The Gray Man cg-1

by Mark Greaney

  When he was twenty-six, he’d once gone four days without sleep. He’d been tracking an enemy agent in Moscow and was following him to a dacha in the country, when Court’s piece of shit two-door Lada broke down in the snow. The Gray Man had to stay on the move overland to keep from freezing to death.

  Now, at thirty-six, he feared he looked much worse after four days of work than he did back then when his extraction team pulled him, half-frozen, out of the ice and into a helicopter.

  After he dried off, he pulled his rain-soaked pants back on. He was careful to keep the soggy bandage in place on his leg. He cinched his belt and climbed into his boots and socks. He dressed in a white dress shirt Laszlo had left out for him that was too small for his neck, tied the cheap tie with it carefully, a big knot covering the open collar. A blue jacket that felt like cardboard bunched at his shoulders. He didn’t even try to button it. Court slid his pistol onto his hip, tossed the extra mags and his multi-tool in his pocket, and went back into Laszlo’s lab.

  Szabo sat in a wheelchair at a drafting table, leaning over an open passport with a razor. He looked up at his customer for a long moment. “Quite a metamorphosis.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sit for the picture, please.” There was a small plastic chair on a riser in front of a blue background hanging from the ceiling. A digital camera on a tripod was connected to a computer on a desk a few feet away.

  Court stepped up on the hollow wooden riser and sat in the chair. He fumbled with his coat and tie while Szabo rolled the wheelchair into position behind the camera. “We need to think of a name for the passport. A good Kiwi name.”

  “It’s up to you. Whatever is fine.”

  The camera flashed, and Gentry began to stand.

  “A couple more, please.”

  He sat back down.

  “I have a name for you. Don’t know if you will like it.”

  “Anything is—”

  “It’s flashy. Dramatic. Mysterious.”

  “Well, I don’t think I need—”

  “Why don’t we call you Gray Man?”

  Gentry stared blankly into the camera as it flashed in his face.

  Shit.

  Szabo glared at him.

  Gentry began to stand.

  He felt movement in his seat. He had shifted his weight to his feet, but his heels felt like they were dropping, Before he could react, his arms flew up to his sides, his borrowed coat bunched up higher on his neck, and his knees raised in front of his eyes. He was falling backwards, the plastic chair sliding back with him. The light around him vanished, and he dropped into darkness, finally landing on his side, his fall cushioned by something soft and wet.

  The impact, though cushioned by padding, still knocked the wind from his lungs. Reactively he leapt to his feet, pulled the pistol from his hip, and spun in all directions to both engage any threats and get his bearings.

  It was a brick-lined pit, a cistern of some sort. Looking up, he saw he’d fallen twelve feet or so from where the riser had opened up to swallow him. Before he could reach for it, the chair raised into the air, its leg held with a thin chain. It clanged back over the edge of the riser and disappeared. A Plexiglas trapdoor closed above him, sealing him into the dank container.

  Slowly, Szabo leaned over the side, looked down through the plastic at his captive, and smiled.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” shouted Gentry in utter frustration.

  “I presume you are armed. Beasts like you usually are. You might want to think before firing a weapon in there.” Szabo used the tip of his cane to tap the clear lid over the hole. “Two inches of hardened Plexiglas; you’ll be dodging your own ricochets.” He then tapped his forehead with a bony finger. “Don’t be stupid.”

  “I don’t have time for this, Szabo!”

  “On the contrary. A little time is all you have left.” Szabo backed away from view.

  THIRTEEN

  Gentry ripped off the jacket, the tie, the shirt, and looked around the pit. It was a seven-foot-wide circle, seemed to be some sort of old sewage well. A cylindrical wall of stone around him too sheer and slick with mildew to climb. The mattresses on which he’d fallen were smelly and rotting. There was a drainage problem to be sure. He looked under the mats and discovered an old iron water pipe. He wrapped his hand around it and found it to be hot. Budapest’s thermal baths were a tourist draw; this pipe likely pumped hot springwater from one location to another. Water pushed through it, dripping and steaming a little where it disappeared into the wall.

