The Gray Man cg-1

by Mark Greaney

  “Go on.”

  “As I said, the Gray Man crossed into Iraq but missed his extraction, because he foolishly engaged a superior insurgent force in a firefight. He killed or wounded ten men or more. Saved an American National Guardsman and recovered the body of another. And now he is on the run.”

  “How do you know the Gray Man was the assassin of Dr. Abubaker?”

  “There is no one else in the world who would be sent on that mission, because there is no one else in the world who could pull off that hit.”

  “And yet, you say, he made a foolish mistake.”

  “More evidence I am right. The Gray Man was once an operative for the U.S. government. Something went wrong, he was targeted by the CIA, and he went into hiding from his former masters. His soured relationship with Langley notwithstanding, the Gray Man is still very much an American patriot. He could not ignore a helicopter crash and eleven dead Americans without finding a measure of retribution.”

  “That is your proof?”

  Lloyd smoothed the drape of his suit coat. “It has been known by us for some time that the Gray Man had accepted a contract for the Abubaker hit. When the good doctor died as a result of foul play, there was no need to speculate as to the identity of his killer.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lloyd. I am an old man; you will have to connect the dots for me. What are you doing in my office?”

  “My company is prepared to offer you a threefold increase in contracts if you will only assist us in the neutralization of the Gray Man. Without going into unnecessary detail, the president of Nigeria is asking us to help him bring justice down on his brother’s killer.”

  “Why LaurentGroup?”

  “That would involve unnecessary detail.”

  “You will find it to be quite necessary if this discussion is to continue.”

  FOUR

  Lloyd hesitated. Nodded slowly. “Very well. Two reasons. One, my firm has a powerful and far-reaching security apparatus, and the president thinks we have the means at our disposal to handle this situation for him. We’ve done other little odd jobs for the Nigerians in the past, you understand.” With a wave of his hand Lloyd added, “Good customer service.”

  Fitzroy’s eyebrows rose and touched.

  “And two, Julius Abubaker feels he has some leverage over us. We have a large contract pending signature. It was on his desk when your man killed his brother. The president leaves office in less than a week. He’s given us until then to avenge his brother’s murder.”

  “What sort of a contract do you have pending his approval?”

  “The sort that we cannot afford to lose. Did you know, Sir Donald, that Nigeria not only produces an abundance of oil, but they also produce an overabun dance of natural gas? This gas is completely squandered, bubbles up at their oil wells and drifts into the atmosphere to the tune of thirty billion tons a year. A complete waste of energy and profit.”

  “And LaurentGroup wants the gas?”

  “Certainly not. The gas is a natural resource that belongs to the good people of Nigeria. But we alone have the technology to cap their wells, pipe the liquefied gas to port in Lagos, transport it to refineries in our dual-hulled, temperature-controlled tankers, and refine it for the Nigerians. We’ve spent four years and over three hundred million dollars on R & D for this project. We’ve built ships, we’ve retrofitted shipyards to build more ships, we’ve negotiated land rights for the pipeline.”

  “All without a contract to export the product? Sounds like LaurentGroup needs new lawyers,” Fitzroy quipped.

  Lloyd, a LaurentGroup lawyer, bristled. “We had a contract with Abubaker. His people found a loophole. We fixed the unfortunate error and needed only the wave of his pen over the document to seal the deal and begin operations. And then your man killed his brother.”

  “I still don’t see the connection.”

  “The connection, if you will pardon my language, is that President Abubaker is a prick.”

  Fitzroy noticed something in the young solicitor’s agitation.

  “I think I have it. Your office was at fault for the loophole in the contract. Your masters have sent you on this errand to fix your cock-up.”

  Lloyd took off his thin glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose slowly.

  “A minuscule oversight that wouldn’t justify five seconds’ consternation in any courtroom in the civilized world.”

  “But you are dealing with the most corrupt nation on earth.”

