Agent in Place

by Mark Greaney

  He spoke softly in the dark, still afraid to alarm whoever had a gun to his neck. Softly he said, “D’ou vien-vous?” Where did you come from?

  The reply was delivered in English. “From somewhere in your past.”

  Voland closed his eyes in an attempt to block out the fear, because he understood instantly what was happening. The Gray Man had him at gunpoint and, perhaps even more importantly, the Gray Man had him figured out.

  He responded softly, lest he excite the man who held his life in his hands. “The Halabys told you how to find me?”

  “They owed me a favor.”

  “Oui . . . they certainly did. I heard about what you did to earn that favor. Two dead PJ investigators. By your hand, I assume?”

  “My hand? No. By the weapon pressed against your spine.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Where are we go—”

  A rough hand grabbed Voland by the shoulder and yanked him backwards.

  * * *

  • • •

  Court directed the man off the street and into the old building undergoing remodeling. Here he pushed Voland up to a wall that smelled like fresh plaster and stale rainwater, and he fished through the man’s raincoat. He pulled out his wallet while keeping the man pinned to the wall with the pistol pressed hard against his forehead.

  As he fumbled with the wallet, he said, “I probably don’t need to tell you that I can pull the trigger before you can grab the gun.”

  “Non, monsieur, you do not need to tell me a thing about your abilities.”

  Court looked into the man’s eyes at this, then went back to his work. He one-handed the wallet open and held it close to his face so he could read it in the golden glow of filtered streetlight. “Vincent Voland. That’s your real name?”

  “It is. I thought you knew who I was.”

  “Only in the general sense. You are French intelligence, you think you know something about me, and you hired me through my cutout in Monte Carlo because, in your estimation, I was the only guy out there who could have pulled off last night while those ISIS shitheads were attacking.”

  “I am not French intelligence, currently. But I was.”

  “And what do you do now, Monsieur Voland?”

  “I am a private consultant.”

  “Yeah?” Court leaned close, menacing. “Well, I’d say I’m in need of some consultation right about now.”

  The older man was nervous—Court could see the tells even in the low light—but Voland affected a little smile. “I am not currently seeking new clients.”

  “Too busy leading Rima and Tarek to their deaths?”

  “That is unfair,” Voland replied. The Gray Man was talking, not shooting, so Court could see the Frenchman’s fear about his predicament fading away, and he was growing a little less terrified, even though there was still a pistol pointed at his head.

  “What do you know about me?” Court asked.

  Voland’s eyes narrowed now. He knew something but didn’t seem certain how he should answer. Finally he said, “I know you used to be an American intelligence asset. And I know that the CIA has disavowed you.”

  His information was old and incomplete, Court realized, but he had no intention of bringing him up to date. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. I know about Normandy.”

  Court chewed the inside of his lip. “What do you know about Normandy?”

  “Two years ago I was an executive with DGSI.”

  Court knew this was French domestic intelligence. “Go on.”

  “I was involved in the investigation of a series of murders here in Paris, and then a massacre at a chateau in Normandy. It was determined that the man at the center of it all was the rogue American intelligence asset known informally as the Gray Man.”

  When Court did not reply, Voland added, “And all that killing, of course, was done by you.”

  Still Court said nothing.

  Voland nodded and smiled. “Nicely done, by the way. The bodies recovered were a wide array of criminals and scum. Businessmen with nefarious connections, and foreign paramilitaries involved in all manner of illegal activity on French soil.” He shrugged. “The police here would still love to get their hands on you, even before what you did last night, and again today. But as for our intelligence services . . . let’s just say we’ve moved on to more pressing matters than Normandy.”

  Court knew he should have denied all involvement in the incident Voland spoke of, but his thoughts were on the present, not the past. “I’m not here to talk about two years ago.”

  The Frenchman nodded. “I understand. And I must thank you for what you did today for the Halabys. As their consultant, I suppose we should talk about you getting a hefty bonus for your work.”

  Court lowered his pistol finally, and holstered it inside the waistband at his right hip. “And I’m not here because I want money.”

  “Then you have me at a loss. Why are you here?”

  “I’m here to figure you out. It’s obvious the Halabys are being manipulated by someone in all this. My guess is that someone is you. My survival depends on me having an understanding of who knows what about me. The Halabys don’t know anything, but you seem to know it all.”

  “Why do you care about the Halabys and their objective?”

  Court looked off out the window into the night. “I’ll be damned if I know.” Turning back to Voland, he said, “How about you? What’s your interest in all this?”

  “The Syrian exiles are my clients. Can’t it be as simple as that?”

  “Nope. If that were the case, you’d do what they told you to do. But I’ve seen enough to know that you are using them for your own agenda. I want to know what that agenda is, and who is pulling your strings.”

  Voland gave an exaggerated shrug. “My nation is very energized to bring al-Azzam down. As is yours, by the way. Both of our countries have troops in Syria.”

  “Fighting the Islamic State, not the Syrian Army.”

