The building was crawling with police, and they were alert but clearly not certain who they were looking for. Surely the hotel desk clerk would have given Gentry’s description to them, but Court was the Gray Man; the clerk would have forgotten more than she remembered. The police would also be looking for Dead Eye, Court knew, and that potentially could present a problem, as he and Court were both American and similar in appearance, and Court did not know the other man’s level of tradecraft. But, he decided, Dead Eye would not have been able to survive as a solo NOC for long if he walked the earth leaving a memorable impression.
The cops had their eyes open, Gentry could see this plain enough, but Court himself spotted a hundred or more brown-haired men in their thirties walking around the busy terminal, all of whom fit every bit of the description the hotel would have to give.
Back outside, Court exchanged three hundred-euro bills for the ticket to Stockholm in the name of Ardo Tubool.
The entire transaction had been done with an air of friendliness, but when the two men shook hands at the end of the deal, Gentry darkened.
“I will ask for one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Your discretion. I have friends here in Tallinn who will know if I made it safely to Stockholm, Ardo.”
“So?”
“So nothing. I will not worry about you telling anyone of our transaction, and you will not worry about my friends.”
Court had met hundreds of men like Ardo in his career, and he knew guys like this weren’t the type to go running off to the authorities to rat out others. They had enough problems with the cops without seeking them out. But Court also knew it was likely Ardo Tubool would learn just as soon as he got back into the city that early that same morning groups of foreigners — Westerners, all would say — had shot it out with each other. If Court had not left behind a little encouragement for the man to keep his mouth shut, he might have been tempted to mention his transaction with the Russian-speaking foreigner who left on the ferry to Stockholm.
It was a calculated risk Court was taking, but he saw it as his best option to get far away quickly and efficiently.
Minutes later Court stood in line on the second floor of the ferry terminal, passed his ticket through an automated turnstile, and boarded the ship for a twelve-hour passage to Stockholm.
No one asked for his passport, no one asked to see his ticket, no one spoke to him at all.
He bought coffee and bottled water and plastic-wrapped and plastic-tasting sausages from a vending machine next to the piano bar on the boat, and he went outside on the deck. He sat down on a bench, bundled tightly in his coat and hat and scarf and gloves, and he looked out into the vast darkness of the Baltic Sea as the ship left Estonia, heading west.
Russ ate a simple meal at a restaurant around the corner from the inn in Paldiski, keeping his Bluetooth set in his ear the entire time. He was anxiously awaiting Gentry’s call, but it did not come during dinner, so he returned to his room, changed his bandages once again, and sat at the desk with the bottle of vodka in front of him as the hours ticked away.
Whitlock looked down to his watch again. Midnight. Gentry should have called by now, but he had not.
He realized Gentry would not be calling. Not today, anyway.
Dead Eye gritted his teeth.
He felt the anger boil in him, but he stopped himself from giving in to the rage. He knew the Gray Man would do things in his own way, on his own schedule.
Russ smiled a little at the irony of his frustration. He felt the way Lee Babbitt must have felt every time Russ himself failed to report in on schedule.
This was karma, biting him back for his own misbehavior.
Russ knew he should have expected this. In the scheme of things it was just a tiny bump in the road. He knew the Gray Man would get in touch with him. Not because he really wanted to work with him in the future. No, Whitlock had no illusions about Gentry signing on to that ridiculous idea, but rather because there was no way in hell Gentry could pass up the bait Russ had set out the night before. The offer to help him avoid the Townsend hunt.
Russ swigged vodka from the bottle, then opened the little window by the desk. An icy wind whipped into the room as he poured the remnants of the alcohol onto the parking lot below, and then he tossed the bottle into a snow-covered bush by the window.
Russ was pissed, but he would shake it off. Trusting Gentry to happily bounce along to the next stage of Russ’s scheme like a bunny rabbit hopping to a head of cabbage had been foolish of him. He saw this plain as day now. But he would not let the anger take over him.
He blew out a long, controlled exhalation. “All right, Court, you piece of shit. We’ll have to do this your way, but we’re damn well still gonna do it.”
He stood from the table, grimacing along with the throbbing sting in his hip, grabbed his bag, and headed out the door.
There was no sense waiting around in this shit hole. He’d get on a train and head south for Vilnius, Lithuania.
Russ had a plane to catch there tomorrow, and, he decided, he might as well get moving.
TWENTY
Two black Lincoln Navigator SUVs pulled into the gates of Townsend House and negotiated the winding drive through the cherry trees up to the parking circle. Leland Babbitt and Jeff Parks stood on the expansive front porch, both men dressed in dark blue suits, their lapels and their hairstyles blowing gently in the cold morning breeze.
The SUVs parked in the parking circle in front of the main house and five dark-suited men climbed out; their jackets hung open and the wind exposed the FN P90 submachine guns hanging at their underarms. The grips of SIG pistols on their hips were even less well concealed. Four of them took up positions in the drive, and the fifth man opened the back door of the rear SUV.
Another man climbed out now. He was tall and thin and older than the others, his suit was gray, and he carried no obvious weapon. His face showed little expression as he regarded the two men at the front door, but he walked up to them, flanked by his security detail.
“Good morning, Denny,” Babbitt said as he extended his hand.
Denny Carmichael, Director of National Clandestine Service for the Central Intelligence Agency, shook both men’s hands without replying, and within moments the three of them, surrounded by Carmichael’s security entourage, entered Townsend House’s opulent ground-floor conference room. Two large Frederick Remingtons were displayed adjacent to a huge showcase of Civil War — era weaponry. Perfectly maintained Whitworth and Enfield muzzle-loaded rifles hung above Henrys and Burnsides and Spencers. All the firearms were surrounded in the glass case by edged weapons of the period, each polished to a mirror finish and appearing as sharp and as ready for action today as they had been one hundred fifty years ago when they were wielded in battle.
Coffee was poured and pastries were offered by Townsend canteen workers, but Denny Carmichael himself waved the Townsend staff out the door along with his close-protection detail.
As everyone but the executives filed out of the conference room, Babbitt and Parks sat down across from their guest. Babbitt said, “Heard your daughter is expecting. Congratulations.”
To this Carmichael replied, “This morning’s meeting will be brief, and it will stay on theme. What, in God’s name, happened in Estonia?”
Babbitt kept his chin up and his voice strong as he spoke. “Resistance from the target. We expected him to mount a robust defense. He is, after all, the Gray Man. But our direct action team was, nevertheless, disabled. We lost a lot of good men.”