Dead Eye (35 page)

It was clear to her she would be pulled out of action, and Mossad would do nothing at all about the real threat to Ehud Kalb.

As she sat there in the shopping mall, she decided she would take one more proactive step before standing down. She called Leland Babbitt at Townsend Government Services. Babbitt took the call immediately and immediately asked where she was calling from.

She suspected he knew she was following Gentry, but she did not admit to it. Instead of answering the question, she said, “Mr. Babbitt, I’ve determined the threat against Ehud Kalb to be real, but Court Gentry is not the would-be assassin.”

“Explain.”

“There is another man out there. He took the contract from the Iranians by claiming to be the Gray Man. He killed the film director in Nice, I think, to establish his bona fides.”

“Wow. That’s a hell of a story. Who is this guy?”

“His name is Russell Whitlock.”

Leland Babbitt did not respond.

Ruth said, coolly, “I gather he is an employee of yours.”

“Where did you come by this information?”

“From Court Gentry himself.”

There was a long pause with a few stumbling starts, until finally Babbitt seemed to take control of his words. “You met with the Gray Man and he told you another operator was the real problem.” Clearly he was shocked by the news she’d just delivered, and although he was trying to show that he was not buying it for a second, he was obviously on shaky ground.

Ruth said, “Gentry was not in Nice. That is certain.”

“Certain how?”

“I saw him in Stockholm the morning of the Nice assassination.”

“You saw Gentry yesterday morning?”

“Correct.”

“When you were liaising with Jumper? That information would have been useful.”

“You are missing the point. Your employee is the real threat, not Court Gentry.”

Babbitt did not respond.

“Are you there?”

It took her almost a minute to realize that Babbitt had hung up on her.

FORTY-SIX

For the second time today Russ Whitlock stood in a border patrol checkpoint with his Townsend-issued passport in hand. Brussels, Belgium, was a member of the Shengen Area, but since the United Kingdom was not, he had to shuffle through the line and get his passport glanced at and scanned by a border officer who would certainly be targeting a much different demographic than the thirty-four-year-old American businessman.

Virtually all the passengers on his BA flight had been British citizens, and the control process seemed to be moving along quickly and smoothly. Russ made his way to the booth and handed his passport over with a tired smile, the polite boredom of a jet-setting businessman who crossed immigration lines with such mind-numbing regularity that he could do no more than affect this gentle pleasantry.

Russ had done this a thousand times before. His papers were so good and his training so complete that he let his mind wander, thinking about taking a long hot shower in the hotel, spending some time cleaning up his excruciating hip wound, and then ordering a four-course room service meal along with a bottle of champagne.

The Belgian policeman looked at the passport and ran it through a scanner. He compared the face on the photograph with Russ’s face, and Russ smiled at him once again.

The policeman looked down at his screen and then did a quick double take. He slowly held up a finger, asking Russ to wait just a moment.

Then he reached for the phone on his desk, and Russ’s dreams of showers and champagne evaporated in an instant.

Two plainclothesmen appeared at Whitlock’s shoulder just seconds later. They were young and fit, and they wore zip-up hoodies and blue jeans. Each man also wore an earpiece in his right ear. Instantly Russ pegged them as cops. “Mr. Morris,” one said in a Flemish accent, “would you please come with us for one moment?”

“Why?” Russ asked, concerned, but still very much in his cover. He was, ostensibly, a businessman from Ohio, and an Ohio businessman would be naturally bemused at being taken out of the immigration line by two men in civilian clothing.

“Just come along, and we’ll straighten it out.”

Whitlock walked along with his briefcase in his hand. Neither of the two men touched him, but they moved close enough to him to where it was clear they were ready if he decided to try something stupid.

Two uniformed policemen stood in the hallway with radios in their hands. One of the men asked for Whitlock’s briefcase, and he handed it over. The five of them then continued farther up the hallway.

As they walked up the hallway it hit Whitlock like a battering ram.

Babbitt. He almost said it aloud. Lee Babbitt had done this. He’d flagged Whitlock’s passport.

That son of a bitch.
The rage inside him was so complete that his hands balled into fists, his jaw clenched, and he had to fight the urge to kill the four men around him. He thought about bashing all four men’s heads in, taking a pistol from one of them, and shooting his way out of the airport.