  “Third most corrupt, actually, but your point is valid,” said Lloyd. He pressed a fresh smile into his lips just after a taste of coffee. “Abubaker is threatening to sign the operation over to our competitor, a firm that did not even bid on the job. Our competitor would take a decade to arrive at our present level of infrastructure assets and engineering know-how, and Nigeria would lose billions of dollars in profits in the intervening years.”

  “As would LaurentGroup.”

  “Admittedly, we are not a social services department within the Nigerian government. Our own self-interest propels us; I just make mention of the dual benefit to the poor wretches of Nigeria who will lose out if I don’t find and kill the Gray Man.”

  “If those poor wretches remain poor wretches after the billions annually in oil wealth that already pour into Nigeria, I don’t imagine a few gas lines would much improve their lot in life.”

  Lloyd shrugged. “Perhaps we are straying from the subject at hand.”

  “What about the payer of the contract? Why doesn’t the president go after him? The Gray Man is, if your intelligence is correct, only the triggerman.”

  Lloyd smiled without humor. “As you well know, the payer of the contract was killed in a plane crash months ago. The Gray Man could have and should have kept the money he’d already been wired and forgotten the job. But your assassin continued on his mission. Seemed to think he was doing something noble.”

  “What about me? If you think I am involved with coordinating Isaac Abubaker’s death, why not take me out, as well?”

  “We know that the payer of the contract acted through a cutout. That cutout, in turn, had a cutout, who had a cutout who negotiated with you. President Julius Abubaker doesn’t have the attention span for such intrigue. He wants the head of his brother’s killer brought to him. That’s all.”

  “When you say he wants a head… I presume you are speaking figuratively.”

  “Would that I were, Sir Donald. No, the president has dispatched a man from his personal staff to my office in order to verify that my mission has been accomplished. This man tells me he’s to put the Gray Man’s head in an ice chest and deliver it to his leader in the diplomatic pouch. Goddamned savages.” The last part Lloyd seemed to say to himself.

  “Is there not some other way you can bribe President Abubaker?” asked Fitzroy. He knew how third-world public sector contracts often worked.

  Lloyd looked to a spot on the wall. His eyes grew distant, older than his visage. “Oh, we already bribe him, Mr. Fitzroy. Cash, whores, drugs, homes, boats. He’s an insatiable son of a bitch. We’ve given the moon and the stars for the Lagos contract. Even so, he’s now negotiating with our competitor. Bringing him the head of his brother’s assassin is the one thing we can do for him that no one else can, and it is therefore the one thing that he is holding over us.”

  “If Abubaker’s such a despot, why is he leaving power willingly?”

  Lloyd waved a hand in the air as if the answer were obvious. “He’s already an obscenely rich man. He’s raped his country. Now it’s time to enjoy the afterglow of his act.”

  “And that’s why you are here.”

  “As simple as that, Mr. Fitzroy. Again, I am sorry for the discourtesy of my intrusion, but I am sure the work we will offer Cheltenham Security will more than make up for the loss of one assassin, even a very good one.”

  Fitzroy said, “Mr. Lloyd, I employ chaps who are… very base. They respond well to loyalty and trust and a sense of honor. Often it is misplaced
, but it drives them on nonetheless. If I give up the life of a man, my best man, in order to win some lucrative contracts, it would hardly serve my best interests.”

  “On the contrary. This hit man of yours is a product like any other. This sort of product has a short shelf life. Six months, a year, certainly not more than three. And then he will be dead or incapacitated. Worthless to you as a generator of revenue. What I offer you will fill your coffers for the life of your firm.”

  “I don’t sacrifice my men for business.”

  A slight pause. “I understand. I will speak with Paris. Maybe I can sweeten the pot.”

  “The flavor of the stew doesn’t enter into it. It is the stew itself I don’t fancy.”

  Lloyd leaned closer. There was a faint trace of menace in his voice. “If I can’t sweeten the pot, I will be forced to stir it. I need your assassin terminated. I’d like to use a carrot. But I am prepared to use a stick.”

