the adrenaline high following the landing, that he might just manage to talk his way out of jail time if he could keep his winning streak going a few minutes more. But this pipe dream faded as a movement out the windscreen jolted him back to reality. A black van smashed through the fence directly in front of him. The six Indonesians appeared from around the starboard side of the Bombardier, pulling rucksacks retrieved from the cargo hold. Hurriedly they clambered into the vehicle. While Captain Kilzer and First Officer Lee sat silently and stared at the activity in front of their cockpit, the black van backed through the mud and grass from whence it came, skidded in the rainwater on a road on the other side, and then sped off into the storm.
That dramatic event, Kilzer knew, would not have gone unnoticed by the control tower behind him. And that dramatic event, Kilzer knew, would land both him and Lee behind bars until that asshole Riegel could buy them out.
And it occurred to Kilzer as he placed his hat on his head and left the airplane, the rain whipping into his face and his ears assaulted with the shrieking sound of approaching sirens, that Mr. Riegel would certainly have other messes to attend to before the day was through, so he and Lee should prepare themselves to be forgotten about for some time to come.
The wire transfer appeared in Szabo’s account as he was furiously making a third call to Fitzroy. The CIA was due to arrive within ten minutes, he’d cut it way too close, but now the money was received, and he could leave. He hung up the phone as Fitzroy answered. Next he checked back in on the Gray Man one final time, bade him adieu and bon chance, finished packing his suitcase, and then hobbled out of his studio/laboratory /workshop, shuffling down the hall as quickly as his paralytic body would allow.
He was almost to the door when the phone rang. Thinking it was the CIA station chief giving him an update on the progress of the operators on the way, he decided to answer. They wouldn’t have called if they were moments away.
He lifted the phone off the hook. “I have fulfilled my side of the bargain. It is time for you to fulfill yours,” said Fitzroy.
“I am impressed, Sir Donald. My phones are scrambled, how did you—”
“I have my ways, Laszlo. Now, free the Gray Man before they come for him!”
The sweat already dripping down the sixty-year-old Hungarian’s back turned ice-cold. Fitzroy knew who he was. Szabo realized he’d be watching his back for the wily Englishman for the rest of his life.
“I will release your boy immediately.”
“You wouldn’t be talking out of both sides of your mouth, would you? Playing a game with myself and the CIA.”
“You have my word as a gentleman.”
“Very well, Laszlo. Enjoy the money.” The line went dead.
Szabo thought about taking a final step up on the riser, one more glance into the pit, but he decided against it. He hurriedly limped back down the hall, suitcase in hand.
He stepped to the small iron door, but it flew inwards as he reached for it. Bright lights shone into the Hungarian’s eyes, though it was dark and raining outside. In shock he leapt back, tripped over his bad leg, and fell onto his back. Squinting the lights away, he saw a team of men dressed in black, hooded faces, a half dozen gunmen with short-barreled weapons held to eye level. Protruding from each rifle was a powerful flashlight. The first man to him dropped onto a black kneepad. He lifted Szabo by the neck.
“Going somewhere?” He spoke softly in English. It was the CIA. Szabo could barely see eyes behind the operator’s goggles.
“I . . . I was waiting for you. Just putting the bag in the car, you see. I’ll be heading out after you boys finish.”
“Sure. Where’s the subject?”
Szabo was helped back to his feet. All the men in the narrow hall kept their weapons trained ahead.
“He’s in the front room, at the end of the hall. Step up on the riser and look down. He’s twelve feet down in the cistern, covered with a thick sheet of—”
“Show us.” Szabo read the man’s voice. There would be no negotiation. He turned and hobbled back up the hallway with the American paramilitaries.
Inside the low-lit room the leader of the SAD unit positioned his five men against the walls and stepped to the riser slowly. Laszlo urged him on, told him there was nothing to be afraid of, managed to drop the station chief’s name no less than three times as a way to let the CIA gunmen know he was “one of them.” Finally, the heavily armed and armored leader stepped up on the riser and peered warily over into the glass.
Laszlo called out, still trying to curry favor. “He probably has a gun, but he can’t use it while the lid is shut. He’d have to be quite a dancer to dodge a ricochet in that little space. Your boss promised Laszlo he’d be taken care of. Maybe I should call him and you can all have a talk so you see everything Laszlo’s done for your side. Laszlo the Loyal, he calls me.”
The tac team leader leaned over farther. Then farther. He took a knee over the Plexiglas. Turned slowly around, back to Szabo. “What the fuck is this?”
Laszlo did not understand. “What do you mean? It’s the Gray Man, all wrapped in a nice bow for my friends at the CIA—”
“Did you kill him?” asked the American operative, standing up now and turning to face the Hungarian.
“Of course not. Why do you ask me this?” Quickly the master forger hobbled on his cane towards the riser to see what was wrong.
Court had not sat as idly for the past seventy minutes as Szabo had presumed. As soon as the Hungarian left him alone, he’d pulled his necklace over his head, stripped off the thin leather to reveal a wire saw. He used this to cut away at the exposed water pipe below the mattresses. He’d cut it down in two places to where a few more passes of the wire’s teeth would open the pipe and fill the cistern with hot springwater in a matter of minutes.
Once this was done, Gentry pulled his pistol, ejected the round from the chamber, and retrieved the spare mags from his pants. Using his waterproof boots for a collection bin and the pliers on his multi-tool, he’d pulled each cartridge apart, poured the potassium nitrate-based gunpowder in the boot. When he had the powder from thirty of the thirty-one bullets he carried on his body collected, he disassembled one of his magazines, removed the spring, reattached the plate, filled it tight with gunpowder from his boot, and then placed the follower at the top, packing the explosive agent tighter in the metal magazine. Court used the magazine spring to bind the follower securely in place.
Lazlo checked in on him from time to time. The old cripple made so much noise climbing up on the wooden riser it was no trick for the Gray Man to stuff his arts-and-crafts project below a rotten mattress in time to avoid detection.
Next Gentry took off a sock, filled it with the empty cartridges, because the powder would not ignite without help from the primer each cartridge contained. He crammed the powder-filled magazine in the sock and lashed everything together tight with his bootlace.
In his fist he held it. It was a big, heavy sock and roughly the power equivalent of a hand grenade.
Gentry feverishly ripped several lengths of fabric from a mattress, tied them together to make a thin strand about ten feet long. He reloaded his Walther pistol with his one remaining round, left the magazine well empty, and tied the gun with more mattress strands to where the muzzle of the three-and-a-half-inch barrel was placed point- blank at the sock full of primers and explosive. The long strand he tied to the pistol’s trigger.
Finally, Gentry took off his pants. He tied the legs tight at the ankles and then again at the crotch. This created two chambers filled with air. They wouldn’t stay water tight for long, but long enough for Court’s needs. He used his last shoelace to tie the grenade to the pants. He sat with the pants draped over his legs so Laszlo would not easily notice he wasn’t still wearing them.