But he just kept walking, kept affecting the mannerisms of a confused and offended business traveler.

They took him into a holding room, patted him down, and relieved him of his phone and wallet and other personal items. One man told him there was a small issue with his passport. The door clicked closed and he sat in a plastic chair at a little desk, and as angry as he was, he remained in character because a camera high in the corner watched his every move.

Court had spent most of the past half hour since leaving Ruth trying to get in touch with Russ Whitlock. For some reason the man who had been doing his best to communicate with Court for the past week had suddenly found something better to do than answer a phone call from him.

Court did not leave a message; instead he threw his phone back in his pack and began an SDR near the banks of the Øresund Strait. He was reasonably certain no one was on his tail, but he was less certain how he would be getting out of this town.

He’d decided against going back to the train station. For all he knew Ruth was still there, and for all he knew Mossad operatives had descended on her. He considered jumping on a bus, but he’d seen more police at the terminal than he felt like dealing with.

So he’d come here, to the marina. He was looking for a boat he could rent to take him across the strait into Denmark. Once he made it across the water, he’d have easy access to the European mainland via a bridge west of Copenhagen.

But so far he’d not found a boat with a crew. Everyone seemed to be either out on the water or at home, sheltered from the frigid air.

As he watched the marina from across the street, his phone buzzed in his backpack. He put in his wired earphones and kept walking, continuing on his SDR, while he answered. “Yeah?”

“It’s Ruth.”

“I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“I want to talk to you again. In person.”

“Why?”

“Name a place. I’ll be there. You can watch me to make sure I haven’t been followed.”

Court sighed. His first thought was to tell her thanks but no thanks, but he agreed to her request. She was clearly in a desperate situation, and any help he could give the Mossad right now could have the dual benefit to him of both getting them off his ass and getting them to target Whitlock.

They met minutes later in a snow-covered park next to the town library. Court had his eyes peeled for threats, but the only people he saw were standing around a pickup hockey game a hundred yards away, along with a few kids walking home from school along the sidewalk by the road.

Ruth asked, “Did you talk to Whitlock?”

“He didn’t answer.”

“Shit. Will you keep trying?”

“Yes.”

“I spoke with my boss,” she said.

“And?”

“He doesn’t believe a word you are saying.”

“Figured as much. I can’t help you with that.” Court said, “I suggest you try to get the Iranians to cancel the contract publicly. You can tell them you know they are involved, scare them away with the threat of war if it is successful.”

Ruth smiled at Court’s naïveté. “We’ve done that already. We approached Iran directly and told them we know they contracted the Gray Man to kill Kalb. We told them their plan to kill our PM with no comebacks to them has failed, and we will bomb them into the Stone Age if a hair on his head is disturbed.”

Court said the next line with a tone that made clear he was being sarcastic. “So, that’s that, then.”

“Not exactly. The Iranians gave us the song and dance we expected. They have no idea what we’re talking about and this is a misinformation campaign by us that we plan to use to justify war.”

“And?”

“And, we at Mossad have come to the conclusion that they will honor the contract. When Kalb is killed they will say they had nothing to do with it. They will blame us. They will blame the USA. The assassin, after all, is American. This is the perfect Zionist plot. It will be believed in 100 percent of the Middle East, 80 percent of Europe, and 50 percent of the U.S. Shit,” Ruth said, “many in Israel will have suspicions about Mossad; it would not stretch the credulity of some on the left to think this was a Mossad operation to kill Kalb and set off a war to benefit the military-industrial complex or something ridiculous like that.”

“You could still bomb them into the Stone Age,” Court said.

“If they kill Kalb we will do just that, I’m sure. But that’s not my focus. My focus is on making sure Kalb doesn’t get killed.”

Court said, “My focus is making sure
I
don’t get killed. So I’ll be off now.” He offered his hand.

She did not reach for it. “I need you to stay in this. You and I are the only chance the PM has at survival.”

“You told me you’ve been recalled to Tel Aviv.”

“I’m not going to Tel Aviv. I’m going to Brussels. I want you to go with me. If we stop Whitlock, it will clear your name. That must have
some
value to you.”