  Court looked up and around. This would be a particularly awful place to die.

  Ten minutes later, Szabo returned. He stood over Court and smiled.

  Gentry said, “Whatever you are planning on doing—”

  “I remember you. You thought I’d forget? Two thousand four. Central Intelligence Agency super special A team.”

  Court knew Szabo had not seen his face in the operation in ’04. Still, he shouted, “That’s right, and my field team knows where I am right now.”

  “Pathetic. You aren’t with the agency anymore.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  The sixty-year-old Hungarian disappeared for a minute. He returned above the pit, placed a sheet of paper facedown on the glass six feet above his prisoner’s head.

  Gentry looked up at his own face, an old head shot taken by the CIA for some dirty documentation. Above the photo were the words, “Wanted for questioning by Interpol.” It was just a photo and a description. His name was not given.

  “American government men sat in a car outside in the street, seven days a week, for an entire year after you, shall we say, resigned your position with the agency. They actually thought you’d come to Laszlo for help. Their presence was bad for business, Mr. Gray Man.”

  “Szabo. This is serious. Look, I know you. I know you’ll let me buy my way back up. Just name your price. I can call a man and get money wired—”

  “Sir Donald can’t purchase your path to safety. I don’t want his money.”

  Gentry looked up at the man above him. His voice lowered. “I’d hate to hurt a cripple.”

  “You were the one who crippled me!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You shot up my darkroom. You thought I’d forget?”

  “I didn’t shoot you.”

  “No, you were shooting at the Chechen, hit a container of ammonium persulfate. Knocked the powder into a bath of aluminum water and… bang! The Chechen is dripping off the ceiling, and poor, helpless Laszlo is burned, the nerves of his lower body damaged from inhaling the toxic fumes.”

  Shit. Court shrugged. “Whose fault is that? You were helping a terrorist enter the West. The CIA should have sent me back to finish you.”

  “Maybe they should have, but I’ve since made friends with the good men of the Central Intelligence Agency. After the FBI came to talk to me, the agency came. They were the ones who told me you were the leader of the group that blew up my warehouse and ruined my legs. Believe it or not, these days, the local CIA station and Laszlo have a reasonably good working relationship.”

  “Why wouldn’t I believe that? You always did play all sides.”

  “I think our relationship will get even better now that I’ve called them and told them I have you locked away. They are on their way here to pick you up right now.”

  The muscles in Court’s face twitched. “Tell me you did not do that.”

  “I did. I am going to trade you to the CIA in exchange for a little détente. Our relationship is not so good that me handing over their number one target won’t make Laszlo’s life easier.”

  “How long until they are here?”

  “Under two hours. The station chief is ordering up a helicopter full of heavies from Vienna to take you into custody. I told him your reputation was overrated; old frail Laszlo captured you by himself, after all, but he was undeterred. You warrant a big operation just to carry you away. You will just have to amus
e yourself in the meantime while you—”

  “Laszlo, you need to listen very carefully to me.”

  “Ha! Look at him shake. Look at the Gray Man shake like a little—”

  “They aren’t sending a team to haul me away. They’ll send a wet team. There’s a shoot-on-sight directive against me. And when they come here to wax my ass, don’t expect them to just walk away and leave a witness behind. That’s not how these guys operate.”

  Laszlo cocked his head, seemed to think this over, then said, “They won’t hurt me. The CIA needs me.”

  “They only needed you until you made that phone call, you dumb son of a bitch!”

  Szabo’s nerves began to show. He shouted, “Enough talk! If you think the grim reaper is on the way for you, maybe you should spend the next few minutes asking your God for forgiveness for your sins.”

  “You, too.”

  Laszlo Szabo’s wrinkled and confused face disappeared from the glass above Court.

  * * *

  Sir Donald Fitzroy’s mobile rang at three. Lloyd pushed the speaker button, though the call had not come from Gentry’s satellite phone.

