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D
enny Carmichael climbed aboard a Bell JetRanger that was already spinning up in the parking lot at the CIA’s McLean campus.

DeRenzi was with him, for this leg of the movement, anyway. He threw an understandable fit when Carmichael told him he would run a surveillance detection route and then continue on to a meeting alone, but it wasn’t DeRenzi’s job to tell Director Carmichael what he could and couldn’t do, so the close protection officer just made sure the director of National Clandestine Service was wearing his .45 caliber HK semiautomatic pistol in his shoulder holster like he normally did. CIA officers virtually never carried firearms, but Denny had always been a different sort of animal from every other CIA officer around, and he often strapped a sidearm during movements, even in the States.

The JetRanger landed at Washington Executive Airport in Prince Georges County just fifteen minutes after it took off, and there Denny left DeRenzi in the helo and climbed into a beige Toyota Highlander that another CIA employee had positioned in the parking lot with the keys under the mat. He drove out of the airport grounds and into late-morning traffic, heading north on the 210 back towards D.C. He kept his eyes in his rearview and he turned east on I-95, and only after he was sure there was no one on his tail did he get off the freeway and head back west. He took the Woodrow Wilson Bridge over the Potomac into Alexandria, Virginia, and there he spent twenty minutes driving through the narrow streets of the Old Town section on a surveillance detection route.

After fifty minutes in the vehicle he parked on King Street and continued his SDR on foot. He meandered through the neighborhood for thirty minutes, wandering into gift shops and antique stores, heading down side streets and then back up again on the other side. At twelve fifteen he stepped
into a sandwich shop and ordered a pastrami on rye. Eating his lunch at a counter by the window, he kept his eyes out on the street, all the while searching for anyone who might be following him.

His trained eyes saw nothing out of the ordinary, so at twelve thirty he threw the remainder of his sandwich away, headed north on King Street, and then ducked into the courtyard in front of the Kimpton Lorien Hotel.

Once in the lobby he walked straight to the counter and asked for a suite for one night with an early check-in. He used a credit card from a cover identity he kept ready and the woman behind the counter gave him the card key to his fourth-floor suite. He stepped around to the bank of elevators behind the check-in desk, and while he did so a distinguished-looking man stepped out of the men’s room and walked over to the elevator bank to wait alongside him.

The two men stood in silence as the car delivered them to the fourth floor. There Denny walked down the hall to his suite, and the other man followed. No words were exchanged.

They entered the suite together and Denny shut the door.

The man who shadowed him in was in his early fifties, lean and handsome in his gray pinstripe suit. Olive-skinned and delicately featured, he had a kind, gentle bearing about him, in sharp contrast to the stern manner of Denny Carmichael.

Only when the door was shut behind the two men did the olive-complected man offer a handshake to the American.

He spoke perfect English with only a slight accent. “Nice to see you, Denny.”

“Hello, Kaz.”

Carmichael turned away, took a cell phone–sized device out of his pocket, and turned it on. He headed to the center of the room and placed it on a coffee table. It was a radio frequency signal jammer, designed to block the transmissions given off by eavesdropping devices.

While he did this Kaz took off his suit coat and hung it over a chair, and then he moved to the sofa. There he sat calmly and watched Denny adjust the instrument.

Kaz was not his name, but Denny had called him this for fifteen years, because Kaz was easier to say than Murquin al-Kazaz. He was now chief of station here in the United States for Riasat Al-Istikhbarat Al-Amah, the
intelligence agency of Saudi Arabia, but the two had known each other since back when Kaz was a lowly operative in Saudi intel.

The Saudi smiled while watching Denny. “Clandestine meetings in hotel rooms. This feels like the good old days, my friend.”

Carmichael replied brusquely, “Don’t romanticize the past. It wasn’t any better than the present.” While talking Denny pulled out his mobile phone and slipped an earpiece in his ear.

“We were younger, at least. I romanticize my youth, regardless of how I might have misspent it.”

Denny tried to send music from his phone to his earpiece, but he couldn’t get a signal to go through. Satisfied that his jammer was operational, he pulled the earpiece out of his ear and slipped it, with his phone, back into his coat.

Kaz said, “You must have gone to some trouble to come and see me like this on a Sunday afternoon. Tell me, what is it that could not have been handled through a secure phone call?”

