54

Connor darted across the hallway and into the opposite room just as Laurent Barbier emerged, carrying his briefcase. Reeling from the shock of Mr. Barbier’s corrupt dealings, it dawned on Connor that he was amid a nest of vipers. With their lives in potentially grave danger, the colonel was the only man he could trust. Connor had to find him, and fast.

“You crop up in all the wrong places and at all the wrong times, Connor Reeves.”

Connor spun to find Mr. Gray directly behind him.

“Yes, I know who you are,” he said, relishing the wide-eyed look of horrified surprise on Connor’s face.

As desperate as Connor was to escape the room, his feet were rooted to the spot. Up close Mr. Gray was an unnerving sight. His lean face was plain and ordinary—but it was that dull ordinariness that made him terrifying, like a waxwork come to life. His skin was dry and anemic, his ice-gray eyes devoid of all human warmth. And his breath, as he moved closer to Connor, possessed the dank smell of a tomb.

“So, Connor, what do you know?” he asked, almost as casually as if he were chatting about the weather. But the underlying menace was still there.

“I know your name, but not who you are,” replied Connor, his mouth going dry with fear.

“I’m afraid that’s more than enough.” Mr. Gray let out a sigh, then went silent as if contemplating Connor’s fate.

“I saw you on that tanker in Somalia,” said Connor, finding his tongue again. “What were you doing there? Why did you shoot that pirate? Are you an assassin?”

Mr. Gray narrowed his eyes at him. “Young boys have such inquiring minds. So many questions. But you know what they say?” He paused for effect. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

Connor wanted to run for his life. But his legs failed to respond. A good thing, perhaps, since he sensed that the merest attempt to flee would prompt Mr. Gray to eliminate him in the blink of an eye. Now, instead of surrendering to his fear, Connor became defiant.

“Well, if you intend to kill me, you’d better not miss this time,” he said.

“I never miss,” snapped Mr. Gray, evidently offended at such a slur on his marksmanship.

“You did at the mine.”

Mr. Gray answered with a thin dour smile. “I shot exactly who I meant to.”

Connor frowned. “The rebel soldier?”

Mr. Gray nodded once.

“You were helping me to escape?” said Connor, incredulous at such a notion.

“I wouldn’t call it help exactly. Just balancing the odds. Equilibrium, one might call it.”

“What is this Equilibrium?” demanded Connor. “You mentioned it before.”

Mr. Gray tutted. “Remember the cat! On that point, neutralizing you here and now would raise too many awkward questions.” He leaned forward, ensuring he had Connor’s full attention. “This is our second encounter, Connor Reeves. Pray that we don’t have a third.”

Connor swallowed uneasily. “So what are you going to do to me?”

Mr. Gray leaned in even closer, his pale face filling Connor’s vision. Connor found himself mesmerized by the man’s fathomless eyes. He seemed to be plunging into their icy depths, drawn down deeper and deeper like a drowning man. At the same time, Mr. Gray whispered words like drops of poison in his ear, his hushed, almost breathless voice worming its way deep into Connor’s subconscious. “Forget my face . . . I never existed . . . You never heard my name . . . Equilibrium means nothing . . . I am just a ghost to you . . .”