“Not much. I’ve been blamed for so much shit I didn’t do, getting one more dead guy pinned on me doesn’t faze me in the least.”

She shook her head. “I don’t believe that for a second. You don’t want Metsada after you if you can avoid it.”

“Why would they come after me? You are going to tell them Whitlock killed your man, he killed Zarini, and he’s targeting Kalb. You have to tell them this to get them to act against Whitlock before it’s too late.”

“I can pin Mike’s death on you.”

Court looked at her. “You’d do that?”

Ruth said, “I will if I have to. I need your help. I am prepared to do whatever I have to do to get it.”

Court stared her down. Angry at her for using him, but not surprised. He said, “That was the stick. From my experience, normally there is a carrot thrown in, as well.”

She nodded. “If you help us, I can pull out all the stops. You will earn the respect of my organization, and we will leverage this to influence CIA. Maybe we can have them—”

Gentry lunged at her. She recoiled with the rapid movement.

“Don’t!” he shouted. “Don’t say it! I don’t want to hear how you can make all my problems go away if I just play ball. I’ve heard that bullshit for years by those who either were double-crossing me at the time or else turned their back on me later.”

She held a hand up. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I can’t do a damn thing about your situation with CIA.” She reached out, putting her hand on his shoulder now. “But, Court, from your file, I know you have spent the past five years making nothing but enemies. In the next twenty-four hours you could make yourself a valuable friend. You do this for Israel, and it
will
be noticed. It
will
be appreciated.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“In my work as a targeting officer for Mossad, my action arm has always been Metsada. I find and fix, and they finish. I don’t have them now.”

“But you have me.”

She smiled. “I hope so.”

That was it, then. She had him, and she knew it. If there was any chance at all he could rid himself and the Israelis of Russell Whitlock, he had to try.

“All right. I’ll help you.”

“Thank you.”

Court said, “The first thing we need to do is get out of here before your people come. You are going to have to do things my way. I need you to dump your phones or any other means Mossad has to track you.”

“Right.” She reached into her coat and took out her phone and disabled it, then reached into her purse and took out Mike Dillman’s phone and took it apart as well. She said, “I’m usually the one hoping the person I’m tracking doesn’t take countermeasures. First time I’ve been on the run myself.”

“Takes some getting used to,” Court acknowledged.

“What next?”

Court said, “We find a boat.”

Court walked down the length of the dock at the marina, focusing his attention on a thirty-five-foot yacht that bobbed in its slip. Ruth lagged behind him, but she made no attempt to hide herself. The boat itself was no better or worse than any of the other hundred-plus watercraft here, but this particular vessel was the only one that had anyone visible topside, and it was obviously about to set sail, so Gentry made a beeline to it before he lost his chance.

He called out to the man on board. “Nice yacht. Do you speak English?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “It’s been up here for repairs, and I’m taking her back to Copenhagen.”

“What’s that, about an hour?”

“That’s right. A little less.”

Court said, “Are you the captain?”

The man climbed down the boarding ramp. “Yes. May I help you?” He showed no hint of suspicion in his words or actions.

“How would you like to make one thousand euros?”

That
got his attention. He smiled, bemused. “To do
what
?”

“We need to go to Germany. Now. If you take me over the Baltic and drop us off, you can get this back to Copenhagen just a few hours late.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not a water taxi.”

“Two thousand euros.”

He seemed to think about it a moment, then repeated himself. “I’m not a water taxi. Are you in some trouble?”

“Not at all,” Court said, keeping a straight face. “My friend hates to fly, and we’ve got the money.”

The captain wasn’t buying it. “There’s a Scandlines ferry that makes the crossing. It’s twenty-five euros each. Not two thousand.”

Court adopted an embarrassed posture. “I’ve been banned for life on the ferry. Got a little drunk after a stag party. You know how it is.”

The man looked at Gentry a long time. He clearly did not know how it was. Still, he named his price to play along. “Three thousand.”

“If I give you three thousand, you wouldn’t be a water taxi. You would be a water limo.” Court nodded. “We leave right now.”

“You are welcome aboard,” said the captain, and Court waved Ruth over.