Denny ignored him for the moment, took his time to turn on the TV in the adjoining bedroom, then returned to the living area and turned on the flat screen there. The televisions were set to different stations. An action movie in the bedroom and a news interview program in the living area blanketed the entire suite with conflicting sounds.

Denny sat down on the sofa, close to Kaz, and he spoke softly. “A wayward asset has returned to the United States. To Washington, in fact.”

“One of yours, or one of mine?”

“Used to be one of mine.”

“Code name Violator, perhaps?”

Carmichael looked carefully at Kaz’s face, struggling to see any hint the Saudi knew this information already. “That is correct.”

Kaz looked neither surprised nor unsurprised. His face was a cipher, betraying nothing but pleasant calm. He said, “A bold move on his part. I am sure this is troublesome for you, but I hope you see this as an opportunity. He has been out in the four winds of this earth for some time, and now he is here, on your turf.”

“D.C. is not my turf.”

Kaz raised his eyebrows. “By saying that, you mean to say . . . it’s
my
turf.”

“That’s right. It’s yours.”

Al-Kazaz smiled a little. “A fact you remind me of from time to time. I don’t know why you invited me here, but if it’s a confession you want, I assure you I had no knowledge of Gentry’s movements. Perhaps you should talk to your dear friends the Israelis. Doesn’t the great Mossad know all things at all times?”

Kaz was an enemy of the Israelis—and whenever he spoke with Carmichael he never passed up an opportunity to get in digs about the United States’ good relationship with them.

In the intelligence sphere, Israel, the United States, and Saudi Arabia formed an incredibly awkward love triangle.

Carmichael said, “I’m not after a confession. I know you were not aware that Violator was here. What I need from you is action.”

“Sounds exciting,” Kaz said with a smile that appeared more than a little sarcastic.

Carmichael didn’t hide the fact he was losing patience with the flip attitude of the other man. “I don’t have time to play. We both know exactly what’s at stake here.”

“As far as I can tell the only thing at stake with the arrival of Violator”—Kaz paused; his mouth morphed into a smile—“is
you
, Denny. Surely you realize that he is here for you.”

“Whatever his intentions, I plan on terminating him. In the city. I will have other tools at my disposal for this, but I need you and your people involved, as well.”

Kaz shook his head. “Out of the question. The leadership of my nation has me quite busy at the moment. Nothing that would interest you, I can assure you of that, but I’m not in a position to retask my assets to your needs at this time.”

Denny loomed a little closer. “You and I have had a good working relationship. You give me some space for my people in the Middle East. I give you space for your people here in D.C. I want that relationship to continue.”

“As you said, it
is
a good relationship. Why on earth would it not continue?”

“If the Gentry situation isn’t handled quickly and quietly, I’ll be the one taking the fall, and I will fall hard. You think the next man in my position is going to allow the same arrangement with Saudi Arabia that I’ve
allowed?” Denny leaned closer. “No . . .
fucking 
. . . way. You’ll be expelled; your cell here doesn’t have dip immunity, so they will be rounded up and tossed into prison, if not tossed into an unmarked grave.”

Kaz said, “Threats of death and destruction? Really, Denny? Those who complain about you . . . and excuse me for saying so, but there are many . . . all say the same thing. That you don’t possess the nuance for intelligence work. I defend you, you know. But opening the conversation with an overt threat to our long-standing agreement is exactly the boorishness that others accuse you of.”

Denny said nothing, waiting the other man out.

Kaz calmed. “Look, dear friend. You are correct. Our mutual relationship is good for everyone. When our countries are friends, things are good. When you and I are friends, things are great.”

“Then help me.”

“What is it you want?”

“I want you looking for him. You and your team.”

Kaz blew out a sigh. “Who else do you have hunting him?”

“Agency and military assets. But I need more. I need your best men.”

“Sounds like a crowded playing field. That makes it dangerous for my men.”

“I can keep you aware of other entities involved in the hunt. You can vector your assets away from American assets when necessary.” Carmichael then asked, “How many men do you have working in D.C.?”

“Apologies, but that is something I would rather not say.”

“Ten,” Carmichael said. “You have ten. I want them all on this. If you want to bring others in, I can facilitate that.”

Kaz seemed reluctant, but after a few moments he acquiesced. “Professional trust and good manners are two things I don’t seek in this line of work. But you and I, Denny, we have shared interests. I will help you in this, provided you return the favor to me somehow.”