  “Cheltenham Security.”

  “Good afternoon, Sir Donald. I am calling in regards to an important business matter.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Our paths have not crossed, I don’t believe. You may call me Igor.”

  Fitzroy was short with the caller. There was more than enough on his plate to where he felt no need to be polite to some heavily accented solicitor. “And you may call me not interested. I am busy. If you have legitimate business, you can bloody well contact my secretary and make an appointment.”

  “Yes… well, the Gray Man seems to think he represents legitimate business to you. He told me to call, is insisting you will pay handsomely for his safe return.”

  “The Gray Man is with you?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Which team are you with?”

  “Which team? I am my own team, sir.”

  Fitzroy and Lloyd looked at one another. Lloyd pushed the mute button. “I don’t think this is one of our hunters.”

  Sir Donald tapped the button to allow the caller to hear him. “Let me talk to him.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible at the moment.”

  Lloyd hit the mute button again. He turned to the Tech at the bank of computers on the wall. The young man said, “The call originated in Budapest, the Pest side. He’s got some misdirection software on it. I’ll try and get it pinned down.”

  Lloyd looked up at the large map on the wall monitor. “What’s Court doing in Budapest, for fuck’s sake?”

  Fitzroy ignored him and hit the speaker box in the middle of the table, releasing the mute yet again.

  “I… I may be very interested in accommodating you, Igor. I just need assurance that my man is, in fact, in your care.”

  “No trust in this world, that’s what’s wrong. Very well, Sir Donald. Give me a moment. I don’t move as quickly as I used to.” There was shuffling through the speakers for nearly a minute. Then finally, “Go ahead, Mr. Fitzroy, you may speak.”

  “Lad? Is that you?”

  Gentry’s voice, distant or muffled by something: “He called the agency. A kill squad will be here in less than ninety minutes, Don! I’m in—”

  There was more scratching and shuffling over the speakers. Then the accented voice came back on the line. “You have one hour, Sir Donald. Wire five hundred thousand euros, and I will have your boy spirited away in plenty of time to avert a counteroffer from a competitor. Here’s the account number. Do you have a pen?”

  A minute later, the call was disconnected. Both Fitzroy and Lloyd looked to the Tech. The young Brit with the nose ring shook his head.

  “Budapest, Sixth District. That much we know. But I couldn’t pinpoint it closer. There are a quarter million phones in the Sixth District. He could have called from any one of them.”

  Lloyd was annoyed but in too much hurry to show it. He turned to his captive. “Who does he know in Budapest?”

  Fitzroy rubbed his forehead and shrugged.

  “Think, damn you! Who would Gentry go see there?”

  Sir Donald lifted his head quickly. “Szabo! Not in my Network, you see; an old counterfeiter, used to work for the Reds back in—”

  Lloyd interrupted “Got an address?”

  “I can get it.”

  “My closest kill team is in Vienna, a hundred miles away. No way we can have them there in that time frame. We’ll have to pay Szabo off to keep Gentry out of the CIA’s hands.”

  Fitzroy shook his head. “Forget it. Szabo is a snake. If he called the CIA, he did it to curry favor with them. He just called me because Gentry told him I’d pay for his release. Laszlo Szabo will take my money and still give him up to the CIA. He’ll fuck me over long before he’ll fuck them over.”

  “Will the CIA take Gentry in or kill him?”

  “Irrelevant. If they kill him, they’ll cover their tracks. The body won’t turn up for weeks, if ever. Abubaker won’t sign just because we tell him Gentry’s on ice. You’ll kill my family just the same as if Gentry survived.”

  “Then we have less than an hour to get killers to Szabo’s location and do the job before the agency boys get there.”

  * * *

  Gentry’s neck was sore from staring up at the plastic ceiling above him. He heard noises near the opening, so he yelled out, “How are you going to get me out of here before the agency assets come to kill us both?”

  Szabo’s wrinkled face appeared above. “Once I have Sir Donald’s money, the only one leaving here will be me.”

