FOURTEEN
PRESENT DAY
Just after eleven a.m. Court sat at a wooden table on the patio of el Refugio de Aguila, a German restaurant all alone alongside the highway just outside the town of Miranda. He had a half hour to kill before climbing back into his driver’s car for the ride to the reservoir, and then another several hours to wait until nightfall for the flight in the Cessna seaplane back to Aruba.
And, as far as he was concerned, he was using his time wisely.
A bottle of pale lager, his second, rested on the table in front of him. A basket of half-eaten sausages sat next to it.
The food and drink were good, a nice coda to an exceptionally shitty morning, but he was putting off the one thing he really needed to do.
Call Hanley.
And when he did call Hanley, he knew then the shit would really hit the fan.
He looked down to his phone on the table. After a moment he reached down for it, but his hand bypassed the phone and he hefted his beer instead.
Not yet, he told himself.
He’d spent an hour in the jungle before being picked up by the driver for the ride back in the direction of the reservoir. While waiting for the pickup, he’d poured antiseptic into his open surgical wound and rebandaged the bloody hole. He’d taken his antibiotics and some mild painkillers, but he ignored the myriad cuts and bruises he’d sustained falling through the floor of the home and then, a few minutes later, crashing down the hillside.
He’d then changed out of his tiger camo and into a pair of jeans and a dingy gray T-shirt. He’d considered calling Hanley then; he’d had the time to do so, but he needed to get control of his emotions and come up with a strategy for delivering the bad news to the DDO.
After finishing his second beer, however, he told himself he could put it off no longer. Court ordered a third, then lifted the phone, opened an encrypted communication app called Signal, dialed the number from memory, and immediately reached the deputy director on the seventh floor of CIA’s headquarters in McLean, Virginia.
Hanley opened with, “Identity check.”
“Lima, Victor, Golf, Papa, eight, fiver, Bravo.”
“Iden confirmed,” Hanley said. And then, “Status?”
“My status is nominal.” And then he sighed to himself. There was no way to sugarcoat this. “But Clark Drummond is dead.”
“Did you—”
“No, I didn’t do it. I tried to get him out of there, but he was intercepted by a tier-one team. They starched him. Execution style.”
“Dammit, Violator! I told you I needed this done quietly.”
“Don’t look at me. This team was after Drummond, I just happened to get in the middle of it.”
“Who was the enemy?”
“Unknown. They suffered one KIA that I am aware of.”
“Did you, at least, get any pocket litter from the body that can help with the ID?”
Court wasn’t going to go into detail about the backpack of Composition Four detonating just feet away from him, about the partial building collapse, about the raging fire. Hanley wouldn’t care, anyway. Instead Court said, “You know, there wasn’t a hell of a lot of time for me to be searching the pockets of dead assholes. Things move a bit faster in the field than you might remember.”
If Hanley was annoyed at Court’s jibe, Court couldn’t pick up on it, because Hanley was so obviously annoyed at his agent’s failure in Venezuela that nothing else came through.
“What about Drummond’s phone and his hard drives?”
Court paused while the waitress brought him his lager, and he paused a little longer to take a long pull from it.
Then he said, “Negative to both. I did get a little intel, though, including the name and photo of an unknown who is definitely involved.”
Court told Hanley about Berlin, about Miriam, about the death of Drummond’s colleagues. About Drummond’s assertions that they were actually spying on EU countries and not just Iranians in the EU. Hanley took it all in, but he clearly wasn’t satisfied.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah,” Court said. “Just an FYI. You sent Zack straight into a trap.”
The pause was brief. “I guess you’re saying that Drummond gave PowerSlave to the Venezuelans?”
“Not exactly. He had the Venezuelans feed him immigration data every day, and he ran it through PowerSlave on his own. When Zack came through the airport, he had the computer watching for him on cameras near his house.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.”
“How did you not consider that a possibility beforehand?”
“I did consider it. I determined it was an acceptable risk.”
“Did Zack get a vote?”
Hanley didn’t answer this. He just breathed into the phone a moment, then said, “I can send a plane to you, assuming you’re out of Venezuela.”
“What about Drummond? Berlin? Everything that I just told you?”
Hanley paused, then said, “We’ll deal with it.”
Court sat there, looking out at the highway, thinking about what Hanley was not saying. Finally, he barked out an angry laugh. “You’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you? You already knew about all this.”
“No, not entirely. But nothing you just told me comes as a great surprise. We’ve been aware of a possible Israeli intel initiative in Berlin targeting Iran, despite denials from Mossad that they have any involvement in it. We didn’t know Drummond was caught up in it, but the relationship you describe between him, his handler, and the work they were asking him to do sounds very much like what we have been hearing from other sources. For some reason, and in some way, they were able to keep Drummond in hiding, whereas others operated more overtly.”
“Overtly?”
