Claire looked across the park. “I am glad Grandpa Donald wasn’t lying about you.”
“Me, too.”
It was quiet for a moment. Jim began to shuffle a little on the bench.
Claire said, “You have to go now, right?”
“I’m sorry. I have to catch a plane.”
“That’s okay. I have to go to school. Routine is important.”
“Yeah.” He paused. “I guess it is.”
They both stood, hugged again. “Take care of your sister and your mother, Claire. You are a strong girl. You will be fine.”
“I know, Jim. Merry Christmas.” she said to him, and then they both said good-bye.
Court walked slowly out of the park and onto Upper Grosvenor Square. The limp he had managed to hide from Claire had returned, and he winced with each step. A black Peugeot sedan idled just outside the gate. He ducked into the backseat without a word to the occupants.
Two Frenchmen in suits turned to face him from the front. One handed him a satchel as the car pulled into traffic. Quietly, Court opened it, checked its contents, and zipped it shut.
The middle-aged Frenchman in the passenger seat said, “The jet is waiting at Stansted. Three hours’ flying time. You should be in Madrid by early afternoon.”
Court did not respond; he only looked out the window.
“Abubaker will arrive at his hotel at six. Are you sure you have enough time to prepare?”
Still nothing from the American.
“We have arranged a room on the floor directly below his suite.”
Gentry just stared at the park as it passed. Children walked with their parents. Lovers arm in arm.
The Frenchman in the passenger seat rudely snapped his fingers in front of Gentry’s face, as if admonishing an inattentive servant. “Monsieur, are you listening?”
The Gray Man turned slowly to the man. His eyes were clearer now.
“Understood. No problem. Plenty of time.”
The older Frenchman barked, “I don’t need you fucking this up.”
“And I don’t need your advice. It’s my show.
“You are my property, monsieur. We have spent a lot of money on your recovery. You will do as you are told.”
Court wanted to protest, wanted to reach into the front seat and break the passenger’s neck, but he checked his urges. Kurt Riegel’s successor was a bigger asshole than Kurt Riegel, but he was also Gentry’s boss.
If only for the time being.
“Yes, sir,” said Court, though he wanted to say more. He turned his head back to the window, caught a final glimpse of the southern tip of the park, the lovers and the children and the families and the lives of others so incredibly different from his own.
The Peugeot turned left on Piccadilly, left the park behind, and melted into the heavy traffic of London’s morning commute.
