by Mark Greaney
Ali Hussein did not react to this. He only glanced back down to the page in front of him.
Russ was comfortable with the questions because he had read Court’s dossier; he knew it backward and forward. And there was another reason for his comfort. Russ himself had leaked a tiny portion of Gentry’s file to Iranian intelligence months earlier, so that his answers would coincide with their knowledge.
But the next question was not a part of the intel he had leaked.
“You completed an operation in 2004 in the Bekah Valley. A Syrian brother, a member of al Qaeda in Iraq, was kidnapped from his home by you and your colleagues, and he was rendered to a CIA prison in Morocco. What can you tell me about that operation that would prove to me that you were there?”
Russ had read about this mission in Court’s dossier, but he did not know where Iran came by the information. “I apologize,” Russ said. “I am, as you know, no longer a member of the Central Intelligence Agency, but I remain a patriot. I love my country, and I am not here to commit treason by giving classified information to a foreign intelligence agency.”
The Quds man said, “We have ways of obtaining that information from you.”
“If you do anything to mar our new friendship, then you are a fool, Ali Hussein, because what I am here to offer you today is worth one hundred times the intelligence value you could gain from learning details of a decade-old operation.”
“What is it that you are offering us?”
Russ leaned back on the sofa now and crossed his legs. “I want to relieve you of your biggest problem.”
Ali Hussein cocked his head. “What is our biggest problem?”
“Not what. Who.”
“All right . . . who is our big—”
The Iranian stopped in midsentence, because he had the answer to his question. “Ehud Kalb.”
Russ nodded. “Your government has proposed this to me before. My former handler, Gregor Sidorenko, told me that you extended this contract to me, and only me, over a year ago. At the time I was unable to accept your offer.”
CIA had been reading Sid’s mail for a long time, and through them Russ knew that Iranian cutouts had gone to Sid to extend the offer, unaware that by this time Sid and Court had become mortal enemies.
Ali looked at him, not trusting, not convinced, but intrigued. “You are saying you have reconsidered?”
“Possibly. If the terms are improved.”
“The Gray Man wants to assassinate Ehud Kalb for Iran?”
Now Russ shrugged. “Not for Iran. Sorry, but that is not my objective. I will do it for twenty-five million dollars. Before you tell me you don’t have this kind of money, I know you and the intelligence agencies of the wealthy Gulf States would find it worthwhile, and certainly worth . . . what? A half hour of crude production to pay to decapitate the nation of Israel.”
“If we offered this to you a year ago, and I am not saying we did. But . . . How do you know we have not simply arranged for someone else to do this?”
Whitlock leaned forward quickly, shaking his finger dramatically. “You don’t dare; you will give no one else the opportunity, because you know that whether they succeed or fail, it will be revealed, somehow, some way, that Iran was the one who extended the contract. Iran cannot have that happen, because Iran knows it would be attacked, sanctioned, embargoed, blockaded, and otherwise squeezed and punished for attempting to decapitate the Jewish state.”
The Quds Force operator did not disagree with this, but he also looked like he was out of his depth in the conversation. Russ expected this; he knew his plan would have to be kicked upstairs several times in the Iranian government before finding someone who could extend a formal offer.
“Please wait here.” Hussein stood and headed toward the back of the apartment.
“Of course,” Russ said as the man disappeared.
He returned in twenty minutes. “My colleagues would like you to come to Iran to meet with them.”
Russ shook his head. “Out of the question.”
Hussein nodded as if he expected this answer.
“They want to know why the world’s greatest assassin would come, alone, to Beirut. Why did you not have an intermediary reach out to us? That would be standard tradecraft for this type of arrangement.”
“I just killed my last handler on Sunday.” Hussein’s eyes widened as that sank in. Russ added with a shrug, “I’ve decided I will make my own arrangements from now on.”
After a nervous clearing of the throat, Ali said, “They are not convinced you are who you say you are.”
“But?”
“But there is a way you can convince them.”
Russ knew what was coming next, and he also knew it was going to be a problem.
“They want to know about Kiev.”
Ali Hussein was impressed. “Exactly. If you are the Gray Man, then you know that there were Iranians present during the event in Kiev three years ago.”
“Of course I know. And they were not just Iranians. They were Quds Force operatives.” Russ’s eyes narrowed. “Friends of yours, maybe?”
Ali Hussein just shook his head. “No.”
“Well, nevertheless, I saw the Iranians.”
“What else did you see?”
“You are asking me for a complete after-action report of my Kiev operation?”
“It would settle any doubts as to your identity.”
“I never kiss and tell.”
Hussein seemed disappointed. “Then you must allow us time to investigate you and your proposal. I can’t tell some stranger that he has Iran’s blessing to target the prime minister of Israel. You can see how that could ultimately be very harmful for Iran, should something go wrong.”
“I can’t wait for you to perform your due diligence. If I am to take this contract, I must act immediately. The prime minister will be making a trip to Brussels, London, and New York next week, and then he has no more scheduled travel for several months. The time is now.”