Carmichael had been expecting this. “You help us find Violator and you have my word you will have more latitude in the District. You won’t be off the leash, but I will let a little slack out of the leash so you can sniff around the yard a little more.”

Kaz nodded.

Carmichael then said, “I am sure you realize Gentry can’t be taken alive.”

Kaz reached out and patted Carmichael on the arm. “If we get to him first, he won’t be.” Kaz stood, extended a hand. “Let us work together to finally put an end to this difficult affair.”

“Excellent. You and I will deal directly. I’ll let you know what I know, as soon as I know it.”

Kaz stood and reached for his suit coat. Slipping it on, he said, “I do have some advice in the short term.”

“What advice?”

“Get off the streets. If Gentry is within ten miles of you right now, you are in peril driving yourself around.”

“My relationship with you is unsanctioned, Kaz. I can’t just roll with a detail into the Saudi Embassy.”

“Then let’s pretend it’s the old days. In Lebanon. Or in Sana’a. Or in Tunisia. You and I can play the role of young field operatives. Dead drops and coded messages.”

Carmichael wiped his eyes under his glasses. He was already fighting sleep deprivation, and he expected no real rest until Gentry was located and terminated. “Don’t be dramatic, Kaz. I’ll use the secure mobile, it’s on my person at all times. Keep yours with you.”

The Saudi shrugged. Feigning disappointment. “Very well.”

The men left separately, Carmichael first. He’d have one of his people drop by the hotel in the evening and spend the night, then check out in the morning using the hotel services screen on the television so he did not have to go to the reception desk and do it in person.

The automated world of travel made some things easier for spies.

C
armichael returned to the Highlander parked on King Street, then he began a new SDR that would lead him, eventually, to the helicopter and DeRenzi at the airport. He’d be back at Langley by three p.m., and only then would he and Mayes both breathe a long sigh of relief.

As he drove he thought of the unprecedented challenge before him: find one man in a metropolitan area of six million. Killing the Gray Man had been a top priority for the past five years, and still he had failed to accomplish it. In those same years he had directed human intelligence assets all over the globe, assassinated high-value targets in remote locations, successfully executed major intelligence operations against world powers, thwarted terrorist attacks on the homeland, and even had a hand in winning a regional war in Africa.

But Courtland
fucking
Gentry somehow managed to remain alive. He’d been a hard target for a long time, but now Carmichael was certain Gentry had miscalculated. Whatever it was he thought he would accomplish here, there would be no escape from the United States.

Not with Kaz and his men involved.

Carmichael had allowed Kaz to run a small team of operatives in D.C. for three years now. Carmichael had even helped Kaz steer clear of FBI counterintelligence schemes designed to identify and arrest foreign operatives in the U.S., alerting his Saudi colleague to sting operations. And no one knew. Not the FBI, not the director of the CIA, not even Jordan Mayes. Mayes was aware his boss had a good working relationship with the director of Saudi intelligence in the U.S., but he had no idea of the quid pro quo that existed between the two men.

It was entirely against the law, an unsanctioned relationship, but Carmichael wasn’t interested in rules; he was interested in results.

In return for this, Kaz fed Carmichael intelligence of the quantity and quality no American intelligence chief had ever been given by an Arab nation. Kaz had personally passed Denny al Qaeda bank account numbers in Dubai, names and addresses of high-value targets, recorded intercepts of suspected ISIS officers working in Iraq, and many other items the CIA would have no access to otherwise, but an intrepid Saudi could obtain through his connections in the Islamist world.

Kaz’s intelligence had not decimated the jihadists, not by any stretch of the imagination. AQ always seemed to find new avenues for funding, and ISIS found new men to put into leadership positions. But Denny was more than satisfied with the product he was getting from Kaz. That he had to keep the close affiliation under wraps was unfortunate, but Denny knew he would never in a million years receive authorization to allow foreign operatives to work freely in the USA. The closed minds of the FBI and the political minds of the White House would be horrified if they knew.

Denny understood the intel business; you had to pay to play. And he also understood what Kaz wanted. Kaz wasn’t here in the U.S. running ops against the U.S. No, he was working against his country’s enemies. Economic intelligence against other oil-producing states. Political intelligence against those of Saudi Arabia’s Middle Eastern neighbors who swam in the waters of the United Nations, the American media, and D.C.-based think tanks.