“There is an intelligence concern in Europe called Shrike International Group; it seems to have private sector ownership, but that gets very murky very quickly. It was started by Rudolf Spangler, an ex-Stasi asshole, but word is he isn’t involved with the firm at all anymore. The consensus is his company has been taken over as a deniable Israeli operation spying on Iranian intelligence efforts in the EU.
“Shrike has been hiring some of the best analytical and technological talent from intel agencies around the world. Overtly. These aren’t the missing IC personnel, just IC personnel who were recruited out in the light to come and work in Germany for a private firm. From what we can tell, the company’s objectives all seem to involve Iran.”
“What’s the problem with Israel spying on Iran? Israel is an ally, right?”
Hanley gave another sigh, but Court didn’t think this one was directed at him. He said, “Jerusalem is trying to draw Iran into a war with the West. They have been at it for years. They do whatever they can to stir the pot. Monthly bombing raids into Iran or Lebanon, for example, trying to get an overreaction out of Tehran. Israel is also furious, beyond furious, that the EU eased sanctions on Tehran last year.
“Yeah, Israel is an ally, but it’s still my job to keep tabs on them to make sure whatever this initiative in Berlin is, it’s not an operation to stir the hornets’ nest even more.
“If the missing intelligence officers around the world are also affiliated with Shrike, in a covert fashion, then that is new information and we’ll have to figure out what to make of it. If the Israelis are snagging IC personnel for some sort of offensive mission in the EU . . . against EU nations . . .” He paused. “This could be bigger than we thought.
“We’ve been suspicious of Shrike, but we haven’t been able to pick up any solid intel that they were operating against anyone other than Iran. Mostly cyber, analytic, and atmospheric stuff. Definitely no meat-and-potatoes spy shit, from what we’ve ascertained.” Hanley’s voice deepened. “Unfortunately, Violator, you are bringing out no proof, and you are bringing out no Clark Drummond.”
Court rubbed his tired eyes. He felt like he had the flu, and he knew his infection was cooking inside him. But he shook off the feeling and said, “You need to get someone infiltrated into Shrike Group.”
“Really, Violator? Is that what we need to do?” Hanley snapped. “No shit.” He added, “I already have an asset on the inside.”
Court nodded, then cocked his head. “Hopefully it isn’t someone from Berlin station. Drummond said PowerSlave was up and running in Berlin. If Shrike is associated with the work Drummond was doing, then they would be able to peg your asset before he ever got near any intel.”
“It’s not someone from Berlin station,” Hanley replied.
Court picked up on this. “Who is it?”
“You should know better than to ask me who—”
Court had been hunched over, but now he bolted up in his chair. “You can’t send any official Agency assets, which means you are probably sending an off-book agent. Another Poison Apple agent. As far as I know, there are three of us. I’m right here, and Zack is in a prison twenty miles from here, so that means there is only one person who could be in Berlin right now.”
Hanley sighed into the phone. In an almost reluctant tone he said, “You are correct. Anthem is in play in Berlin.”
Court closed his eyes and squeezed the phone hard. There was so much wrong with this. Anthem was Zoya Zakharova, the Russians wanted her dead, and Court was in love with her.
His heart began to pound.
He chose his words carefully now. “Matt . . . listen carefully. The team sent here last night after Drummond. They came in hard and ruthless. They knew their shit. They might have been American, definitely ex–special operations forces. If Zoya is working over there in Berlin, without a net, in deep cover, and if all this shit is, in fact, tied together, then she is very much in danger.”
“It’s a dangerous occupation, what you all do.”
“What is her cover? Drummond described a well-run intelligence organization. If Zoya gets made by the oppo, then you know she’ll be in extreme—”
“She’s been made,” Hanley barked. “That’s her cover.”
Court held the phone even tighter in his hand. Forcing calm into his voice, he said, “I’m going to need you to explain that.”
“We wanted her to be ID’d as a rogue Russian intelligence asset. A woman without a country, desperate for work. That’s the only way we can be sure Shrike Group would trust her enough to bring her into their black side.”
Court waited for a new cluster of diners to pass him on their way to a table on the other side of the deck. When they were out of earshot, he said, “Matt, I don’t have to explain this to you, but I will anyway because it seems you have lost your fucking mind. If these bastards running this shady private intelligence shop realize Zoya Zakharova is there, in Berlin, then it’s just a matter of time before the Russians get wind of it. And when the Russians do get wind of it, it won’t be any time at all before they send hitters to Germany to deal with her. I don’t care what crazy errand she is on for you; she won’t be able to do it because she’ll either be dead or on the run.”
Hanley repeated himself. “It’s dangerous work, what you do.”
Son of a bitch, Court thought. But he just said, “Let me go help her.”
“Denied. Look, Berlin station is working this on the periphery; they don’t know about Anthem, but they have eyes and ears on the operation. At the first sign of any compromise of Anthem, you know I’ll pull her out of—”
“Who’s handling her? Let me do that, at least.”
Hanley laughed now. “You? You’re a field asset, not a desk jockey.”
“I know her capabilities. I know the threats. You can get me up to speed on the op.”
“Denied, Violator. She already has a handler.”