“Then prove you were the man at the Vasylkiv Air Base the evening of April 8, two thousand—”
“I will not tell you about Kiev. But I will prove to you I am who I claim to be.”
“How?”
“Go back to your telephone, have your superiors give you a name. One name of one man. Or woman, I do not care.”
“What man? What woman?”
“The person your organization would most like eliminated in the next five days. Someone located in Europe, that is a requirement, simply for geographical expediency. Other than that . . . I don’t care. They can be behind guarded gates, a public figure with security. It doesn’t matter. I will leave Beirut this afternoon, I will find this person, and I will rid the Iranian government of this problem immediately. Who could make this promise other than the Gray Man?”
Ali Hussein did not hide his surprise at the offer. Twice he began to speak, but twice he stopped himself.
Whitlock added, “No charge. And no comebacks to you. If I succeed, you win. If I fail, you lose nothing. We are not working together.”
“You are saying you will kill anyone on the continent of Europe? Within five days.”
“Yes.”
Hussein said nothing for several moments. He seemed, to Russ, to be a powerful man unaccustomed to the concept of running out of the room every few minutes to get approval from on high. But after a time he stood from the sofa. “I will make a call. You have not convinced me of anything, but perhaps my colleagues will entertain your request.”
Whitlock smiled and gave a polite half bow, supercilious, though he doubted Hussein would pick up on it. The Iranian left the room, and Russ turned his attention back to his tea and his fantasies of killing the guards.
It was midafternoon by the time Ali returned to the apartment and extended a hand with a folded sheet of paper. In the
interim the number of security around Russ Whitlock had increased threefold. Russ ignored the half-dozen men with guns exactly as he would imagine Court Gentry would ignore them, and he looked at his watch with an annoyed or bored expression every few minutes.
Russ took the folded paper, but he did not look at it.
Ali said, “There is a name for you. He is—”
Whitlock interrupted. “It doesn’t matter who he is. I will take care of it, we will be in touch, and I will expect your organization to uphold its end of the bargain.”
“By giving you the Kalb contract.”
“Correct. Twenty-five million dollars, deposited into a numbered account at a bank in Dubai.”
“I must tell you, this is truly a remarkable boast you have made.”
“It is a boast, yes, but I don’t see it as remarkable. It is, quite simply, what I do.”
“The name on that sheet of paper is a hard target.”
“Then I’d better get to work.” The men shook hands, and Russ made his way through the scrum of gunmen in the room toward the door.
TWENTY-THREE
Court arrived in Stockholm on the Tallink Ferry after a twelve-hour Baltic Sea cruise that left him exhausted. There was nothing physical for him to do on the boat, but he forced himself to stay awake, to maintain constant vigilance, a tiring and stressful task for someone already tired and stressed after the actions of the past few days. But the ferry crossing was uneventful; the Estonian authorities had added security at the departure point in Tallinn but not on the ship itself, and now Court looked forward to finding a place in a massive city where he could disappear, simply go to ground and rest until it was time to move on.
He had a taxi take him to the center of town, and although he had to fight the urge to lay his head down on a snow-covered bench in a park, he forced himself to begin an SDR that lasted until the early afternoon, walking through the Olstermalm district, taking cabs and streetcars and buses, occasionally stopping in cafés for coffee and protein to stay awake.
He strolled through a department store, entering through one door and leaving through another, but while passing through he went into the housewares department and bought a high-quality paring knife with a four-inch blade and a vinyl sheath. He would rather arm himself with a Glock, but they were not exactly off-the-shelf items here in Sweden. Firearms were available for hunting, but Court wouldn’t very well be able to fill out the form for the background check necessary to buy one, so he’d just have to protect himself with his brain, his body, and a kitchen utensil.
Once he felt certain he was not under surveillance he branched out, beginning his hunt for a secure-enough rooming house or other cheap place to stay.
It was nightfall before he found a suitable location on Rastatgaten, just north of the city center. He stood on the sidewalk under a window with a handwritten sign offering rooms, and he looked up and down the street, deciding the security situation here would suit his needs.
He entered a steakhouse on the ground floor of the building to inquire, and was sent back outside and up a narrow stairway adjacent to the restaurant. He stood alone in a dark hall for a while, but soon a Serbian man who spoke English came up the steps and offered him his choice of three rooms. Court looked them over and settled on a corner flat with windows that offered views up the streets in two directions. The room was tiny; the bed was just a mattress on the cold wooden floor and the kitchen consisted of a card table with a chair, a hot plate, and a teakettle. The toilet and shower were down the hall and shared with a few other rooms on the floor.
It was a dump, but it was also low profile with a fair line of sight on the street. Court was well accustomed to austere living conditions; he’d slept in shit holes on four continents, so he told the Serbian man he’d take it.
He paid in euros, which annoyed the Serb but he took them anyway, and he gave Court a key. Court immediately locked his door behind the man and lay down on the mattress fully dressed.