Denny had known Kaz a long time, and although he couldn’t say he trusted the man—Saudi Arabia was always looking out for the interests of Saudi Arabia, after all—Denny felt like he understood the man’s motivations. Kaz wasn’t running around America with a team of assassins knocking off congressmen. Allowing the Saudi intel chief some latitude to pursue his nation’s objectives in the United States was, as far as Denny Carmichael was concerned, a fair price to pay for what he was getting in return.

As he drove back over the Woodrow Wilson Bridge on his way to Prince Georges County airport, Denny allowed himself a moment of pride and satisfaction. He saw himself as the chess master, controlling the pieces on the board.

The moment faded as he thought about Gentry. Not because Gentry was the problem at hand. No, he thought about Gentry now, because in the fifteen years Denny Carmichael had worked closely with Murquin
al-Kazaz, there had only been one major misstep in the relationship. One time where intel from Kaz had led, for one reason or another, to an unmitigated intelligence disaster.

That time was years earlier, and the end result of that intelligence failure was now running free on the streets of America, wholly unaware of what he did to bring the full force of the U.S. intelligence community down on him like so many missiles from the sky.

—

M
urquin al-Kazaz sat quietly in the suite at the Kimpton Lorien for twenty minutes, using the time to send text messages and to clear other matters out of his inbox. Then he, too, left the suite, wiping the door latch with a handkerchief on his way out.

He was picked up on Duke Street, two blocks from the hotel. He folded into the back of a Jaguar sedan, and then he was off to his office in the center of a small motorcade of unmarked Land Rovers and Escalades.

Kaz stared out the window silently as they returned to the Royal Embassy of Saudi Arabia, just across New Hampshire from the Watergate complex. His offices were there at the embassy, taking up a large portion of one wing of the building.

Saudi Arabia had a robust intelligence apparatus here in D.C., for three main reasons. For starters, many young Saudis came to the U.S. to study, and here they learned English and the ways of America. Kaz therefore had a large selection of good intelligence officers to choose from to staff his stable in D.C.

Secondly, Saudi Arabia had an incredible amount of money. Liquid funds. Easily accessible U.S. dollars. Good intelligence work did not rely on money alone, of course, but money was an effective lubricant to all manner of espionage. Kaz had a budget of millions with which to buy equipment, rent real estate, and bribe men and women in all social strata in the U.S.

And the third reason Saudi Arabia’s intelligence service was so damn effective in the U.S. was because of the special relationship between CIA’s Clandestine Service Director Denny Carmichael and U.S. Station Chief for the Saudi General Intelligence Presidency Murquin al-Kazaz.

The secret pact between the two men stipulated that Kaz could only use his operation here in the States to target other nations, not the U.S. itself. And
Kaz was not allowed to work against any of the U.S.’s main allies. Both men understood this to mean Israel, because Denny could not very well have Kaz getting caught in the District, for example, conducting surveillance on the home of the Israeli ambassador.

Denny’s understanding of their agreement was that Kaz and his men were free to do other types of collection. They might use long-distance listening devices against the Russian consulate to learn about oil pipeline deals, they could run collection operations on other Middle Eastern embassies to obtain information on diplomatic and military affairs important to the Saudi kingdom, and they might surveil foreign nationals dangerous to Saudi interests who were here in the District to visit think tanks or speak to aid groups or conduct protest rallies.

Denny knew there was plenty for Kaz to do without conducting operations against Americans.

Until now, that was.

But despite Denny Carmichael’s understanding of the agreement, Murquin al-Kazaz had his own ideas about just what his men would do here in the U.S. He took advantage of the protective wing of America’s top spy, and he used Denny’s secret sanction to run lethal direct-action missions here in the United States. His men had killed an Israeli blogger, a prominent author who wrote books critical of U.S.-Saudi relations, and a German businessman in the defense sector who stood in the way of the Kingdom obtaining a lucrative contract for aircraft engines.

All the murders had been passed off as muggings, car jackings, automobile accidents—and Denny had not suspected a thing. He never understood that his friend and partner Murquin al-Kazaz was actually more like a fox in a henhouse.

And now Kaz was being asked by the most important man in American intelligence to devote all his energies to finding and killing a single American operative, inside the United States of America. At first blush it had nothing to do with Kaz’s overarching mission here in the States, but Kaz would do as Denny requested, because Denny Carmichael’s survival was in the interests of the kingdom of Saudi Arabia.