  “I suggest you go carefully, lad. I don’t like the direction this discussion is veering.”

  The two men stared at one another for several seconds.

  Lloyd said, “I know you have an extraction team on the way to pick up the Gray Man tonight. I want you to order your men to terminate him. A single phone call and a financial incentive should take care of this matter quickly and cleanly.”

  Fitzroy’s eyes narrowed. “Where on earth did you hear that?”

  “I’m not at liberty to disclose my intelligence sources.”

  “You’re bluffing. You know nothing.”

  Lloyd smiled. “I’ll give you a quick taste of what I know, and then you decide if this is all a bluff. I suspect I know more about your boy than you do. Your killer’s real name is Courtland Gentry, goes by Court. He is thirty-six years old. American, his father ran a SWAT school near Tallahassee, Florida, where Gentry grew up. The boy trained with tactical officers on a daily basis. He was instructing SWAT teams in close quarters battle techniques by the time he was sixteen. When he was eighteen, he fell in with a bad crowd in Miami, worked for a Colombian gang for a while, was arrested in Key West for the shooting death of three Cuban drug dealers up in Fort Lauderdale.

  “A CIA big shot who had trained at Court’s father’s shoot house snatched the kid out of prison, sent him to work in a secret division within the Operations Directorate. He worked covert ops around the world for a few years, black bag jobs mostly, until 9/11, when he was placed in the Special Activities Division, working in an agency irregular rendition task force. Officially known as Special Detachment Golf Sierra, it became affectionately known, to those few who knew about it at all, as the Goon Squad.”

  “Surely you are making this up.”

  Lloyd ignored him and continued. “It was an ad hoc, special sanction tactical team, made up of what we call in the business, high-speed, low-drag operators. The very best of the very best. Not James Bond types. No, with these guys there was considerably more emphasis on the dagger and less on the cloak. For a few years they were the CIA’s best wet unit. They killed the ones we couldn’t render, they killed the ones from whom we did not expect to be able to extract much useful information, and they killed the ones whose deaths would sow the most fear in the hearts and minds of the terrorists.

  “And then four years ago it went bad. Some say politics was involved; others are convinced Gentry screwed up an op and outlived his usefulness. Still others insist he turned dirty. For whatever reason, a burn notice went out on him. Then a shoot-on-sight directive. He was targeted by his former colleagues in the Special Activities Division. Gentry did not go quietly; he killed some Golf Sierra teammates intent on killing him and then went underground, off the grid. Spent time in Peru, Bangladesh, Russia, who knows where else. Within six months he was out of money. Went into the private sector, working for you, doing what he does best. Head shots and sliced throats. Sniper rifles and switchblades.”

  There was a soft knock at the door to the office. Fitzroy’s secretary leaned in. “I’m sorry, sir. You have a call.” She shut the door behind her.

  Fitzroy stood, and Lloyd followed. The young American said, “I can wait outside.”

  “No need. Our business is done.”

  “You would be making a big mistake by sending me away. I need you to have your extraction team terminate the Gray Man. If you don’t feel the offer I have extended is sufficient, I will make a few calls and see what I can do. What I cannot do, Mr. Fitzroy, is return to my employers without this matter resolved.”

  Fitzroy had had enough. “Your company has misjudged. They can’t bribe me as they would some tin pot African dictator.”

  A severe look came into the eyes of the young American. “Then I extend my apologies.” They shook hands, but the friendly gesture did not reach up to their cold eyes. As Lloyd walked towards the door, he detoured to the left and stepped over to a framed copy of the Economist article hanging on the wall. The title read, “Former Spymaster turns Corporate Security Tycoon.” Lloyd pointed to it and turned back to the older Englishman.

  “Great article. Lots of information.”

  He then regarded a photo on the wall of a younger Fitzroy with his wife and teenage son. “Your son has two daughters now, does he not? Lives here in London, a town house in Sussex Gardens, if I remember correctly from the Economist.”