  “Very true. It is a complicated situation. My nation has no official policy supporting the decapitation of the Syrian regime. We can’t be involved in making a bad situation even worse. There are enough refugees in Europe as things stand. If a new flood came in, our current government would fall in the next elections. But behind the scenes? In a deniable fashion? France wants an end to the refugee crisis, and creating a rift between the Iranians, the Russians, and the Azzam regime would be a good beginning.”

  Court shook his head. “There is more. What are you really trying to accomplish?”

  Voland nodded softly, as if giving himself permission to reveal more information. “There is someone close to the first lady of Syria, Shakira al-Azzam. A Westerner. He is the one who communicated secretly with ISIS in Belgium about Bianca Medina. The Halabys know nothing about him, but he is a secondary objective for me in this operation.”

  Court leaned closer to Voland. “The man I spoke with on the phone. Rima said he used the name Eric.”

  “A pseudonym.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Does the name Sebastian Drexler mean anything to you?”

  Court turned away and began slowly pacing the dark and unfinished room. “Holy hell.”

  The Frenchman said, “Ah . . . I thought it just might.”

  “I guess it stands to reason Drexler would be involved with Azzam. He’s worked for every other son-of-a-bitch dictator around.”

  “Exactement. He is a very dangerous man, and he is wanted for crimes in many countries, but no one wants him more than me.”

  “Why?”

  “The last four years of my time in DGSI, my job was to find and arrest Sebastian Drexler. I got close multiple times in Africa. But I failed. I am not one who gives up easily, so I continue to hunt the man, even while no longer e
mployed by the French government.”

  “What sort of crimes has he committed here?”

  “I am not cleared to tell you, but suffice it to say, crimes that were costly, embarrassing, and damaging to the French people.”

  Instantly Court could think of a half dozen major imbroglios the French government had been caught up in during the last decade. With Iraq, with Libya, with Egypt. Knowing what the infamous Sebastian Drexler was capable of, Court imagined the Swiss national could have quite possibly been the culprit for one or all of these.

  “So, you are using this operation with the Halabys to draw Drexler back into France?”

  “With Shakira Azzam as his benefactor in Damascus, I think it likely that her desperation over this operation will entice her to force Drexler to come here in person to locate Medina.”

  Court said, “If it were anyone else, I’d have to ask why you were going through all this for one guy. But Drexler . . . I get it.”

  “I feel confident Drexler will come.”

  Court looked Voland over. “It’s just you working with the Halabys? No one else from French intelligence? No one to support them if Drexler comes up here with fifty assholes?”

  Voland chuckled. “First . . . As I said, I’m no longer officially with French intelligence. I am just helping them with this objective. And second . . . Drexler can’t get fifty . . . as you say . . . assholes into France.”

  “No offense, dude, but there are a lot more than fifty assholes already in France. I’m looking at one of them right now, as a matter of fact. You double-crossed me yesterday when you didn’t tell me ISIS was planning to hit that night, and you are double-crossing the Free Syria Exile Union now for France’s own self-interests.”

  That sank in a moment, till Voland said, “It is only me. French intelligence has been hands-off with the Halabys and their organization because of the delicacy of the situation with the rebel groups in Syria. We can’t be discovered assisting an extremist movement.”

  Court fired back, “I’d say Tarek and Rima are about as far from extreme as you can get and still be involved in a civil war.”

  “Yes . . . but politics being what it is in this country, the government’s opposition could frame this poorly if word got out. The FSEU has a half dozen former Syrian rebels guarding Bianca in a safe house right now, and they will remain in place until she talks. That should do, as long as they keep their location hidden. Really, the FSEU are a fine group when it comes to getting money together for food, weapons, logistics, and such, but they aren’t a fighting force, and they aren’t an intelligence organization.”

  “Which is why they got tricked by the ex-employee of an intelligence organization.”

  Voland shook his head. “No one tricked them. I was told in confidence by an associate in DGSI that Drexler had notified the ISIS cell in Belgium about Medina’s travels here. ISIS doesn’t know she is Ahmed’s mistress . . . they were told she was having an affair with the emir of Kuwait.”

  “But French intelligence knew about the affair.”

  “Correct. My contact at DGSI knew I was consulting for the Free Syria Exile Union, and he knew the Halabys had the resources and zeal to transform their group into something more . . . effective than a relief organization, so I used them as cover to hire you to rescue Medina.”

  “Why did Tarek and Rima transform from a relief organization to a direct-action arm of the rebels? What is it they aren’t telling me?”

  Voland nodded now in the dim light. “You are a very perceptive man.”

  “I get lied to a lot. I’m used to looking for ulterior motives.”

  The elder Frenchman himself began pacing the room. “The Halabys’ two children, a son and a daughter, were young doctors here in Paris. They began going on medical aid missions to Syria for the FSEU. They spent a lot of time treating civilians wounded in the fighting.” He heaved his chest and sighed. “They were killed last fall when the hospital in Aleppo where they were working was flattened by Russian bombs.”

  “Jesus,” Court muttered.

