The Gray Man (37 page)

Read The Gray Man Online

Authors: Mark Greaney

Tags: #Mystery, #Suspense, #Thriller

No one in the kitchen looked up at the man in the black suit.
The Gray Man had that ability.
 
Five minutes later, Riegel stood again on the walkway on the roof and stared through the crenellations at the moonlit gardens. The scent of the apple orchard in the distance mixed with the cold darkness. Riegel hoped to clear his head a bit, to get away from Lloyd and the Tech and the Belarusians and the incessant radio reports from the watchers in Paris who had yet to see anyone and the kill squads who had yet to kill anyone. His phone chirped in his pocket. His first inclination was to ignore the call. It was probably one of the foreign intelligence service chieftains wondering why their team hadn’t checked in and how the fuck they could have all been wiped out working on a commercial job. Riegel knew he’d spend months or years smoothing over this catastrophe, and that was only if the Lagos contract
did
get signed by eight a.m. If not, and Riegel did not want to even think of this, but if not, he’d likely lose his job or at least his position. Laurent had too much riding on this to not put every possible pressure to bear.
Riegel felt like his head was on the chopping block much like Lloyd’s. Not literally like Lloyd. Riegel was certain Laurent would eventually order Riegel to have Lloyd killed if the operation failed. Riegel would not die for this fiasco like the young American, but still, his career would be ruined if his corporation’s excesses in Africa were brought to light by that shameless son of a bitch, Julius Abubaker.
The phone rang again. With a sigh that blew vapor into the night, he pulled the phone from his pocket.
“Riegel.”
“Sir, it’s the Tech. There’s a call for you on the landline. I can send it to your mobile.”
“The landline? You mean the château’s phone?”
“Yes, sir. Wouldn’t say who he was. He’s speaking English.”
“Thank you.” A click. Riegel asked, “Who is speaking, please?”
“I am the guy you just can’t quite seem to kill.”
A chill ran up Kurt Riegel’s spine. He did not know Fitzroy had given his name to the Gray Man.
After a moment to collect himself, he said, “Mr. Gentry. It is an honor to speak with you. I have followed your career and consider you a very formidable adversary.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“I’ve been looking over your file.”
“Interesting?”
“Very.”
“Well, read up, Kurt, because I intend to pull my file out of your cold, dead hands.”
Kurt Riegel chuckled aloud. “What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to make a social call.”
“I have hunted all manner of quarry in my life, big and small, including quite a few humans. This is the first time I have had a social conversation with my prey shortly before the kill.”
“Same here.”
There was a short pause. Then Riegel laughed. His laughter carried across the dark expanse of the château’s rear garden. “Oh,
I
am
your
prey now?”
“You know I am coming for you.”
“You won’t make it, and if you somehow do make it to Normandy, you certainly won’t make it to me.”
“We’ll see.”
“We know you are in Paris.”
“Paris? What are you talking about? I’m standing right behind you.”
“You are a funny man. That surprises me.” Riegel said it with a chuckle, but he could not help himself from looking back over his shoulder and at the empty walkway around the château’s roof. “We have all your known associates covered with literally dozens of watchers.”
“Really? I wouldn’t know.”
“Yes. You must be going from one old friend to the next. You are identifying my surveillance teams because you are good, but you are not good enough to become invisible. So you must turn away from your potential source of aid. Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink.”
“Proud of yourself, aren’t you?”
“As soon as we see you, we will swoop down. I have nearly as many guns in Paris as I do sets of eyes.”
“Lucky for me, I’m not in Paris.”
Riegel paused. When he spoke again, his tone had changed. “I want you to know, Phillip Fitzroy’s death was a regrettable accident. I was away at the time. It should not have happened.”
“Don’t bother to try to charm me with professionalism. That won’t save you when I come. You and Lloyd both are dead men.”
“So you continue to say. You should know, I recovered the telephone Sir Donald took from the guard. Your intelligence source from inside the château has been eliminated.”
Court said nothing.
“It’s looking bleak for your side, my friend.”
“It is. Maybe I’ll just walk away. Give up.”
Riegel considered this. “I don’t think so. When you went south to Geneva, I thought perhaps you were leaving the chase. But no. You are a hunter, as am I. It is in your blood, isn’t it? You can’t turn away. You have your quarry, your objective, your raison d’être. Without men like Lloyd and me to target, you would be a sorry soul, indeed. You will not walk off into the morning. You will come for us, and you will die along the way. You must know this, but you would rather be killed by your prey than give up the hunt.”
“Perhaps we can make an alternate arrangement.”
Riegel smiled. “Ah. Now we come to the reason for your call. Not just being social, then. I am listening with interest, Mr. Gentry.”
“You will lose the contract. When I am still alive in seven hours, Abubaker will give your natural gas deal to your competitor, and he will use whatever it is he has on LaurentGroup against you. You cannot avoid that. But if you let the girls and their mother go, just get them to a safe place, when I come tomorrow, after the deadline, I will kill Lloyd, do your job for you, but I will spare you.”
“Spare me?”
“You have my word.”
“In my mind’s eye I always pictured you as a two-dimensional predator. A gunman, nothing more. But you are actually a clever fellow, aren’t you? You and I could be friends under other circumstances.”
“Are you flirting with me?”
“You make me smile, Gentry. But you will make me smile even more when I am standing over your body, another trophy for my case.”
“You really should consider my offer.”
“You overestimate your negotiating leverage, sir. We will have you within the hour.”
A pause. “You’d better hope so. Sleep well, Mr. Riegel.”
“I might stay up awhile. I am expecting some good news from my associates in Paris.
Bon soir
, Court.”
“
À bientôt
, Kurt. See you soon.”
“Just one more thing, Mr. Gentry. Call it professional curiosity on my part. Kiev . . . Not you, was it?”
The line went dead, and Riegel shook in the cold that seemed to have just blown down from the coast, four kilometers to the north.
TWENTY-EIGHT
 
