Dead Eye

by Mark Greaney

  “Just cold.”

  “Adrenaline,” Russ corrected. “Lots of people get the shakes when they’re under fire.”

  Gentry downed his drink. Repeated, “I’m cold.”

  Russ did not argue. Instead, he refilled Court’s glass. “I’m sure that’s all it is.”

  Court fought to keep his hands still while Russ eyed him from across the table. To change the subject, Court said, “One question. None of my business, but I’d like to know.”

  “I’m an open book.”

  “What are you on?”

  “What am I ‘on’?”

  Gentry nodded. “That hole in your hip is bleeding more than it should. You seem too young and fit for blood pressure meds, and you aren’t coked up, so I figure you are taking amphetamines of some form.”

  “Spoken like a man who knows his pharmaceuticals,” Russ replied.

  Court did not respond to this. He had developed an addiction to pain pills after an op a year or so earlier, but he could not imagine how this stranger across the table would know about that.

  After a moment Russ answered, “Adderall. Helps with reaction time, cognitive function, mutes pain.”

  “Are you trying to sell it to me?”

  “Just explaining why I do it.”

  Court said, “I’m not your mom.” It was still in the dark and dusty pub for a moment. Finally he said, “I’ve got a lot more questions.”

  To this Russ nodded. “I bet your head is spinning with them.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Russell Whitlock.” He looked Gentry over with a searching gaze. “Mean anything to you at all?”

  Court shook his head. “Should it?”

  A shrug. “Doesn’t hurt my feelings.”

  “You called me Violator back there.”

  “I did.”

  “You are Agency?”

  “Used to be.” Russ sipped some more whiskey from the little glass, the movement of his shifting in the vinyl seat providing most of the noise in the room now. Russ reached out a hand. “Code name, Dead Eye.”

  The men shook hands.

  “Never heard that one either, have you?” asked Russ.

  “No.”

  Russ smiled. “We weren’t supposed to know about each other. OPSEC and PERSEC and just good manners to mind our own busi-ness.”

  “But you know me.”

  “I know everyone.”

  Court did not press. Instead, he said, “The team that hit us this morning. They were Agency assets?”

  “No.”

  “Then who?”

  “Townsend Government Services.”

  “And that is . . . what exactly?”

  “Private contractor. Bounty hunters, basically.”

  “How did they find me here in Tallinn?”

  “They had a UAV on station over Sid’s compound. It tracked you to the Helsinki Polaris. Townsend assets hit the Polaris the night before last, but you’d already sneaked off. I was the one waiting for you to turn up here, and when you did, I tailed you to the hotel, then called in Townsend’s strike team.”

  Court put his half-empty glass of Irish whiskey down slowly. “You?” His right hand slid to the pistol under the table between his knees, and he took it and pointed it at the man across the table.

  “Yeah. I probably should have told you.” He cleared his throat and looked down at his hip for a moment, then said, “I work for Townsend.”

  Russ heard a muted click under the oak table now. He identified the sound easily; it was the hammer of a SIG Sauer pistol being pulled back, readying the gun to fire with only slight pressure on the trigger. He said, “Let me guess. You’ve got another gun pointed at my dick.”

  “Tell me more about Townsend.”

  “Privately held. Been around forever. Ten twenty-four contract. Paid by CIA with black fund money.”

  “What’s their mission?”

  “Brother, right now, you are their mission.”

  “And they sent you to kill me?”

  “They sent me to find you. The direct action team was supposed to kill you. The goons who hit the hotel tonight, Trestle Team, has been in St. Petersburg for sixty days, waiting for you to stick your neck out at Sid’s place. There is another team, run by a guy called Jumper. He’s in Berlin. A third unit, Dagger, is back in the States. I expect they’ll be cycling over here to Europe before long.”

  Court lowered the pistol under the table but kept his finger ready over the trigger guard. “Who’s in charge?”

