On Target

When Carmichael finished his explanation of the operation, he moved on to the part of the deal most important to the Gray Man. “You do this for us, Sierra Six, and our operation to eliminate you will simply go away. That means any existing sanctions or directives against you within the agency will be dropped. Existing warrants via Interpol will be rescinded. Existing communiques from Central Intelligence liaisons to foreign intelligence agencies regarding you will cease. The CIA request for Echelon intel and other data mining regarding you from NSA will be allowed to expire. Other loose ends will be cleared up. FBI, Joint Special Operations Command, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, the Commerce Department . . . you will no longer be a person of interest to any United States federal department or agency.”

Court didn’t know JSOC had been involved in the hunt for him. JSOC meant Delta Force, the Unit, and the Unit meant some tough hombres. The Commerce Department, on the other hand, didn’t quite fill him with the same sense of dread.

Gentry said, “I understand.”

“Fine. So do we have an agreement?”

“Will you tell me what this is all about?”

Carmichael looked a little annoyed. Presumably he did not feel comfortable offering deals to outlaws. But he nodded and said, “President Abboud is wanted by the International Criminal—”

“Excuse me, sir. I meant . . . Can you tell me what the shoot on sight is all about? Why you went after me in the first place.”

There was a long pause. Denny Carmichael looked off camera to someone on his side, perhaps for guidance. Finally he replied with a grave tone, “Son. If you truly do not know what you did, it is probably better for everyone’s sake that I do not tell you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Let’s move forward. Forget the SOS. We’re prepared to forget the SOS. Do we have a deal regarding President Abboud?”

Court looked at Zack. Zack looked back. Finally, Gentry said, “Yes, sir. I will do my best to uphold my end of the bargain. I will rely on you and Sierra One to uphold yours.”

Carmichael nodded but did not smile. “Very well. We will not speak again, Six. Sierra One will be the team leader and on-site commander for Operation Nocturne Sapphire, the rendition of President Bakri Ali Abboud from the Sudan to the International Criminal Court in the Netherlands. Arrangements will be made for further operations, presuming all goes well in Africa, at the appropriate time, via the Special Activities Division Special Operations Group case officer assigned to you.”

“Understood. Thank you.”

A curt nod from the man on the screen, and the screen went blank.

Immediately Zack said, “I thought that dude would never shut up.”

Court stood, looked at his watch.

“So, we good, Six?” asked Zack.

A pause of resignation on the part of Court Gentry. He was going to do this, but it would not be easy. He said, “You’d better get me back to the hotel. Can’t let Sid’s goons catch me away.”

Zack smiled. “Roger that. A couple of my boys will take you back and tuck you in. Don’t mind them if they aren’t too chummy at first. They’re a little grumpy about all this. They somehow got the impression that you were the dickhead who’d killed several men in your unit and then ran off to seek fame and fortune in the private sector.”

“Where did they get an idea like that, Zack?”

Sierra One put his hands up in surrender. “I might bear some responsibility for their distrust of you. Also, you put Todd out of action for this op.” Then he smiled, slapped his hand on Court’s back, a little too forcefully. “Hey, it’s good to be working with you again. Last thing. Let’s talk about gear.”

“What about it?”

“I’ll have all the specific equipment for Nocturne Sapphire in the Sudan. I’ll meet you there to hand it over the night before the operation. But as far as personal gear, let me know what you need, and I’ll see what I can do to have it ready by next week.”

“A sat phone that I can reach you on. Something that works well in North Africa. A Hughes Thuraya should be good. And a good supply of batteries. That ought to do.”

Hightower looked at Gentry. “You gonna bash a sat phone over the bad guys’ heads? I was talking about guns, Six.”

“I’ll get all the guns I need from Sid. He’s got better shit than you guys.”

“Oh, that hurts. But hey, you’ll save the taxpayers a few bucks, so I guess I’m cool with that.”

TWELVE

Court made it back to his suite at the Nevsky Palace at four forty-five a.m. He and Hightower had discussed operational details for another hour, then he was led out of the belly of the yacht and over the side, onto a dinghy with two of Zack’s men. No words were spoken between the three as they negotiated the frigid black waters of the Bay of Finland, making landfall at nearly four in the morning. A car was waiting on the dock, and Court was ushered into it, driven back to the hotel, and delivered to a room. Hightower had thought of everything, even renting a suite directly above Gentry’s. From here the SAD men went to the balcony, dropped a rope over the side, and gave Court a small pad of contact information for the team.

“Hey, man,” said the black operator. He’d been introduced as Spencer, and the other guy, a younger man with an accent Court recognized as Croatian, as Milo. “People talk. Rumors and shit. Normally I don’t listen . . . but . . . Were you the guy in Kiev? Just a yes or no.”

Gentry took the pad, stuck it in his back pocket, and uttered his only phrase in the past hour of the transport. “Fuck you.” He ignored the rope and kicked his legs over the side of the railing. He swung down to his balcony below unaided and dropped silently.

Spencer leaned over the railing and called down, “Fuck you, too, Six. We’ll see you in two weeks down in the stink.”

Gentry showered, stared into the foggy bathroom mirror at his bruised face, and looked at the clock on the vanity. Five a.m. In two hours he’d have some explaining to do about how he managed to get a shiner and a fat lip while reading papers alone on a bed in a junior suite. Naked, Court turned to leave the room, but he stopped, turned back, and opened the medicine cabinet on a hunch. He peered in, and simultaneously his heart raced and his shoulders slumped. Sid’s men had stocked the cabinet with over a dozen prescription meds: decongestants, antibiotics, medicines for temporary relief from erectile dysfunction. All these could not possibly be less relevant to his present circumstance. But he saw the painkillers almost immediately. Dilaudid, four milligram tablets. His heart raced in anticipation of the respite of relaxation one tab would give him. But his shoulders slumped in resignation that he was not in any real pain, he knew he wanted but did not need the strong opiate, and he knew his three weeks of self-imposed detox would be coming to an end in about five seconds.

Court popped two tablets, swallowed them with water from the tap, and then in a moment of anger and shame, he poured the rest down the drain of the flowing vanity basin.

Next he dressed in the butt-ugly purple tracksuit Sid’s men had left for him, and he lay on the bed. His mind would be useless to him soon enough; he had to think before the medicine took its full effect.

He thought about President Abboud. If Nocturne Sapphire was successful, the murderous despot would live. This bothered Gentry mightily. It was too simple perhaps, but Sid’s quote from Stalin had a plain truth to it that did resonate with Court, even if he would never admit common ground with Uncle Joe. “Death solves all problems. No man, no problem.” No, that wasn’t Court’s exact thinking; few problems were solved with political assassination. But certainly many short-term goals were achieved. And most assuredly, killing a bad actor ended the bad actor’s commission of the bad act.

Killing Abboud would kill Abboud. Other than that, Court Gentry did not give a damn.