“It’s up to you. Whatever is fine.”
The camera flashed, and Gentry began to stand.
“A couple more, please.”
He sat back down.
“I have a name for you. Don’t know if you will like it.”
“Anything is—”
“It’s flashy. Dramatic. Mysterious.”
“Well, I don’t think I need—”
“Why don’t we call you Gray Man?”
Gentry stared blankly into the camera as it flashed in his face.
Shit.
Szabo glared at him.
Gentry began to stand.
He felt movement in his seat. He had shifted his weight to his feet, but his heels felt like they were dropping, Before he could react, his arms flew up to his sides, his borrowed coat bunched up higher on his neck, and his knees raised in front of his eyes. He was falling backwards, the plastic chair sliding back with him. The light around him vanished, and he dropped into darkness, finally landing on his side, his fall cushioned by something soft and wet.
The impact, though cushioned by padding, still knocked the wind from his lungs. Reactively he leapt to his feet, pulled the pistol from his hip, and spun in all directions to both engage any threats and get his bearings.
It was a brick-lined pit, a cistern of some sort. Looking up, he saw he’d fallen twelve feet or so from where the riser had opened up to swallow him. Before he could reach for it, the chair raised into the air, its leg held with a thin chain. It clanged back over the edge of the riser and disappeared. A Plexiglas trapdoor closed above him, sealing him into the dank container.
Slowly, Szabo leaned over the side, looked down through the plastic at his captive, and smiled.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” shouted Gentry in utter frustration.
“I presume you are armed. Beasts like you usually are. You might want to think before firing a weapon in there.” Szaboused the tip of his cane to tap the clear lid over the hole. “Two inches of hardened Plexiglas; you’ll be dodging your own ricochets.” He then tapped his forehead with a bony finger. “Don’t be stupid.”
“I don’t have time for this, Szabo!”
“On the contrary. A little time is all you have left.” Szabo backed away from view.
THIRTEEN
Gentry ripped off the jacket, the tie, the shirt, and looked around the pit. It was a seven-foot-wide circle, seemed to be some sort of old sewage well. A cylindrical wall of stone around him too sheer and slick with mildew to climb. The mattresses on which he’d fallen were smelly and rotting. There was a drainage problem to be sure. He looked under the mats and discovered an old iron water pipe. He wrapped his hand around it and found it to be hot. Budapest’s thermal baths were a tourist draw; this pipe likely pumped hot springwater from one location to another. Water pushed through it, dripping and steaming a little where it disappeared into the wall.
Court looked up and around. This would be a particularly awful place to die.
Ten minutes later, Szabo returned. He stood over Court and smiled.
Gentry said, “Whatever you are planning on doing—”
“I remember you. You thought I’d forget? Two thousand four. Central Intelligence Agency super special A team.”
Court knew Szabo had not seen his face in the operationin ’04. Still, he shouted, “That’s right, and my field team knows where I am right now.”
“Pathetic. You aren’t with the agency anymore.”
“Where did you hear that?”