  “The guy after you is Leland Babbitt. He’s about fifty. Ex-military, Air Force, then a civilian at DIA for a while. He moved over to FBI counterintel. He got drummed out of the Hoover Building for his methods, strong-arm shit that was getting cases tossed on grounds of civil liberty abuses.”

  “He runs Townsend?”

  “Affirmative. His number two is Jeff Parks. All-American-looking prick. He was a case officer at Langley, tossed during the harsh interrogation pogroms a few years back. The rest of Townsend is mostly ex-agency folks. Midlevel bureaucrats. Not seventh-floor material, for one reason or another.

  “Townsend has been doing government-contracted dirty work since the 1800s. They were in the Indian wars, and in the Philippines when that blew up. They killed a Supreme Court nominee in the fifties. Rumor has it that James Earl Ray, the dude who shot Martin Luther King, was a Townsend asset. They whacked Olaf Palme, prime minister of Sweden, a shitload of human rights lefties in Latin America. Most anybody the administration in power didn’t like but couldn’t be caught targeting, Townsend got the call.”

  This sounded, to Court, like a load of horseshit. He’d done his own share of denied black ops. He’d never got wind of a commercial enterprise doing the same sort of thing, especially an enterprise that had been in existence over several generations. “Are you going to tell me that Lee Harvey Oswald was a Townsend man?”

  Dead Eye shook his head. “Negative. Oswald was just a narcissistic prick with a bolt-action rifle and an entry-level job that gave him line-of-sight on POTUS’s open-faced limo.”

  Court knew this to be true. He was relieved to see that Dead Eye was not too far off into fantasyland.

  Russ continued. “Townsend does other stuff as well. Training and security and investigations and arrests and renditions. They work for American concerns in industry, not just the Agency or the White House. But the feds like to use them as a proxy force for untouchable ops. They worked for Noriega back when he was our guy, and they were involved with bringing him in when he wasn’t our guy anymore.”

  Court had been around too long to be surprised by much of anything, but this was all news to him. “What else?” he asked.

  “They did CIA-supported hits for Saddam Hussein in Iraq and the apartheid government in South Africa in the eighties, for Mubarak and the Croatians in the nineties. After 9/11, Townsend worked with Afghan warlords that the CIA wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.”

  “That’s saying something.”

  Russ pressed down on his bandage with one hand and waved the other in the air. “Look, Court, you probably should spend less time worrying about Townsend’s old contracts, and instead concern yourself with their present-day target.”

  “Me.”

  “Yeah.”

  Court said, “Okay. But before we get to me, what’s your story?”

  Russ sipped. Said, “Thirty-four years old, born and raised in Washington State. Little town outside Olympia called Sequoia Park.”

  Court reached across the table with his left hand and poured himself another shot. “And you like unicorns and long walks on the beach.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  Court said, “Everything I saw you do tonight. It was like looking in a mirror.”

  “I’ll take that as a compli
ment.”

  “I mean to say I can tell you are a solo operator. We were in the same program?”

  Russ nodded. “The Autonomous Asset Development Program. I was recruited out of the Marine Corps. A two-year workup, marathons in combat boots, scuba training, flight training, sniper craft, tradecraft, Krav Maga and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, language immersion, alpinist work in Wyoming, desert survival and land nav in the Mojave. All the same fun and games you went through, I guess.”

  “I was in the Sonora.”

  “Mexico? Ha, you old-timers were hard-core.”

  Court did not smile.

  “Anyway, I was approved for operational status, activated, and then I moved around the next several years, mostly in the Middle East and North Africa.”

  Court thought this over. His career with the Autonomous Asset Program had primarily taken place in the former Soviet Union, but he’d done time in the Middle East as well. More when he joined the Goon Squad. He wondered if he and Russ had run around the same AOs at the same times through the years.

  “And then you left CIA?”

  “Moved over to Townsend a year ago. Better pay and less bureaucracy. Really, other than the fact they target American heroes like you for termination, it’s not such a bad gig.”

