Dead Eye cg-4

by Mark Greaney

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “In my work as a targeting officer for Mossad, my action arm has always been Metsada. I find and fix, and they finish. I don’t have them now.”

  “But you have me.”

  She smiled. “I hope so.”

  That was it, then. She had him, and she knew it. If there was any chance at all he could rid himself and the Israelis of Russell Whitlock, he had to try.

  “All right. I’ll help you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Court said, “The first thing we need to do is get out of here before your people come. You are going to have to do things my way. I need you to dump your phones or any other means Mossad has to track you.”

  “Right.” She reached into her coat and took out her phone and disabled it, then reached into her purse and took out Mike Dillman’s phone and took it apart as well. She said, “I’m usually the one hoping the person I’m tracking doesn’t take countermeasures. First time I’ve been on the run myself.”

  “Takes some getting used to,” Court acknowledged.

  “What next?”

  Court said, “We find a boat.”

  Court walked down the length of the dock at the marina, focusing his attention on a thirty-five-foot yacht that bobbed in its slip. Ruth lagged behind him, but she made no attempt to hide herself. The boat itself was no better or worse than any of the other hundred-plus watercraft here, but this particular vessel was the only one that had anyone visible topside, and it was obviously about to set sail, so Gentry made a beeline to it before he lost his chance.

  He called out to the man on board. “Nice yacht. Do you speak English?”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “It’s been up here for repairs, and I’m taking her back to Copenhagen.”

  “What’s that, about an hour?”

  “That’s right. A little less.”

  Court said, “Are you the captain?”

  The man climbed down the boarding ramp. “Yes. May I help you?” He showed no hint of suspicion in his words or actions.

  “How would you like to make one thousand euros?”

  That got his attention. He smiled, bemused. “To do what?”

  “We need to go to Germany. Now. If you take me over the Baltic and drop us off, you can get this back to Copenhagen just a few hours late.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not a water taxi.”

  “Two thousand euros.”

  He seemed to think about it a moment, then repeated himself. “I’m not a water taxi. Are you in some trouble?”

  “Not at all,” Court said, keeping a straight face. “My friend hates to fly, and we’ve got the money.”

  The captain wasn’t buying it. “There’s a Scandlines ferry that makes the crossing. It’s twenty-five euros each. Not two thousand.”

  Court adopted an embarrassed posture. “I’ve been banned for life on the ferry. Got a little drunk after a stag party. You know how it is.”

  The man looked at Gentry a long time. He clearly did not know how it was. Still, he named his price to play along. “Three thousand.”

  “If I give you three thousand, you wouldn’t be a water taxi. You would be a water limo.” Court nodded. “We leave right now.”

  “You are welcome aboard,” said the captain, and Court waved Ruth over.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The door to Whitlock’s holding cell opened, rousing him from his fantasies of killing Leland Babbitt. His watch had not been taken from him, so he glanced down and saw that it was just after six P.M.

  He’d been stuck here for more than three hours.

  A police officer led him up a hallway and into a small room that looked more or less identical to the one he’d just left, with one major exception. A man in a blue pinstripe suit sat at a little table with a manila folder in front of him and a briefcase at his feet.

  Russ did not recognize the man but instantly sized him up as coming from the U.S. embassy.

  Russ slumped down in front of him, making no attempt to hide his pissed-off look. He had no need to remain in character for this guy; he’d just be wasting both of their evenings. Instead he waited for the Belgian policeman to leave and close the door, and then he waited for the other man to speak.

  “I’m with the embassy,” he said, and he left it there.

  No shit, Russ thought, but he did not say it. He just sat there, sullen, waiting for more.

  The man in the pinstripe suit added, “You sure as hell pissed somebody off. You were traveling with a set of credos that should have been clean. But they were flagged stateside.” The man chuckled. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen Langley reel in one of their own like that.”

