“I’m not coming back to the States. I’m going after Gentry.”
“Negative, Russell. I can’t have you getting picked up right now. Listen, we’ve got brand-new facial recognition suites running on our servers, taking in every camera within a hundred klicks of Tallinn. We’ve sent advanced microdrones to the UAV team so they can hunt him in urban environments. We’ll widen the search if we don’t get a ping by midnight local time there. I want you to stand down, at least for a couple of days.”
Russ knew it was useless to fight. “Fine. But I want any intel you have pushed to me immediately.”
“Agreed.”
“And Lee, I’ll take a couple of days to stay below radar, but I’m not standing down for long. It’s in your best interests to have me involved. Your UAV guys and your direct action assets don’t know Gentry like I do.”
“I understand. Just get somewhere safe and tend to your injury. We’ll work on locating him in the meantime.”
Russ said, “Dead Eye is out.”
Lee Babbitt put the phone down, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. What a fucking disaster. Of course he was annoyed with Dead Eye for taking his time in checking in, but more than anything he was relieved his solo asset was still alive. And he sure as hell wasn’t mad at him for what happened in Tallinn. On the contrary, as far as Babbitt was concerned, that freak Russ Whitlock was the only Townsend employee who’d done his fucking job.
He knew the next days and weeks were going to be a clusterfuck dealing with all the fallout from the Tallinn op. CIA would step in; they would smooth things over with the Estonians, but they would not do it without taking a pound of flesh from Babbitt for Townsend’s failure.
But he could not worry about that now. He had to find Gentry and put him in the dirt before he could concentrate on anything else. He knew he couldn’t let his injured, insubordinate, and half-crazy solo operator continue the search now while all of European law enforcement was aware of what had happened in Tallinn.
He also knew if Townsend’s signal room continued to push intel to Russ, then Russ would continue to act on that intel. Babbitt decided he would tell his people to stop sending information to the singleton’s phone. If they were lucky enough to have a sighting of Gentry in the next couple days, he couldn’t risk having Dead Eye rush to the scene and get himself picked up in the process.
Lee ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his eyes. What a fucking disaster.
NINETEEN
Court Gentry stood outside the Tallink Ferry terminal building at five P.M. It was dark outside the huge terminal except for the lights from passing cars on the street and moored boats in the harbor, but Court didn’t mind the dimness — he used it to disappear in a corner by the front wall. He had changed every scrap of his clothing, shaved off his scruffy beard, and approached the area in a cab from across town to avoid walking the streets that he and others had thoroughly shot up early that morning.
Still, he was closer to the location of the action than he would like. He’d reluctantly dumped his pistol in the bay just a half hour earlier. He knew he couldn’t run the risk of being caught with the gun, but he knew he was in danger here, back in the city center. Just as he climbed out of his cab a government Lynx helicopter landed up the hill near the Old Town, no doubt delivering investigators or government officials or someone else who needed to see the site for himself or herself. Even now, some thirteen hours after the action, the crime scene would be intact, although the bodies had probably been bagged and carted off to the morgue. Court had no idea how many had died during the action, but figured it must have been at least four or five.
He checked his watch, worrying that he might have cut it too close and arrived too late for his plan. But these fears were unfounded as the first gaggle of ferry passengers poured from the front door of the terminal, having just disembarked from the incoming ferry from Stockholm.
Soon it turned into a steady stream, hundreds of people, all rolling out their luggage, moving alone or with family in tow, heading into taxis and buses or just walking off through the heavy snow on the ground into the evening.
Court waited for just the right man.
There. A young man who looked Estonian rolled a cart through the terminal door. The cart was empty, and the man also wore a large backpack.
It was common for entrepreneurial Estonians to buy items in their home country, sometimes even duty-free items in the ferry terminal itself, and then cart them to Stockholm, where the goods would sell for a higher price. This man appeared to be one of these ferry traders, and Court decided he would suit his needs perfectly.
He followed the man along the street, but only until he had broken out of the scrum of people leaving the terminal.
In the parking lot of a Statoil service station Court caught up with him and walked alongside. In Russian he said, “Pardon me, do you speak Russian?”
The man stopped. Nodded. His eyes flitted around; he was definitely on guard, but not afraid. These traders, Court knew, often bought and sold other items, things of a contraband nature, so these types were at once looking to make a score from a stranger and watchful for cops or thugs out to steal their money or beat them off their turf.
Court affected a nonthreatening voice and posture to put the man at ease. He knew his time was short, so he didn’t want to hang out in this parking lot any longer than necessary. “I am a friend,” Court said. “I need something, and I am willing to pay for it.”
“What do you need?”
“I need a ticket to Stockholm on tonight’s crossing.”
The man looked at him a long time and then began walking again. He saw no money in this conversation. “So go buy one.”
Court walked along with him, kicking heavy powdery snow with his shoes as he trudged. “That is the problem, of course. I have lost my passport.”
The man stopped again. “Then you aren’t going to Stockholm. You need a passport to buy a ticket.”
“Yes, but I don’t need my passport if you buy me a ticket. I will pay you two hundred euros.”
The Estonian looked left and right, then back to Court. “Two hundred euros, just to walk back to the terminal and buy you a ticket.”
“Yes.”
“How will a ticket in my name help you?”
“They don’t check passports at the turnstiles. Only at time of purchase.”
The Estonian thought about this himself and nodded thoughtfully. “And there is no control in Stockholm, either.”
Gentry smiled. “You see?” It was clear to Court the man did see, and he was already scheming on ways to use this idea to make money from others in the future.
Then he hesitated. “If you are caught. If you do anything to—”
“I destroy your ticket as soon as I get on board. I don’t even go to the berth you reserve. Once I am on the boat, I disappear until Stockholm. If something happens to me, you are not connected.”
The man thought this over, and Court knew the man was going to up his fee.
“Four hundred.”
“Three hundred.” Gentry pulled out the exact fare amount without showing the man any more money. “This is for the ticket; I pay your fee when you return. And we must go now, and hurry, because the ferry leaves in thirty minutes. If I am not on it, you do not get paid.”
The man agreed; Court followed him back to the ferry terminal, even offering to push the man’s cart, and he stood in the hall behind him as the man bought the ticket.