  “Why do you think I am a hero?”

  “I was read in on your dossier to prep for the op. As I studied you, it felt like I was reading my own history. You spend a lot of years doing your thing for the USA, snappin’ necks and cashing checks, and this is the thanks you get? The shoot-on-sight against you is bullshit. I could no more be involved in your assassination than I could in my own. We’re both good guys in a bad world.” He held his shot glass out for Court to clink it. “Two brothers.”

  Court did not reach for his glass. Instead he asked, “Did you tell this Babbitt guy about these reservations of yours concerning the shoot-on-sight?”

  “Fuck no. They would have just fired me as unreliable, and they would have sent someone else. Court, I’m not looking for a pat on the back, but if I hadn’t been the guy here in Tallinn tonight, you’d be dead.”

  “Thank you.” Court said it flatly. He was having a hard time understanding this man’s motivation. The cynic in him could not allow himself to believe Russ had gone through all this just because he thought Court was being treated unfairly.

  “You’re welcome,” said Russ. Then, “I’ve got to admit, I’m surprised to see the tremor.”

  “The tremor?”

  “In your hand. As much action as you’ve seen, I didn’t think it would affect you like that.”

  “Just cold,” Court said again.

  “I don’t get the shakes,” Russ declared. “Never did really. All the shit I’ve been through.” He held his right hand up over the table. “Nothing. The Agency had me tested. My blood pressure stays low through high-stress events; my pulse is unaffected. It gives me an advantage in combat.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “What’s your secret? I’ve read over your ops. How do you survive everything that has been thrown your way?”

  Court shrugged. “I don’t have any superpowers like you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve seen the after-action report on Kiev.”

  “Kiev?”

  “Oh, please.”

  Court said nothing.

  “The analysts at CIA don’t believe you did the Kiev op alone. I don’t believe you’d work with anyone else.” Russ waited for a response, but when none came he said, “So I think you did it alone. But, I have to admit, I don’t have a fucking clue how you did it.”

  “I didn’t do it at all,” Court replied.

  Russ rolled his eyes. “You can tell me. Confidentially, of course. C’mon. Satisfy my curiosity to pay me back for pulling your ass out of the fire tonight.”

  Court just shook his head. “I wasn’t involved with the Kiev thing. I’m always getting blamed for shit I didn’t do.”

  Russ stared at Court a long time, but finally he let it go with a sigh, finished his drink and reached for the bottle of Redbreast. Court thought he was going to pour another, but he pulled the bottle to him, then grabbed the cork from the table and closed it.

  “We need to scoot.” Russ pulled out his phone. “If you give me your number, we can get in touch tomorrow.”

  “Look, I appreciate what you just did. I don’t understand it, but I appreciate it. But I don’t know you. Why the hell would I give you a way to trace me?”

  Russ put his phone down; he did not seem surprised by Gentry’s reluctance to give Russ a way to contact him. With a shrug he reached into his backpack, pulled out a scrap of paper, and handed it across the table. Court opened it and found a fourteen-digit phone number written in pencil. Below it was a website URL.

  “What’s this?”

  “My phone number and a link to MobileCrypt. It’s an app you load on your phone. It’s how I can keep from being listened in on or traced. You can do the same thing, and you can be sure I don’t know what phone you are using or where you are calling from. We’ll go our separate ways right now, but call me tomorrow, as soon as you’re clear of the area.”

  Court put the paper in his pocket. “You want to catch a movie or something?”

  Russ pressed down on the bandaging covering his hip to mute the pain that grew there. “Look, here is what’s going to happen. I leave here, skip town, find a secure location, and then I call in to Townsend House.”

  Court was surprised by this. “I am not exactly an expert on good employee/employer relations, but I think your boss is going to be pissed about you killing a bunch of your coworkers.”

