On Target (54 page)

“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 Meliá. 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 cafés 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
I
approve of. But the ends justify the means.”

“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 have a quick drink, you’ll see that I’m not here to put you in shackles, and I’ll take a look at you, just to make sure those cracks I was worried about haven’t gotten any bigger.”

Court smiled a little. He was not happy, but it was a moment of contentment.

“Please?” she pressed.

“Ten minutes. I need to make a call first.”

“Great. You probably won’t recognize me with a shower and clean clothes.”

Court smiled again. “I look pretty much the same, I’m afraid.”

She giggled. “See you in ten,” and she hung up. Court knew how to read voices. Ellen was happy, excited.

One drink wouldn’t hurt a thing.

He put more money in the phone and dialed a number written on a small scrap of paper taken from his pocket. When the line was answered, he put the scrap in his mouth and swallowed.

“Hey, Don. It’s done.”

Sir Donald Fitzroy said, “Did he believe the story about the woman being an intelligence agent?”

“He did.”

“That was a brilliant idea, lad. Put the fear of the FSB in him, did it?”

“No. He didn’t bat an eyelash. Nothing to hide, I guess.”

A pause. “I see. Then you used some other means to secure his help.”

“I did.”

Fitzroy’s voice was strong, more serious than usual. “You don’t sound happy.”

“I don’t
feel
happy. I told him I’d go after his kids.”

Another long pause. Gentry felt like the man on the other end of the line was judging him. But then, “You helped prevent a shooting war, Court.”

Gentry said nothing.

“No one wants to see the sausage made, but everyone loves the sausage. It is a dirty business, threatening one’s family. I should know. But it is damn effective. And it needed to be done.”

“Yeah,” Court said, again unconvincingly.

He leaned his forehead on the glass of the phone booth and watched the water some more, flowing faster by the minute as the rain picked up.

He just wanted to hang up the phone and go see Ellen. He was already thinking about two drinks now. Maybe they could even get in a cab, get away from the hotel, find a small place for dinner, some quiet local cantina without work for her or worry for him. He’d like that. He
needed
that.

“I need a vacation,” he said into the phone but mostly to himself.

“You need more than a vacation, lad. Listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you. All over the world, they are after you.”

“Who?” Court lifted his head from the glass.

“
Everyone
. The Russian government, the American government, Sid Sidorenko’s Nazis. It’s not like before; this is full-time. The CIA is putting out feelers all over the earth. They’ll work with anyone, pay any price to find you.
Please
take my advice. Wherever you are right now, whatever you are doing . . . run. Get up and go and go and keep going. Don’t tell me where, for God’s sake. They will get to me to get to you. Don’t tell a soul. They are close, and they
will
find you if you do not run straightaway.”

“What about the ICC?”

“The ICC? I haven’t seen anything about the ICC hunting you. I would bloody well know it, too. International organizations are an intelligence sieve. No, that particular organization may be the only group
not
pursuing you at the moment.”

Court looked up at the lights of the Gran Meliá up the street through the rain on the Plexiglas. He said, “I understand.”

Fitzroy continued talking, fast and nervous. He sounded as if
he
were the prey instead of Gentry. “And forget every stash you have; don’t access your bank accounts; ignore all the cash you’ve made that’s not in your pocket right now. They are putting their foot down on the Swiss, desperate for information on your finances. The Swiss will balk for a time, because that is what they do, but the Swiss will fold up soon enough, because that is
also
what they do. Do what you must for money, but stay off the grid. Run, keep going. Absolute paranoia is your
only
chance for survival.”

“Yeah.” The Gray Man’s head moved on a swivel now, up and down the street. The drugs in his brain seemed to evaporate with the infusion of adrenaline.

“Six months, nine months, whenever you have to, you don’t call me, but you contact someone who knows me, find some way to get in touch, and I’ll get back with you. If you want work, I will give you work. If you just need money, I’ll find a way to get something to you to help out.”

“Thanks, Don.”

“I’ve done nothing, Court. My debt to you is not paid by this. Run now, go, and don’t look back.”

“I’m serious, I really appreciate—”

“Run, boy! Hang up the phone and
go
!”

“I’m gone,” Court said, and he hung up the phone. He stepped out of the booth and looked up to the bright lights of the hotel for a moment, but only a moment, then he looked away.

Towards the darkness.

He melted into the foot traffic and disappeared in the evening crowd flow, like warm rainwater down the drain.

TURN THE PAGE FOR A STUNNING PREVIEW OF

THE NEW GRAY MAN NOVEL COMING FROM JOVE BOOKS IN 2011

The man hunter knelt at the front of the canoe, scanned the far bank as it emerged around the river’s bend. Thick green rain forest morphed slowly into a rustic brown village, a settlement of hard-packed dirt and wood and corrugated rust built along the water’s edge.

“This is it?” he called back to the Indian steering with the outboard motor. Only by necessity had his Portuguese improved in the past months.

“Sim, senhor. This is it.”

The man hunter nodded, reached for the radio tucked between his knees.

But he stayed himself. He needed to be certain.

Seven months. Seven months since the call came for him in Amsterdam. A rushed consultation with his employer, a flight across the Atlantic to Caracas, then a mad dash to Lima, and then south.

Ever south. Until he and his prey came to the end of the world, and then the chase wound back to the north.

Ever north.

He’d been on the target’s heels, to one degree or another, for all this time. The longest hunt of his storied career.

And it would end here. One way or another, the hunt for Courtland Gentry would end here.

Outside of Quito the man hunter had come close. He’d even called in the wet boys, but they’d gone wanting for a target. Foolish of him; a false start could dull their fervor the next time. He would not cry wolf again. He’d caught fresh wind of the target in northern Chile, and a hint of him farther down the Pacific coast, but then he’d lost the scent in Punta Arenas.

Until Rio, and a lucky break. A visiting jujitsu student from Denmark had seen an Interpol Wanted poster while in his embassy to file for a lost passport. He’d run into another white student at a dojo in the favelas. Nothing to that, but the Dane knew his art, and the white man’s fighting style showed hints of other disciplines—hard, brutal, warrior tendencies that he tried to hide from those around him. The Dane recalled the Wanted poster. It was no obvious match, but he felt compelled to contact the authorities. Something about the man in the dojo had uneased him. A look, an edge, a recognition by the white student that the Dane was sizing him up through his peripheral vision.

The man hunter got word of the sighting, arrived on a private jet mere hours later. The suspect did not show for class that day, nor the next. The man hunter brought in local reinforcements for the legwork, dozens of men combed the favelas with photos and cash. Many of the crew were roughed up or threatened on the mean streets of the lawless slums, one man even relieved of his wallet and knifed in the arm. But the canvass paid off, someone talked, someone pointed a finger, someone whispered an address.

The man hunter went to have a look. He was not a wet boy, he hadn’t fired a weapon since his days in the Royal Netherlands Army, fighting the Angolans in the 1970s. But he did not want to spin up his gunmen-in-waiting on another wild-goose chase, so he left three armed men up the street as he went on alone. A horrid, run-down neighborhood, a shit-stained building, a piss-scented third-floor hall with a darkened doorway at the end of it. The man hunter’s hands shook as he used another boarder’s key and crept inside.

A dormitory, a human form moved in a blur off a top bunk bed, the man hunter’s life flashed before his eyes. Then a backpack heaved upon the blur’s shoulder and the blur was out a window, a full two stories down. The man hunter rushed behind him, watched his target land and roll onto another rooftop, float across an alleyway to another building like a flying squirrel, and then another leap and roll down to ground level.