Court closed his eyes and rubbed them with fingers wet from the condensation on the beer bottle. “Brewer? Brewer is running her?”
“Affirmative.”
“How’s that going?”
Hanley hesitated before replying. “’Bout like you’d expect.”
“That bad?”
“They are both good at their jobs. They don’t have to be friends.”
“Right. Look, Matt. I want to go to Berlin.”
“Court, you aren’t ready to be deployed anywhere. You need to get back into Dr. Cathey’s care.”
“Why? I was ready to fly to Caracas and shoot it out with a dozen gun monkeys, otherwise you wouldn’t have pulled me out of the medical ward in the first place, right?”
“You weren’t ready, obviously. You were all I had. Zoya was working her way into Shrike Group so I could keep tabs on the Israelis, and Zack got his dumb ass popped down in Caracas by local-yokel counterintel guys. I put you in, you got about five percent of what I needed you to get, and now you want to rush off on your next op? Look, Court. Your infection needs another few weeks of treatments.”
“Give me one week, Matt. One week, and then I’ll pull myself out.” When Hanley did not immediately respond, Court said, “I am going, and you can’t stop me. What you need to do is decide if you want to put me in play with your blessing, or if you want me to run this alone.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s an offer. I protect your asset over there so she can unravel this little mystery she’s mixed up in without having to deal with Russian assassins on her ass. She’ll never even know I’m there.” Court smiled. “I’m the Gray Man, remember?”
“You’re half a Gray Man, remember?”
Court hacked out a phlegmy cough, wiped his mouth and then his face with his paper napkin. “It’s just countersurveillance work. I can do that shit in my sleep. Let me go watch her back.”
Hanley’s pause was long enough for Court to motion for the check and pull a wad of bills out of his pocket while he waited. Finally, the DDO said, “One week from today you are back in Maryland, under Dr. Cathey’s care. You got it?”
Court nodded. “Got it.”
“It is absolutely imperative no one finds out she has confederates watching her back. You have no operational role whatsoever other than running countersurveillance for her, from a distance. You do that, and we just pray to God everything else works out.”
“Thanks, Matt, I won’t let you down.” Then he added, “Again.”
He hung up the phone and headed out of the roadside restaurant, heading to a dusty parking lot where his driver was to pick him up.
This entailed passing an auto repair shop, and he scanned the eaves of the building, searching for cameras. He did this automatically, and with the care of both a man with a lot of training and a man with an intense vested interest in keeping his mug out of any cameras, lest he fall prey to the PowerSlave system that had snared Zack. He’d been told by Drummond his face wasn’t in the database, but he had no idea if that was true or not.
He headed on to the parking lot, fully unaware that the owner of the repair shop, after dealing with numerous break-ins that began with his outdoor cameras being destroyed, had instead placed a high-quality Bluetooth security camera on a display shelf inside the building, pointed out a grimy window.
Gentry had ducked and dodged fifty cameras since arriving in Venezuela the night before, but it was the fifty-first that got him.
He slept in the right seat of the Cessna seaplane for most of the ninety-minute flight back to Aruba, and as soon as they landed, the aircraft taxied to a fixed-base operator and the pilot shut off the engine. Court was about to climb out, but instead he reached over and put his hand on the pilot’s forearm. The man turned his way.
Court said, “I need to book another flight. As soon as possible.”
The pilot didn’t seem surprised that his quiet passenger was immediately rehiring him. “Caracas again?”
“Negative. Leipzig.” Court was ultimately heading to Berlin, but he wouldn’t tell this pilot his true destination. He knew that if he could get to Leipzig, then he could climb aboard an ICE, Germany’s high-speed train, and get from the airport to Berlin’s central train station in less than an hour and a half.
The pilot flashed him a bemused expression. “You think this Cessna can make a transatlantic hop?”
“Of course I don’t. But I’m guessing you can recommend someone. I’ll pay you a finder’s fee, but I need to leave Aruba tonight.”
The pilot seemed to think it over a moment. Finally, he said, “How much of a finder’s fee are we talking about?”
Court realized he had judged this guy well. “Ten grand.”
“Fifteen.”
Court would be using Hanley’s money, at least until Hanley cut off the spigot of funds.
He said, “Done.”
To this the pilot replied, “The flight will be twenty-five thousand, plus the rental of a midrange executive jet. There is a Hawker 1000 at the airport in Aruba available. That will make the trip with a stop in the Azores. Fifteen hours, give or take.”
Court cocked his head. How did this guy come up with all this without even talking to the pilot? He thought it over a moment. “Let me guess . . . you’re going to fly me to Leipzig.”
“Give me a couple hours to get it arranged and a couple hours to sleep. We’ll touch down in Germany in less than a day. Don’t forget the finder’s fee.”
“A finder’s fee for finding yourself? You didn’t have to look very hard, did you?”
The pilot grinned for the first time since Court met him the day before. “You look like a man who needs something, and needs it now. We’re all just trying to make a living out here, amigo.”