“That is unfair,” Voland replied. The Gray Man was talking, not shooting, so Court could see the Frenchman’s fear about his predicament fading away, and he was growing a little less terrified, even though there was still a pistol pointed at his head.

“What do you know about me?” Court asked.

Voland’s eyes narrowed now. He knew something but didn’t seem certain how he should answer. Finally he said, “I know you used to be an American intelligence asset. And I know that the CIA has disavowed you.”

His information was old and incomplete, Court realized, but he had no intention of bringing him up to date. “Anything else?”

“Yes. I know about Normandy.”

Court chewed the inside of his lip. “What do you know about Normandy?”

“Two years ago I was an executive with DGSI.”

Court knew this was French domestic intelligence. “Go on.”

“I was involved in the investigation of a series of murders here in Paris, and then a massacre at a chateau in Normandy. It was determined that the man at the center of it all was the rogue American intelligence asset known informally as the Gray Man.”

When Court did not reply, Voland added, “And all that killing, of course, was done by you.”

Still Court said nothing.

Voland nodded and smiled. “Nicely done, by the way. The bodies recovered were a wide array of criminals and scum. Businessmen with nefarious connections, and foreign paramilitaries involved in all manner of illegal activity on French soil.” He shrugged. “The police here would still love to get their hands on you, even before what you did last night, and again today. But as for our intelligence services . . . let’s just say we’ve moved on to more pressing matters than Normandy.”

Court knew he should have denied all involvement in the incident Voland spoke of, but his thoughts were on the present, not the past. “I’m not here to talk about two years ago.”

The Frenchman nodded. “I understand. And I must thank you for what you did today for the Halabys. As their consultant, I suppose we should talk about you getting a hefty bonus for your work.”

Court lowered his pistol finally, and holstered it inside the waistband at his right hip. “And I’m not here because I want money.”

“Then you have me at a loss. Why are you here?”

“I’m here to figure you out. It’s obvious the Halabys are being manipulated by someone in all this. My guess is that someone is you. My survival depends on me having an understanding of who knows what about me. The Halabys don’t know anything, but you seem to know it all.”

“Why do you care about the Halabys and their objective?”

Court looked off out the window into the night. “I’ll be damned if I know.” Turning back to Voland, he said, “How about you? What’s your interest in all this?”

“The Syrian exiles are my clients. Can’t it be as simple as that?”

“Nope. If that were the case, you’d do what they told you to do. But I’ve seen enough to know that you are using them for your own agenda. I want to know what that agenda is, and who is pulling your strings.”

Voland gave an exaggerated shrug. “My nation is very energized to bring al-Azzam down. As is yours, by the way. Both of our countries have troops in Syria.”

“Fighting the Islamic State, not the Syrian Army.”

“Very true. It is a complicated situation. My nation has no official policy supporting the decapitation of the Syrian regime. We can’t be involved in making a bad situation even worse. There are enough refugees in Europe as things stand. If a new flood came in, our current government would fall in the next elections. But behind the scenes? In a deniable fashion? France wants an end to the refugee crisis, and creating a rift between the Iranians, the Russians, and the Azzam regime would be a good beginning.”

Court shook his head. “There is more. What are you really trying to accomplish?”

Voland nodded softly, as if giving himself permission to reveal more information. “There is someone close to the first lady of Syria, Shakira al-Azzam. A Westerner. He is the one who communicated secretly with ISIS in Belgium about Bianca Medina. The Halabys know nothing about him, but he is a secondary objective for me in this operation.”

Court leaned closer to Voland. “The man I spoke with on the phone. Rima said he used the name Eric.”

“A pseudonym.”

“Who is he?”

“Does the name Sebastian Drexler mean anything to you?”

Court turned away and began slowly pacing the dark and unfinished room. “Holy hell.”

The Frenchman said, “Ah . . . I thought it just might.”

“I guess it stands to reason Drexler would be involved with Azzam. He’s worked for every other son-of-a-bitch dictator around.”

“Exactement. He is a very dangerous man, and he is wanted for crimes in many countries, but no one wants him more than me.”

“Why?”

“The last four years of my time in DGSI, my job was to find and arrest Sebastian Drexler. I got close multiple times in Africa. But I failed. I am not one who gives up easily, so I continue to hunt the man, even while no longer employed by the French government.”

“What sort of crimes has he committed here?”

“I am not cleared to tell you, but suffice it to say, crimes that were costly, embarrassing, and damaging to the French people.”

Instantly Court could think of a half dozen major imbroglios the French government had been caught up in during the last decade. With Iraq, with Libya, with Egypt. Knowing what the infamous Sebastian Drexler was capable of, Court imagined the Swiss national could have quite possibly been the culprit for one or all of these.

“So, you are using this operation with the Halabys to draw Drexler back into France?”

“With Shakira Azzam as his benefactor in Damascus, I think it likely that her desperation over this operation will entice her to force Drexler to come here in person to locate Medina.”

Court said, “If it were anyone else, I’d have to ask why you were going through all this for one guy. But Drexler . . . I get it.”

“I feel confident Drexler will come.”

Court looked Voland over. “It’s just you working with the Halabys? No one else from French intelligence? No one to support them if Drexler comes up here with fifty assholes?”

Voland chuckled. “First . . . As I said, I’m no longer officially with French intelligence. I am just helping them with this objective. And second . . . Drexler can’t get fifty . . . as you say . . . assholes into France.”

“No offense, dude, but there are a lot more than fifty assholes already in France. I’m looking at one of them right now, as a matter of fact. You double-crossed me yesterday when you didn’t tell me ISIS was planning to hit that night, and you are double-crossing the Free Syria Exile Union now for France’s own self-interests.”

That sank in a moment, till Voland said, “It is only me. French intelligence has been hands-off with the Halabys and their organization because of the delicacy of the situation with the rebel groups in Syria. We can’t be discovered assisting an extremist movement.”

Court fired back, “I’d say Tarek and Rima are about as far from extreme as you can get and still be involved in a civil war.”

“Yes . . . but politics being what it is in this country, the government’s opposition could frame this poorly if word got out. The FSEU has a half dozen former Syrian rebels guarding Bianca in a safe house right now, and they will remain in place until she talks. That should do, as long as they keep their location hidden. Really, the FSEU are a fine group when it comes to getting money together for food, weapons, logistics, and such, but they aren’t a fighting force, and they aren’t an intelligence organization.”

“Which is why they got tricked by the ex-employee of an intelligence organization.”

Voland shook his head. “No one tricked them. I was told in confidence by an associate in DGSI that Drexler had notified the ISIS cell in Belgium about Medina’s travels here. ISIS doesn’t know she is Ahmed’s mistress . . . they were told she was having an affair with the emir of Kuwait.”

“But French intelligence knew about the affair.”

“Correct. My contact at DGSI knew I was consulting for the Free Syria Exile Union, and he knew the Halabys had the resources and zeal to transform their group into something more . . . effective than a relief organization, so I used them as cover to hire you to rescue Medina.”

“Why did Tarek and Rima transform from a relief organization to a direct-action arm of the rebels? What is it they aren’t telling me?”

Voland nodded now in the dim light. “You are a very perceptive man.”

“I get lied to a lot. I’m used to looking for ulterior motives.”

The elder Frenchman himself began pacing the room. “The Halabys’ two children, a son and a daughter, were young doctors here in Paris. They began going on medical aid missions to Syria for the FSEU. They spent a lot of time treating civilians wounded in the fighting.” He heaved his chest and sighed. “They were killed last fall when the hospital in Aleppo where they were working was flattened by Russian bombs.”