  Whitlock thought about breaking the man’s windpipe with an open hand to the throat, but it would only make him feel better for a few minutes, and it would do nothing to improve his situation, so he fought the urge.

  “Anyway, you also seem to have some powerful friends.”

  Russ sat up straighter in his chair now.

  The embassy man reached across the table and handed Whitlock the manila folder. He poured out the contents and looked them over. It was a new passport, a Michigan driver’s license, and several credit cards.

  Russ cocked his head. “You aren’t here to take me back?” He knew better than to say anything more, but still, the man held his hand up to stop him.

  “I’m a delivery boy. That’s all you need to know.”

  Russ nodded. “So am I free to go?”

  The American from the embassy stood up. “You can pick up your belongings, minus your passport, at the window outside. The Belgians will have a form for you to sign, basically saying you were treated with kindness and respect. Sign it”—the man reached out and took the passport back, just for a quick look—“sign it David Barnes.” He handed over the passport again. “Don’t know who you are or what you’re up to, but I’ll just play my part.” He smiled. “Have a pleasant vacation, Mr. Barnes.”

  Russ returned the smile and stood. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he was damn glad to be back in business.

  Lee Babbitt had spent a frustrating morning in the signal room at Townsend House. When his assets in place in Stockholm missed their target, Beaumont and his men searched fruitlessly for a few hours, until a surprise call from Yanis Alvey in Tel Aviv revealed to Babbitt that Gentry was on a train to Copenhagen, and a plan had been put in place by Israeli Special Operations to take him down when he got there.

  Lee had rushed his Jumper team to intercept the train during its stop in Malmö, but when they boarded they discovered that Gentry and the Israeli woman had apparently disembarked at an earlier station.

  An hour later, Babbitt received a call from Ruth Ettinger herself. She told him about Gentry’s claim that Dead Eye was planning to assassinate the Israeli prime minister on behalf of Iran. Babbitt did not know if this was true, but the fact that Gentry knew of Russ Whitlock at all was suspicious enough for Babbitt to have Parks find out if Whitlock had boarded the flight to the United States as agreed. When he checked all the cover credos available to Whitlock he learned he was, instead, on his way to Brussels.

  This, needless to say, set off alarm bells at Townsend House.

  Babbitt immediately ordered the passport flagged and Whitlock detained. He had enough to worry about with the hunt for Gentry to also have to stop one of his own employees from assassinating Ehud fucking Kalb.

  As Babbitt conferred with one of his analysts, his secretary paged him over the PA and asked him to hurry back to his office. When he arrived, he found he had a call holding from Denny Carmichael.

  Babbitt groaned, but he grabbed the phone and spoke in an upbeat manner. “Hi, Denny.”

  Carmichael was characteristically terse and to the point. “I just had Dead Eye released from custody at the airport in Brussels.”

  Babbitt had to control himself not to shout. “Why on earth did you do that?”

  “Because Court Gentry is loose in the wind. Because the only wa
y we can pick Gentry back up again is through Dead Eye. According to Yanis Alvey at Mossad, Gentry is traveling with Ruth Ettinger, and it appears they are pursuing Whitlock on their own.”

  “Denny, can’t you see what’s happening? Whitlock has been using us. He’s planning on killing the prime minister of Israel! He’s protected Gentry so he can be around to take the fall for the hit!”

  “I know this, and I feel certain we can avoid that. I want you to find Dead Eye in Brussels, put surveillance on him, and watch him until Gentry turns up.”

  Babbitt could not believe what he was hearing. “You want to use the prime minister of Israel as bait?”

  “No, I do not. I want to use a rogue, off-reservation, ex-agency asset as bait to catch an even worse rogue, off-reservation, ex-agency asset. You have sanction to eliminate Whitlock as well as Gentry, but your primary target remains Gentry. We don’t lay a finger on Dead Eye until Gray Man is dead.”

  Babbitt leaned forward on his desk and ran his hand over his face. “Christ, Denny.” Even for an operations veteran like Lee Babbitt, this was a deep and murky bit of intrigue.

