“That would be lovely, thank you.”
—
Ten minutes later, Riegel stood across from Lloyd in the kitchen. They both drank coffee and ignored sandwiches on a platter on the large stone island in front of them.
“Why did you torture Fitzroy?”
“He wasn’t taking the situation seriously.”
“You are insane, Lloyd. I presume this insanity has been formally diagnosed, maybe back in your childhood, and you managed to hide that detail of your psyche from the CIA and Marc Laurent.”
“Sticks and stones, Riegel.”
“Leave Fitzroy alone.”
“You have a bigger problem than me, Kurt. We need an asset in Switzerland to clean up the mess Gentry created.”
“Meaning?”
“The Tech just got word from a watcher in Lausanne. He tells us two of the Venezuelan operators were taken alive by the Swiss. We need assurances that they won’t talk.”
“So you want them killed?”
“How else can we be certain of their silence?”
Riegel shrugged. “Without LaurentGroup, Venezuela’s oil stops flowing. Without LaurentGroup, what oil they have for export doesn’t make it across the sea to the refineries. Chávez needs us as much as we need him. A couple of shooters who could neither manage to succeed in their mission nor die trying will not jeopardize the good relationship we have with that lunatic. I’ll make a call to the director of the General Intelligence Office in Caracas, let him know that even though they failed in their mission, I’ll send him a consolation prize if he sees that his agents keep their mouths shut. When the Swiss allow officials from the Venezuelan embassy to meet with the two surviving operators in jail, I have no doubt the message those two bastards get will be very descriptive in what will happen to their families back home if they don’t take the fall for the operation. One mention by them to the police of a multinational corporation’s recruitment of several third-world intelligence agency’s hit squads to kill a man traversing Europe and... well, those men’s wives, kids, parents, and neighbors will be tossed into the Venezuelan version of a gulag.”
Lloyd was impressed. “That’s one reason you didn’t use mercenaries, isn’t it?”
“Mercenaries don’t have anyone to answer to but themselves. I much prefer using men who are subject to other avenues of influence that I can manipulate.”
Lloyd nodded. “So now we just have to find Gentry.”
“We have LaurentGroup assets at every choke point in Geneva, every location of a known associate, every hospital.We have phones and police radios monitored by the Tech here. We have the South Africans in the city center, ready for deployment. If one of my watchers sees the Gray Man, we will have a hit squad on him in fifteen minutes.”
—
Fitzroy had not eaten, though he’d sucked down two brandies and some bottled water. The treatment he’d received from Lloyd had left him worse for wear but unbroken. Knife jabs to the thigh, open-handed strikes to the head. They were the actions of a desperate man, nothing more.
As a young intelligence officer working in Ulster in the seventies, Don was kidnapped from a taxi stand by a carload of hooded Provos. They took him to a warehouse, spent ninety minutes beating him with lengths of pipe. By the time the SAS quick reaction force fast-roped down from the helicopter, killed three of the five IRA men in the ensuing gunfight, and the other two execution-style against the warehouse wall, the twenty-six-year-old spy had suffered six broken bones and permanent reduction in vision in his left eye.
The work-over he’d received from Lloyd was nothing like that. The American had the zeal but not the talent for administering pain. Plus he had no big cause or belief. Just one part personal dementia and two parts anxiety brought on by the desperation of his predicament. In this entire enterprise, Fitzroy decided, perhaps only Court Gentry was more imperiled than young Lloyd. Fitzroy presumed Laurent would likely order this Riegel fellow to kill the American lawyer if the contract was not signed by Julius Abubaker tomorrow morning at eight a.m.
Sir Donald, for his part, was beaten up but certainly notbeaten down. He had a plan of sorts; he intended to use his wits and his tradecraft and a lifetime of experience manipulating those around him to achieve that which he could not accomplish alone. Though confined to a bed, Sir Donald Fitzroy planned cruel revenge on those who dared cross him, his family, and his top assassin.
The door to the master bedroom opened slowly. Fitzroy downed the last of his brandy and placed the snifter on the bedside table next to him quickly.
Claire entered warily, unsure. Then she saw him and ran across the room to her grandfather. She hugged him tightly around his thick neck.
“Hullo, darling. How are you?”
“I’m all right, Grandpa Donald. You’re hurt!”
“A little spill on the stairs, love. No worries. How is your sister?”
“Kate’s fine. She likes it here.”
“You don’t like it here?”