  “Fitzroy will kill you for double-crossing him.”

  “Ha. I still have friends in the East. I have been looking for a way out. A half-million euros will be just about enough for a new start.”

  “Look,” Court implored, “there’s more at stake here than you know. A family has been kidnapped. Two little girls have been taken, eight-year-old twins. They will be murdered if I don’t get to France in time to stop it. You let me out of here, and I swear you’ll get your money. You’ll get whatever you—”

  “Two little girls?”

  “Yes.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Not if I can get—”

  Laszlo laughed cruelly. “You’ve obviously mistaken me for a man with a soul. The Russians had it surgically removed thirty-five years ago. I really could not possibly care less.” He disappeared from Gentry’s view.

  * * *

  Lloyd called Riegel, reached him in his teak-paneled Paris office. The German answered before the first ring ended. The American asked, “Do you have assets in Budapest?”

  “I have assets everywhere.”

  “Tier-one assassins?”

  “No. Just a few pavement artists. I could arrange some low-class triggermen, I suppose, but why? Haven’t I provided you with enough alpha killers in the past twelve hours? Surely the Gray Man hasn’t chewed through them all yet!” His tone mocked the young lawyer.

  “We sent the teams to the west. Gentry went south, to Hungary, apparently to get a passport to use to flee Europe after he’s finished in Normandy.”

  “Prudent. Optimistic, but prudent.”

  “Yeah, well, it didn’t work out so well for him. The forger in Budapest double-crossed him. Locked him up. He just called Sir Donald to demand ransom.”

  “Let me guess. Laszlo Szabo?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Let’s just say you can’t mention ‘Budapest’ and ‘double-cross’ in the same sentence without Szabo’s name coming up.”

  “Can you get some men to his address in Pest?”

  “Of course. Is it just Laszlo or does he have security?”

  “It’s more complicated than that. Szabo also turned Court in to the CIA. They have a team racing to the location now. Supposedly they are an hour out.”

  Riegel sighed, resignation now in his voice. “He falls
into CIA hands, and the Lagos contract is history. If they take him, we won’t be able to prove to Abubaker if he’s dead or alive by Sunday.”

  “Then we can’t let that happen. Right?”

  “You want to send a team to shoot it out with American intelligence? Are you insane?”

  “The CIA will think they’re men working for Gentry or working for the kidnapper. If your guys are any good, they won’t hang around to explain their motivation.”

  Riegel thought a moment. When he finally spoke, it sounded to Lloyd as if the German was formulating the plan as the words left his mouth. “The Indonesian hit team is in the air at this moment. They are heading to Frankfurt, but they should be over south Central Europe right about now. Maybe we can divert them, get them on the ground and into the city in the next hour. We’ll be cutting it razor close, but it’s our only chance.”

  “Are they any good?”

  “Yes. They are Kopassus, Group Four. The best shooters Jakarta has to offer. Let me get to work.”

  * * *

  Captain Bernard Kilzer checked the altitude on the radio altimeter. It was a Wolfsburg model he was not entirely familiar with, as this plane was rented and not his normal craft. He was flying west-northwest at 37,000 feet. The Bombardier Challenger 605 was state-of-the-art, fly-by-wire technology. His duties and responsibilities as a pilot were great, but at this point, seven hours into his nine-hour flight from New Delhi to Frankfurt, there was little for him and his copilot to do other than stay awake, monitor the onboard systems, and scan the afternoon skies.

  The two pilots had been flying, nearly nonstop, for sixteen hours. Their route had originated in Jakarta, Indonesia, at two a.m. local time. They’d flown west, stopped for fuel in New Delhi, and then immediately returned to the sky.

  Normally, Captain Kilzer and his copilot, First Officer Lee, flew corporate heads around Southeast Asia. They also transported LaurentGroup scientists, critical IT personnel, anyone who was needed in any one of fifteen corporate facilities from the southern tip of Japan to the eastern edge of India.