  Denny picked up on the reticence. “Settle down. Desperate measures for desperate times. We clean up both messes at once. Got it? We will wrap this up before the PM is in any danger.”

  “You keep saying we. Are you sending CIA assets?”

  “Good lord, no! Of course not. This is too sensitive to directly involve the CIA.”

  Babbitt thought that was pretty rich, as it came from one of the heads of the CIA.

  Carmichael added, “I want you to go personally to Brussels. Take every available direct action asset you have, get over there, and find Dead Eye. He’ll lead you to Gentry.”

  “What about the Mossad?”

  “I spoke with Menachem Aurbach, head of their op wing, and I convinced him that his woman, Ms. Ettinger, is wrong about Gentry. I explained to him that Russell Whitlock is, in fact, one of Gentry’s aliases. They think their young officer, a woman who was deeply damaged by the Israeli debacle in Rome last year, simply went off the rails after the death of her man in Stockholm. She is being duped by Gentry, allowing herself to be so because of confirmation bias. Quite simply, she wants to believe she was right about him all along.”

  Babbitt replied, “What you are asking us to do . . . There are a lot of dangers brought on by the narrow time frame, the large size of the operation, the—”

  Carmichael seemed ready for the pushback. “Lee. Your cost-plus billing will not be audited.”

  Babbitt’s eyebrows rose. He was being offered a blank check.

  Slowly, and with some internal reservations, he said, “We’ll be on our way within the hour.”

  “Good. I thank you, and our nation thanks you.”

  “Denny. We will do the job. As quickly and cleanly as we possibly can. But I don’t believe any more.”

  Carmichael’s tone turned guarded. “Don’t believe what?”

  “I don’t believe killing Court Gentry has anything to do with America.”

  After a long pause Carmichael said, “Just kill him. Kill him and Townsend Government Services will avoid the fate suffered by so many defense and intelligence contractors during this time of harsh budget cuts.”

  A threat, Lee thought, but did not say. How fucking typical. He pushed his anger aside and said, “All right, Denny. I’ll saddle up my boys and head out. I’ll call you from Brussels.”

  John Beaumont, the Townsend operator also known as Jumper Actual, had spread his team of eight operators all over the ferry docks at the port in Travemünde, Germany, waiting for the seven P.M. ferry to arrive from Denmark. He had no specific intelligence indicating Gentry would be on board, but he and his team had arrived on the five P.M. ferry, and they had searched the vessel from top to bottom and turned up nothing.

  It had been a frustrating day for the Jumper team. They began the morning by striking out at the bus terminal, and then they caught the bad news from Washington a few hours later that their target had fled the city. Their rushed helo flight to Malmö had been a waste of time as well, as they’d boarded the train from Stockholm to Copenhagen only to find it, just like the bus terminal, to be a dry hole.

  They’d remained in the station in Copenhagen for a few hours, climbing on and off as many passing trains as they could for quick and perfunctory searches, but someone had called the local cops, asking them to come find out what the hell the tough-looking American guys were up to, so the Townsend men then boarded an express train to Hamburg. The train rolled aboard a massive Scandlines ferry for the forty-five-minute crossing of the Baltic, and then it docked here in the small seaside town of Travemünde.

  Travemünde was an extremely popular beach resort in the summer months, but now it was a gray, frozen still life, virtually deserted of people other than those heading north to Copenhagen or farther up into Scandinavia on the ferries, or those who worked the fishing boats at the marina or the restaurants along the promenade.

  Beaumont had received a call from Babbitt an hour earlier stating that he and Parks and the Dagger team at Townsend House were now on their way to Brussels. Jumper would link up with them when they arrived in the morning, but before heading south, Beaumont decided he’d set his men up for an in extremis operation here to watch those departing the next ferry coming in.