  “That was not in the Economist article.”

  “Wasn’t it?” Lloyd shrugged. “Must have picked that up somewhere else. Good day, Sir Donald. We’ll be in touch. You may expect a package within the hour.”

  He turned and disappeared through the door.

  Fitzroy stood alone in his office for a moment.

  Sir Donald did not scare easily, but he felt the unmistakable chill of fear.

  FIVE

  Two hours before dawn and already the abandoned airfield was sweltering hot. The hulking Lockheed L- 100 positioned at the end of the runway idled with its lights off so as not to be detected from a distance, but the flight crew sat in their seats and their hands twitched near the throttle. The propellers blew dry dust and sharp sand into the wind-worn faces and parched throats of the five men standing on the tarmac at the foot of the aircraft’s lowered ramp. All eyes were fixed to the south, out past the little shack of a terminal, out past the chain-link fence, and out into the infinite darkness of western Iraq.

  The five men stood within feet of one another, but normal communication was impossible. Even at idle, the aircraft’s Allison four-blade engines filled the air with a steady hum that shook the earth. Without the Harris Falcon short-distance radios and the throat mikes, the men’s words would have been lost like the landscape beyond the reach of their night vision goggles.

  Markham fingered the Heckler & Koch submachine gun hanging off his chest with his left hand and pressed the radio transmit button on his load-bearing vest with his right. “He’s late.”

  Perini bit on the end of the tube hanging over his shoulder, sucked warm water from the half-empty bladder in his backpack. He spat most of it onto the sand-strewn airstrip in front of his boots. His Mossberg shotgun dangled unslung from his right hand. “If this mo-fo is supposed to be such hot shit, how come he can’t make his exfil on time?”

  “He’s the shit all right. If the Gray Man is late, he has a good reason,” said Dulin, hands on his hips and his squat-barreled submachine gun horizontal on his chest. “Stay sharp; it’s just a short op. We pick him up, babysit him over the border, and then forget we ever saw the bastard.”

  “The Gray Man,” McVee said with a degree of reverence. “He’s the guy who killed Milosevic. Snuck into a UN jail and poisoned the son of a bitch.” His MP5 submachine gun hung from a sling, the fat silencer pointing straight down at the tarmac. He propped his elbow on the butt of the squat weapon.

  Perini said, “Nah, bro. You got it backwards. He killed the guy who killed Milosevic. Milosevic was going to name names. UN officials who helped him with the genocide in Bosnia and Kosovo. The UN sent a hitter in to poison old Slobo, and the
Gray Man killed the hitter, after the fact.” He swigged and spat another mouthful of warm water. “The Gray Man is one bad son of a bitch. He don’t care, he don’t scare.”

  Markham reiterated his earlier decree. “He’s fucking late, is what he is.”

  Dulin looked at his watch. “Fitzroy said we might have to wait, and we might have to fight. Every hajji for fifty klicks is hunting Gray Man’s ass.”

  Barnes had been silent, but now he spoke up. “I heard he did that job in Kiev.” He paced, farthest from the ramp of the aircraft, sweeping the dark with the three-power night vision scope on his M4 assault rifle.

  “Bullshit,” said Dulin, and two of the others immediately agreed.

  But McVee sided with Barnes. “That’s what I heard. The Gray dude did that shit solo.”

  Markham said, “No way. Kiev was not a one-man op. It was a twelve-man A-team at the very least.”

  Barnes shook his head in the dark. “Heard it was one gunner. Heard it was the Gray Man.”

  Markham replied, “I don’t believe in magic.”

  Just then there was a simultaneous crackle in the earpieces of the five men. Dulin held a hand up to silence his team, pressed the talk button on his chest rig. “Repeat last transmission.”

  Another crackle. Then another, finally disjointed words popped through the static. “Thirty seconds… move… pursuit!” The voice was unrecognizable, but clearly the message was urgent.

  “Is that him?” asked Barnes.

  No one could say.