Alain ID’d the man they just killed. “It’s zee Nigerian.”
“Merde,” said Serge, and he depressed the button on his walkie-talkie just as the grenade on the floor by the dead man’s body exploded.
Lloyd and the Tech both jumped at the sound of the hand grenade two floors directly below them. The noise came not from the raging gunfight in the foyer but instead back towards the rear of the building. The sound also came through the speakers of their radios. Kurt Riegel chanced a quick look out the window again. He saw the black Eurocopter drift in and out of the morning mist as it flew off to the south. Below, near the marble fountain in the garden, two men moved low in a crouch. They were black, small, they carried machine pistols, and they wore black ski jackets.
“The kill squad from Botswana has arrived, or maybe these are the Liberians.” Riegel said it to the room without emotion.
“It’s a virtual United Nations of assholes around here,” said Lloyd from behind.
The German watched the two Africans as they crossed the grass towards the steps up to the back door. He did not shoot at them. With the Gray Man in the building, Kurt felt there was a better chance these Botswanans would be more help than hindrance.
Riegel said, “Let’s barricade this room. The three of us will have to hold everyone off until the helicopter arrives from Paris.”
“Even if I survive this, you are going to kill me, aren’t you?” Lloyd asked.
Riegel answered as he slipped his pistol back into its shoulder holster underneath his jacket. “Gentry was right; you’ve got more to worry about than me right now. Come and help me.” He lifted a chair to put it in front of the door to the spiral staircase.
“Be that as it may,” said Lloyd, “I prefer dealing with any threat at the most advantageous opportunity.”
Riegel’s back was to Lloyd. He stopped, put the chair down, squared his shoulders, and turned slowly. The American attorney’s silver automatic was leveled at Kurt’s chest. They were twenty feet apart.
“Put down that damn gun. Come on, man! We don’t have time for this. There will be time enough for the af termath of the operation after we get out of here.”
The Tech sat at the desk and watched the two men intently. He said not a word.
Lloyd said, “I could’ve had the bastard. I could’ve saved the contract. Your operation failed, not mine.”
“If you say so, Lloyd.”
“No… I want you to say so. Take out your phone slowly. Call Mr. Laurent and tell him your plan was fucked up. Take responsibility for this.”
“And then you will shoot me? Think, Lloyd! He’ll know I was speaking under duress.” For the first time, they heard gunshots on the third floor, far down the corridor from their position. “We need to seal off the room now! We’ll talk after that.”
“Take out your phone. Make the call. No tricks.”
Kurt sighed and slowly reached into his jacket with his right hand. His eyes narrowed on Lloyd. Instead of the phone, Riegel put his hand around the butt of his Steyr. As he began to draw the gun from its concealment, prepared to dive to the side to duck the lawyer’s inevitable gunfire, he noticed Lloyd’s eyes had turned away from him and focused on something behind. Kurt took the opportunity to pull the Steyr, and he leveled it at the American’s chest. Just as he was about to fire at the distracted Lloyd, a voice called out from behind.
“Did I come at a bad time?”
THIRTY-FIVE
“You’re bleeding bad, Court,” said Lloyd. His pistol remained pointed at Riegel, his back remained to the open doorway to the third-floor corridor, but his eyes were on the bloody man in the tactical gear. The Gray Man had appeared silently through the door from the spiral staircase, and while Lloyd had been fixated on Kurt’s hand inside his jacket, Gentry had gotten the drop on him. He held a squat, evil-looking submachine gun at eye level, its barrel centered on Lloyd’s chest.
“Drop the gun,” said Gentry.
“Who are you speaking to?” asked Kurt, his back to the Gray Man. To see Gentry, he would have to take his eyes off of Lloyd, and he was not about to do that.
Court replied, “If you have a gun in your hand, asshole, then I’m speaking to you.”
Lloyd said, “You aren’t going to make it much longer, Court, old buddy. Your face is white. You’re weak. Your blood is staining the floor.”
“I’ll live long enough to kick your ass. Drop your weapons. You, at the table. Stand up slowly.”
The Tech was the first to do as he was told. He stood with his hands high over his head, shaking from fear.
Lloyd began lowering his pistol. Kurt Riegel followed suit. The German turned his eyes from Lloyd to look at the Tech for an instant.
And in that instant, Lloyd put a bullet through Kurt Riegel’s chest.
The big German grabbed the wound and then fell to his side. The Steyr bounced away on the hardwood floor.
The Tech screamed in fear.
The Gray Man fired a burst at Lloyd as he disappeared through the doorway to the hall.
Court fought a dizzy spell, an inevitable consequence of his dropping blood pressure. He wobbled on his knees, and his eyes glazed over. His brain seemed to reboot, and when his head cleared, he realized he’d lowered the MP5 to his side. Quickly he raised it at the man with the ponytail and the headphones who stood by the desk with the computers. The man had not moved a muscle apart from the quivering in his shaking hands over his head. Gentry realized he could have been knocked down with a feather there for a few seconds. He was glad the man in the ponytail was too terrified to try it.
“Who are you?” Court asked.
“Just… just a technician, sir. I run the comms and whatnot. I have no quarrel with you.”
“At least you didn’t try to tell me you’re the butler.”
“Sir?”
Court crossed the room to the man. On the way, he kept his weapon trained on the open door to the corridor, and he kicked the Steyr pistol farther away from Riegel’s body as he passed. On the Tech’s desk Court found the classified SAD files. “Is this everything?”
“As far as I know, sir.”
“No backups? No copies?”
“I don’t believe so.”
Court scooped them up and tossed them into the fireplace. He ordered the Tech to set them alight.
Once the files began to burn, the Gray Man turned the technician around and pushed him back down to his seat, facing the equipment in front of him. “You’re the one who communicates with the men hunting me?”
“Oh, no, sir! Not me! I just maintain the elect—”
“Then I guess I don’t need your ass, do I?”
The Tech began nodding quickly. Changed his tune in a single note. “Yes, sir! I am in charge of all communication and coordination between the pavement artists and the government operatives.”
“Good. Call them all. Tell them I just jumped out the window, and I’m escaping through the orchard in the back.”
“Right, away, sir.” The Tech’s hands shook mightily as he flipped switches on his radio console to bring up every radio channel at the same time. “All elements, this is the Tech. Subject has exfiltrated the château. He’s moving to the north, through the orchard on foot.”
“Well done. Now, take off your belt.”
The Tech did as he was told quickly and offered it to the Gray Man.
“Bite down on it hard.”
“Sir?”
“Do it!”
Wide-eyed, the Tech put his belt in his mouth.
“You biting down?” asked Gentry.
The Tech nodded.
“Good.” Court smashed his rifle’s butt into the man’s temple. The Tech started to fall from his chair, but Gentry caught his unconscious head and laid it facedown on the table in front of him. Gentry then fired a full magazine into the computers and radios on the desk.