  Upon arrival here in Travemünde he sent some men to rent a couple of vans, and after they returned, Carl and Lucas, the UAV team, set up a drone ground control station in the back of one of them. They launched a Sky Shark drone from the terminal parking lot and now it loitered over the area, monitoring the boats as they docked in the marina while waiting for the ferry’s arrival.

  As the ferry came into dock, Carl piloted the UAV to the south over the marina to check a yacht that he’d noticed moving toward a little slip. He zoomed in on two passengers leaving the boat and walking along the dock. Almost immediately a red square appeared around one of the distant moving figures, indicating a possible gait pattern match with the target.

  Lucas lunged for the radio on the floor of the van. “Sensor operator to Jumper Actual. We’ve got a possible sighting, polling 55 percent. We’re moving in to get visual now and will advise.”

  Beaumont was a half mile away, standing in a nearly full parking lot near the ferry dock. In his low southern drawl Beaumont replied, “The hell you talking about? The ferry hasn’t even started offloading yet.”

  “He wasn’t on the ferry. Two pax disembarked a yacht. One male, one female. They are now walking along the promenade north of your pos, over.”

  Beaumont immediately said, “I’m sending two on foot to check it out. Vector them in to the subjects.”

  “Roger that.”

  Beaumont radioed Jumpers Seven and Eight, who were just a few hundred yards south of the marina, and he sent them toward the promenade.

  Court Gentry and Ruth Ettinger shivered in a freezing wind rolling in from the Baltic Sea as they walked along the Travemünde promenade. Court could imagine this path full of summer vacationers when the weather was some sixty degrees warmer, but now only a very few hearty souls were out. He asked a man struggling to stay on top of his bicycle in the snow for directions to the train station, and the man pointed up the road, explaining in German that the Bahnhof was less than a kilometer away.

  Court and Ruth walked in silence, each alone with their thoughts, Ruth only now thinking about the repercussions she would face for going offline from Alvey, and Court thinking about Dead Eye and his revelation that Court had been selected for admittance to the CIA’s Autonomous Asset Development Program for reasons other than his reflexes and intelligence.

  Neither felt much like talking now.

  As Gentry and the Israeli American woman trudged up a hill past a cluster of small fish restaurants and coffee shops, he noticed two men skulking up a darkened alleyway from the southern portion of the docks. A minute later he used the reflection in a hotel window to confirm that the men had fallen in behi
nd him and Ruth, some forty or fifty yards back.

  Court spoke softly. “Those your guys?”

  “Who?”

  “We’ve picked up a tail.”

  She knew better than to turn around to look. “Are you sure? I didn’t see anyone.”

  “You follow people. I get followed. I’m kind of an expert on the subject. I need you to tell me if they are Mossad or not.”

  They kept walking. They could see the Bahnhof now, just ahead on their right.

  “To do that I’m going to have to look back,” Ruth said.

  “No. Wait till we turn to go up the steps to the station and then glance to the right, but do it quickly and make it natural. They are forty yards back. If we speed up a little we can time the turn to catch the two guys in the streetlight we’re under now.”

  “You’ve got this down to a science, don’t you?”

  “Stick with me,” he quipped. “I’ll teach you how the other half lives.”

  They picked up the pace and then turned at the entrance to the Bahnhof. Court did not look to his right, but Ruth glanced that way. She said nothing until they were well inside the station.

  “Shit. They are Townsend men. Part of the direct action team that was in Stockholm. And I’m pretty sure they just made me.”

  There were no trains at the platform now, but a light crowd of people stood around in the cold waiting on the seven-ten to Hamburg. Court took Ruth by the hand and led her quickly through the passengers. She marveled at the way he slipped between people effortlessly, remained in low light, and kept his head down as he walked. He even made it look natural as he bypassed security cameras positioned above a kiosk in the center of the room.

  They exited the building on the far side, then crossed the tracks away from the lights of the station, entering first a small copse of trees and then a residential neighborhood. They walked briskly down a lighted street and then cut through two backyards, exiting onto a small cul-de-sac.