His body ached from head to toe, but he slept like the dead until morning.
The next day he walked the streets of the city, learning the area and picking up provisions. He studied the dress and the mannerisms of the locals, the accessories men carried, the way people covered themselves from the cold or the method by which women would greet one another with a kiss or men would shake hands.
Whenever Court found himself in a new environment he endeavored to know the people intimately by observation. He needed to fit in, of course, and an awareness of how a man his age should dress and act and talk would help him play his role correctly. But there was more to this exercise than that. Gentry had to be able to pick out others here who did not belong. If he saw a man wearing an odd style of coat or two women who seemed either stiffer or more familiar than normal when they met on the street, Gentry knew those people merited a second glance. Could they be trackers sent by any one of the myriad organizations hunting him?
There was a science to his study, but it was not rocket science; it was automatic for Court now, and almost easy for him to discern those who did not fit in to the landscape. Enough years on his own in strange lands had made him a uniquely adept people watcher.
As he ventured through the districts he also noticed security cameras; he found them virtually everywhere. On street corners, in shop windows, along building exteriors, in parking lots, even mobile police camera stands.
Court countered this surveillance by moving through town with the hood of his coat up, a wool scarf wrapped over his nose and mouth, and, when the weather and lighting conditions allowed, sunglasses over his eyes. He did not know the quality or efficiency of the facial recog software used by U.S. authorities, or even if Stockholm would be a city covered with electronic surveillance by his opposition, but he planned on leaving nothing to chance. With the low temperatures his winter gear would fit in perfectly, so he decided he’d remove his scarf only when indoors, and take off his hood only when he was back in his room.
Being identified by Townsend or CIA or NSA electronic surveillance was his main concern here in Stockholm. Money, by contrast, would not be a problem, not for months anyway, as the Moscow Bratva’s cash would last for a long time in the manner in which Gentry was accustomed to living. But he had to exchange euros for kronor, and he did not want to enter banks or deal with aboveboard currency exchange booths, because he’d be forced to stick his face in a camera to do so.
He solved this small problem in Hortoget neighborhood, the tiny Chinatown of Stockholm. He identified several black-market moneychangers within minutes and chose one at random; he’d used men like this for years when moving about off the grid. He pulled five thousand euros from his pocket, the man charged him a usurious exchange rate for his trouble, and just like that, he was flush with local currency.
After stopping back at his flat with his groceries and other provisions, he ventured back into the cold, this time on a different mission. Again, he covered his face and head, taking a mental note of every camera he could find in his AO; he even crossed streets to avoid them, although he knew no recog algorithm on earth could identify him from the half-inch of exposed cheekbone that remained uncovered between his scarf and his sunglasses.
He found a small used electronics store on Klara Vattugrand near the train station, and he entered, passing the televisions and audio equipment at the front of the store before removing his hood and lowering his scarf, lest any distant street camera catch a fleeting image of him. There were security cameras here in the little store, of course, but Court kept his scarf over his jawline and his sunglasses on, and he identified the location of the cams immediately and did his best to avoid them.
He’d come to purchase a laptop. He planned to use the computer to research secure communications with which he could contact Russ Whitlock. Yes, Russ had passed Court a URL that he claimed would lead him to a protocol to do this, but Court wasn’t going to simply follow inst
ructions. He would look into the technology independently, find his own means of establishing secure comms, and only then would he reach out to the other former AAP asset.
Gentry had decided to contact Russ, telling himself he would take his time to do it carefully and securely, and also telling himself he was doing it only because it was prudent, from a PERSEC perspective, to do so. If the man had information about Townsend’s training, tactics, and procedures, Court knew it would be in his interest to stay in touch, to bleed out as much intel as the man would give.
There might have been other reasons Court wanted to communicate with Whitlock, but he did his best to deny them. Russ had said it himself: They were the only two left, they were singletons, and they were alone out in the world. Some level of communication, if ultrasecure and based on the highest levels of encryption and not even the lowest degree of trust, might be a good thing.
The salesman in the electronics shop was young and an ethnic Indian, but he spoke English as perfectly as most Swedes. He sold Court a used MacBook Pro, a faux leather case, and an external battery.
Court paid in kronor, wrapped himself back up like a mummy, and returned outside to the cold.
He was completely unaware that a partial image of his face had been collected by a camera built into the bezel of a laptop on a display stand in the back of the store. The feed had been networked to the wireless router of the computer shop, which was protected only by off-the-shelf security encryption.
Court did not head back to his flat immediately. He spent an hour on an SDR, and while doing so he stepped into a convenience store and purchased a prepaid mobile phone.
Court liked it here in Sweden, and it was nice to move around fully cloaked. With a little luck, he thought, he might stay in Stockholm till late spring, when walking the streets with a hood over his head and a scarf across his face would no longer work. Then he would move on, smarter and slicker, and by then he just might have a plan.
His plan, he was certain, would not allow him to stop hiding, but he thought maybe, just maybe, soon he could stop running so damn much.
