, and continued to work on the gunshot wound. He’d talk to Don in the morning.
Gentry was understandably pissed about the extraction team turning on him.
He didn’t even entertain the possibility that Sir Donald himself had ordered his men to kill him. No, he was angry because Fitzroy’s operation was obviously compromised to the degree that the Nigerians were able to infiltrate a mission in progress and almost succeed in turning his rescuers into his executioners. Fitzroy had been strongly against Court going through with the hit on Abubaker after the death of the paymaster, and now Gentry wondered if Fitzroy had put together a half assed support structure for the op as a way to show his disapproval.
Fitzroy’s organized support structure was called the Network, and the Network was Gentry’s only lifeline in the field. It was made up of legitimate doctors who would patch up a wounded man, no questions asked, legitimate cargo pilots who would take a stowaway on board without looking over the gear on his back, legitimate printers who could alter documents. The list went on and on, grew over time. Gentry used the Network as little as possible, much less than the other men in Fitzroy’s stable. The Gray Man was, after all, a high-speed, low-drag operator. But everyone who works in Gentry’s arduous profession needs a little help from time to time, and Court was no different.
Gentry had worked for Fitzroy for four years, beginning within a few months of the night the CIA indicated that they no longer required the services of their most experienced and successful man hunter. Court thought back to the night. The indication of their dissatisfaction was followed immediately by a bomb in his car, a hit squad in his apartment, and an international arrest warrant processed from the Justice Department, distributed through Interpol to every law enforcement agency on the planet.
At that time, Gentry was desperate for work to fund his life in hiding from the U.S. government, so he contacted Sir Donald Fitzroy. The Englishman ran a seemingly aboveboard security business, but Gentry had had dealings with the black side of Cheltenham Security Services when performing hits and renditions with the CIA’s Special Activities Division, so it was a natural place for the recently unemployed gunman to seek work.
Since then, he had become something of a star in the world of private operators. Although virtually no one knew his real name, or the fact that he worked for Fitzroy, the Gray Man had become a legend amongst covert operators across the Western world.
As with any legend, many of the details were enhanced, enriched, or wholly fabricated. One of the details of the myth of the Gray Man that
Gentry took the toughest of the tough ops, went into bandit country alone, faced legions of enemies, and built a reputation and a bank account that was un rivaled in his admittedly low-profile industry. In four years he had satisfactorily performed twelve operations against terrorists and terrorist paymasters, white slavery profiteers, drug and illegal weapons runners, and Russian Mafia kingpins. Rumor had it he’d already made more money than he could ever need, so the inference was that he did what he did for the purpose of righting wrongs, protecting the weak, making the world a better place through the muzzle of his gun.
The myth was a fantasy, not reality, but unlike most fantasies, the man at the center of this one
No, he didn’t need the money, nor did he have a death wish. Court Gentry was the Gray Man simply because he believed there existed bad men in this world who truly needed to die.