The watcher was bored, but he was accustomed to boredom. He’d spent twelve hours on the same street corner, sipped espressos in three different cafés, the first two at tables outside in the bright morning and the graying and chilly afternoon, and then lastly inside at a window table as the air filled with vapor and the last of the day’s warmth left the street and sidewalk.
At nine he’d moved to his car, a small Citroën parked at an hourly meter that he’d been feeding all day like a hungry pet.
But the watcher was good, and his boredom did not affect his tradecraft. He had the engine running for warmth but did not play the radio; he knew his ears were nearly as likely to pick up any hint of his quarry as were his eyes. The radio would rob from his senses the sharpness needed to pick a man he’d never seen out of a passing crowd of thousands.
He did not know the larger picture of this mission, only knew his role. He was static surveillance. Unlike other watchers on this detail, he was not assigned to a known associate location. Instead, his detail was a general choke point overwatch. He had a photograph of a man, and he was to spend the day trying to match the two-dimensional, years-old, five-by-seven picture to a living, breathing, moving target who would likely be trained in surveillance countermeasures and no doubt flow along in a crowd who would obstruct the watcher’s view.
But the watcher stayed optimistic; there was no other way to work. He knew if he doubted he’d see the man, this would detract from the acute senses he needed to bring to bear on his little operation.
The watcher was no killer, just a well-trained pair of eyes. A long time ago he’d been a cop in Nice, then he worked awhile in French counterintelligence as a pavement artist, following Russians or whomever around in leapfrogging details of surveillance, the bottom rung of the espionage ladder. More recently he’d practiced as a private investigator in Léon, but now he was principally an odd-job man for Riegel in Paris. There was always a need for the surveillance of someone on the Continent, and this watcher was usually one of the team. Though he was older than most of the rest, he was no leader. He was better than the rest when he was sharp, but he was a once and future drunk, could not be relied on long-term, though tonight he stayed off the wine and on the mission.
The watcher looked back again, for the thousandth time, to the photo in his hand. It was of no concern to him what the face had done or what fate awaited the face after he’d been spotted.
The face was not a man, just a target.
The face was not alive, did not breathe or think or feel or hurt or need or love.
The face was just a target, not a man.
Identifying a target in the field brought a bonus from Riegel. It did
not
bring even a shred of regret or guilt to the watcher.
Just after one thirty, the watcher pissed into a plastic bottle without missing a drop, also without bat-ting an eyelash at the ignobility of his action among the beautiful people passing by unawares within feet of him on the Boulevard Saint Germaine. He screwed the cap on tightly and tossed the warm bottle to the floorboard and just looked up when a man appeared in the half-light of a streetlamp. He walked along with another group of passersby, but he stuck out somehow to the watcher. He was younger than the others, was not coupled as were they, and his suit was slightly incongruous to their less formal attire. The man was twenty-five meters away when first noticed by the man in the Citroën. As he came closer, the eyeglasses and the shaved head and general facial features sharpened.
The watcher did not move a muscle, only glanced down to the photo clenched and moist and wrinkled in his hand, then back up to the three-dimensional figure closing in the evening fog.
Maybe. At fifteen meters, the watcher squinted, thought he detected a slight limp in the stride. Yes, this man was favoring his right leg. The French-speaking Brit who’d been sending out the updates throughout the day had said the target might have an injury to one thigh.
Yes. When the target moved to his closest point to the Citroën, not more than five meters away, the watcher saw two things about the man’s face that clinched his certainty that his choice of choke point and his twelve-hour-long vigil had paid off. There was a wince in the man’s cheeks with each step, just a touch, when his right foot touched down.
That and his eyes. The watcher was good, was well-trained, he saw the darting movement of the younger man’s eyes as he strolled. Where his body language portrayed a man sashaying through the Left Bank without a care in the world, the eyes were a flutter of constant movement. This man was watching out for watchers, and as soon as the pavement artist in the Citroën noticed this, he broke off surveillance, looked down to his hands until the man had fully passed. With a suddenly ferocious heartbeat, he waited several seconds to glance into his rearview, did not turn his head or lift his shoulders or even flex his neck to do so. Just his eyes flitted up and caught the man in the suit as he moved on, west on the Boulevard Saint Germaine.
The watcher put his car into gear as he pressed a single button on his earpiece.

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