  “When Tarek and Rima’s children were killed, they could no longer avoid involvement in the war itself. They started raising money for weapons and other equipment in the West, sneaking it over the border with their relief supplies.” And then he added, “I was hired to facilitate this operation, and then along the way I learned about Medina, Drexler, and the ISIS plan. I arranged to bring you in to help with that.”

  “And here we are,” Court said.

  “Here we are,” Voland confirmed.

  “Now they want me to go in and get the baby.”

  Voland cracked a smile now, as if this were the most ridiculous notion he’d ever heard. “Of course they do. The operation to compromise Azzam’s secret talks with the Iranians will only go forward with Medina’s help, and they will not allow me to use enhanced techniques on the woman. It would be a boon to the Halabys’ operation if you’d go to Syria and rescue this child, but personally, I think it utter madness.”

  “I want to talk to Bianca,” Court declared flatly.

  “For what purpose?”

  “For the purpose of determining my level of madness.”

  Voland was gobsmacked. “So, there is a chance you will go to Damascus?”

  “There’s a greater chance I’ll get on the next bus leaving town.”

  “Monsieur . . . if you go to Syria, you will die.”

  Court repeated himself. “I want to talk to Bianca.”

  “Very well. I can arrange this.”

  It was silent in the unfinished room for several seconds. Then Voland said, “Ah . . . you mean now.”

  “I do mean now.”

  CHAPTER 20

  President of the Syrian Arab Republic Ahmed al-Azzam was a tall and thin man, always impeccably dressed, but his fashion acumen did little for him, because he had yellowish skin and a seemingly constant five-o’clock shadow. Even as he sat behind the massive walnut desk in his expansive office, amid art and antiquities and bodyguards in tailored business suits, he still did not look the part of the leader of his nation.

  Sebastian Drexler had met him a few times before and he was always left with the same impression. Whereas Shakira Azzam was a beautiful, mature woman, classically featured, and with an air of brightness about her, Ahmed Azzam looked grim and disengaged, even when he smiled.

  He looked less like Shakira’s husband and more like her uncle the undertaker.

  But today he appeared even more drawn and anxious than usual. Drexler knew why, but he pretended like he did not.

  The Swiss operative fought the undertaker imagery now as he sat in Ahmed Azzam’s large palace office, facing the man with the too-narrow eyes and the too-thin chin. Drexler was here on a mission, and the mission required him to be taken into Ahmed’s confidence.

  So Drexler merely smiled back.

  Azzam motioned to the tea service on the corner of his desk, and then he reached for one of the empty cups. Holding his hand around it, he said, “You are well, Mr. Drexler?”

  Four male attendants stood close by, and one poured for both men, while the other three kept their eyes on the foreigner and their hands near the pistols inside their jackets.

  When the tea was poured, Azzam ignored it, so Drexler did, as well. He said, “I am very well, sir. Thank you for inquiring.”

  “Our lovely weather is to your liking, I assume?”

  The daily highs in Damascus this time of year were in the low eighties, and the lows in the midfifties. It was, indeed, beautiful weather, Drexler had to admit, although he would have given it up in a heartbeat to stand in a snowstorm in his homeland.

  “Damascus is an oasis, Mr. President.”

  Azzam’s little mouth stretched into a forced smile. “I am hearing interesting things about you from my people in the Mukhabarat.”

  Drexl
er’s chest tightened. No one likes to hear that a nation’s intelligence service is saying anything about them to the president of the nation. But even less so when the person in question is targeting the president’s mistress and sleeping with his wife. He wondered if Azzam had brought him here only to tell him he was to be executed.

  Drexler managed to force out a neutral enough “Is that so?”

  “Yes. My people in GIS tell me you have been helping them out on some operations in Europe with your contacts there. Work that is above and beyond your duties on the finance side. You have my personal gratitude for your assistance. As you are well aware, this is a difficult time for our nation. Your connections overseas are crucial to our operations to keep Syria strong.”

  Drexler relaxed somewhat. It didn’t sound like he was to be trucked off to the notorious Saydnaya Prison for execution after all. “It has been an honor to serve Syria, and to live in this amazing city and nation. I owe you a personal debt of gratitude for that.”

  Azzam bit at an unruly fingernail, then took a sip of tea that proved to be clearly too hot, so he put it down. He nodded distractedly. “I have a new operation for you and your contacts . . . it takes place in Europe, and it needs to be done quickly and with discretion.”

  “Mr. President, I will do my best, but it is difficult for me to travel in Europe. Nevertheless, as you know, I have people all over the continent. My best efforts and my best contacts are at your disposal.”

  Azzam kept biting at his nail. “I wonder if there might be a way you could possibly go yourself?”

  Drexler pretended to think on the question, but in truth, he was marveling on the fact that this was going even better than he’d hoped. “Yes, sir. As a matter of fact, there is a way. I have discussed with your Mukhabarat what I would need if I were ever called upon by your government for a personal mission into one of the nations where Interpol has impeded my safe travel.”