The sixty-year-old Hungarian disappeared for a minute. He returned above the pit, placed a sheet of paper facedown on the glass six feet above his prisoner’s head.
Gentry looked up at his own face, an old head shot taken by the CIA for some dirty documentation. Above the photo were the words, “Wanted for questioning by Interpol.” It was just a photo and a description. His name was not given.
“American government men sat in a car outside in the street, seven days a week, for an entire year after you, shall we say,resignedyour position with the agency. They actually thought you’d come to Laszlo for help. Their presence was bad for business, Mr. Gray Man.”
“Szabo. This is serious. Look, I know you. I know you’ll let me buy my way back up. Just name your price. I can call a man and get money wired—”
“Sir Donald can’t purchase your path to safety. I don’t want his money.”
Gentry looked up at the man above him. His voice lowered. “I’d hate to hurt a cripple.”
“You were the one who crippled me!”
“What are you talking about?”
“You shot up my darkroom. You thought I’d forget?”
“I didn’t shootyou.”
“No, you were shooting at the Chechen, hit a container of ammonium persulfate. Knocked the powder into a bath of aluminum water and... bang! The Chechen is dripping offthe ceiling, and poor, helpless Laszlo is burned, the nerves of his lower body damaged from inhaling the toxic fumes.”
Shit. Court shrugged. “Whose fault is that? You were helping a terrorist enter the West. The CIA should have sent me back to finish you.”
“Maybe they should have, but I’ve since made friends with the good men of the Central Intelligence Agency. After the FBI came to talk to me, the agency came. They were the ones who told me you were the leader of the group that blew up my warehouse and ruined my legs. Believe it or not, these days, the local CIA station and Laszlo have a reasonably good working relationship.”
“Why wouldn’t I believe that? You always did play all sides.”
“I think our relationship will get even better now that I’ve called them and told them I have you locked away. They are on their way here to pick you up right now.”
The muscles in Court’s face twitched. “Tell me you did not do that.”
“I did. I am going to trade you to the CIA in exchange for a little détente. Our relationship is not so good that me handing over their number one target won’t make Laszlo’s life easier.”
“How long until they are here?”
“Under two hours. The station chief is ordering up a helicopter full of heavies from Vienna to take you into custody. I told him your reputation was overrated; old frail Laszlo captured you by himself, after all, but he was undeterred. You warrant a big operation just to carry you away. You will just have to amuse yourself in the meantime while you—”
“Laszlo, you need to listen very carefully to me.”
“Ha! Look at him shake. Look at the Gray Man shake like a little—”
“They aren’t sending a team to haul me away. They’ll send a wet team. There’s a shoot-on-sight directive against me. And when they come here to wax my ass, don’t expect them to just walk away and leave a witness behind. That’s not how these guys operate.”
Laszlo cocked his head, seemed to think this over, then said, “They won’t hurt me. The CIA needs me.”
“They only needed you until you made that phone call, you dumb son of a bitch!”
Szabo’s nerves began to show. He shouted, “Enough talk! If you think the grim reaper is on the way for you, maybe you should spend the next few minutes asking your God for forgiveness for your sins.”
“You, too.”
Laszlo Szabo’s wrinkled and confused face disappeared from the glass above Court.
—
Sir Donald Fitzroy’s mobile rang at three. Lloyd pushed the speaker button, though the call had not come from Gentry’s satellite phone.
“Cheltenham Security.”