  “I’ll be fine. And in order to keep you safe from them, I’ve got to work within the system. They are going to be after you with a bunch of bodies and a ton of high-tech shit. You check in with me and I’ll keep you informed on their hunt.”

  Court almost yelled his next question. “Why? Why are you making it your job to protect me?”

  “Because very soon I’m going to leave Townsend. I have something on the horizon, something big, and it does not involve them. I could use your help, and it’s your kind of job.”

  Court’s eyebrows rose. “Ah. Now comes the sales pitch.”

  Whitlock said, “Yes. I do have a sales pitch for you. Let’s work together. You and me. Fucking unstoppable.”

  “I retired after the Sidorenko hit.” Court wanted to immediately quell Dead Eye’s enthusiasm for this stupid idea.

  “Bullshit. That’s just nerves talking. You’re a little burned out, but you won’t leave the game until you make peace with CIA or catch a round to the brain stem, whichever comes first. No, this is in your blood, same as me.

  “Let me ask you something. You ever feel like you’re swimming against the tide?”

  Yes, Court thought. That was exactly how he felt.

  “Go on.”

  “You’ve made more enemies in the past couple of years as a freelancer than you ever did working for Langley. But what you’re doing is important. I know you are looking for the next righteous op. I know your objective is to do good. To fight the good fight.” Russ put his hand over his heart. “That’s me, too. I want to be a part of that.”

  Court remained cynical. “And we split the take? No thanks.”

  Russ shook his head adamantly. “Don’t bullshit me, dude. You aren’t in this for the money, and neither am I. We can do good, man. Twice as much as you could alone. We need to stick together.”

  Court rolled his eyes. “Like Batman and Robin?”

  Russ snapped back angrily, “I’m not talking about some Batman and Robin shit. We operate independently, of course. I am just talking about coordination. We can watch out for each other, help each other.”

  Court did not respond.

  Russ said, “Anyway, c
all me tomorrow when you’re clear. We’ll talk about details. You owe me that.”

  Court took out the paper with the phone number on it for a moment, then slid it into his fleece. “Fair enough.”

  Whitlock eyed Gentry’s face long and hard. Looking for any signs of deception. He smiled a little, then stuck out his hand, and Court shook it.

  Both men were back out in the snow a few minutes later, separating in the dark, running away from a dawn and a manhunt that was only just beginning.

  EIGHTEEN

  Mossad targeting officer Ruth Ettinger turned away from the path in front of her and leaned her face close to the face of the man sitting next to her on the park bench. He moved in as well, and their lips closed to within a half-inch separation. She shut her eyes and brushed her lips against his playfully, and they kissed, lovers accustomed to each other’s every move and every thought. Her tongue reached out and brushed the inside of his mouth before she pulled away an inch, slid her fingers into the hair behind his neck, and opened her eyes with a soft smile.

  The man kissed her back and then smiled at her. “Ruth, my darling. Have I told you that you are getting fat?”

  She smiled at this, kissed his mouth again, and spoke with his lips so close to hers he felt the warm breath of each syllable. “The new parabolic mics only have a three-band equalizer. I’m going to call technology to see if we can switch out the EQs on the new mics for the old five-channel ones. We’ll get better midrange vocals at distance that way.”

  They kissed again. Embraced lovingly through the thickness of their down ski jackets. The man said, “Would it kill you to take a shower once in a while? You smell like a goat.”

  And to this she replied, “If Technology won’t let us use the five-channel EQ, I’ll see if there is something we can do in the software to boost midrange. That might help us during replay, but it won’t do anything in real time to isolate vocals from background noise.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty.”

  Smiling the smiles of lovers who’d suddenly realized the extent of their public display of affection, they both sat back straight on the park bench, and Ruth grabbed the bag of warm honey cashews she’d bought at the Nuts4Nuts cart next to the ice-skating rink. She popped a cashew into her mouth and offered the bag to Aron, her younger lover, or at least the twenty-eight-year-old man posing as her lover for today’s surveillance in Central Park.