The man’s left hand rose; he held something in it. Suddenly the music stopped. The man by the wall tossed the stereo remote onto the bed.

The toothbrush came out, the German spit and washed his mouth out with bottled water, and he spit that out, too. He looked back into the mirror at the man standing there in the dim light.

Klossner turned around slowly, facing the figure in the darkness. “Wer sind Sie?” Who are you?

“Speak English, Lars.”

The German flicked his eyes to the door. “I have bodyguards, you know.”

“Yeah? Is that what you call them?”

Klossner’s face twitched a little. The door remained closed; there was no sound of footsteps rushing up the hall.

“Dead?” he asked.

“Nah,” the figure replied. “Just oblivious. You can call out to them if you want to . . . but you really don’t want to.”

The man with the American accent stood by a light switch. To Klossner’s surprise, he reached over and flicked the switch with the tip of the suppressor of his pistol.

Several lamps in the room turned on simultaneously.

The German blinked hard again. “Mein Gott. Violator? Is that you?”

* * *

? ? ?

Court Gentry used the tip of his Gemtech suppressor to flip the lights back off, enshrouding himself and Klossner again in the dim.

“No one calls me that anymore.”

“Ah, yes. Now you are the Gray Man.” The skin on the heavy German’s face suddenly looked almost as white as his beard. “How did you get in?”

Court had slipped in through the garage behind the Mercedes, then knelt behind the vehicle, removed his shoes, and crammed them in his backpack while the driver turned off the engine and climbed out. He’d followed the driver up the three flights of stairs, staying one floor behind him on the ascent, and timing his soft footfalls so he’d remain undetected.

When the driver unlocked the back door to Klossner’s penthouse, Court began racing up the stairs on his stocking feet, pulling a folded envelope from his back pocket as he went. The driver entered the hallway, and the hydraulic closer began pushing the door closed behind him. Court was rushing to the other side of the door, still silent but taking the stairs three at a time now. Just as the door met the door frame, Court slid down onto his knees on the landing and shoved the envelope forward between the latch in the door and the strike plate in the doorjamb. The thick folded paper impeded the automatic latch from slipping into the strike plate mortise and locking the door, and this prevented the door from locking when it closed.

Court breathed a sigh of relief; he’d made it with barely a tenth of a second to spare.

A latch clicking into place makes a distinctive sound, and this door had not clicked, so Court knew there was a chance the driver on the other side of the door might return to investigate. He reached across his body with his left hand, drew his pistol upside down, and held it that way towards the door right in front of his face.

He waited for a minute, but the door he held unlocked did not open, and the driver did not return, so eventually he stood slowly and quietly, and he opened the door just enough to look into the hall.

The hall was clear, and Court was inside Klossner’s penthouse.

* * *

? ? ?

But he didn’t tell Klossner any of this now. When he did not answer the question of how he got in, Klossner said, “Ah . . . yes. A magician never reveals his secrets.” After a pause the German spoke in a grave tone. “There are only two reasons you would show up in my house. Either you have come looking for work . . . or . . .”

Court replied, “I’m not here for the other reason.”

Klossner let his relief be known with a heave and a long sigh. He put his hand on his heart for a second. Court thought he was joking, feigning a heart attack, but from the look of the big man he didn’t know if the man might, in fact, have been having some sort of cardiac episode. Klossner lowered his hand with a smile, however, then stepped into the bedroom with his hands away from his body. He moved laterally along the wall and lowered himself down onto a settee. “How long has it been? Four or five years? It was Ankara. You were a burned Agency asset, working freelance, if memory serves. You didn’t have your nickname yet.”

“A simpler time,” Court joked without smiling.

“For you, maybe. A team I sent to Turkey had just lost a contract because the man they were protecting was assassinated right under their noses.” Klossner looked around. “Circumstances not unlike this, actually. I found out who did it, and offered you a job, because I saw what you were capable of. I actually thought I might dip a toe into the contract killer industry.”

Court did not reply.

Klossner waved his hand. “You took one look at my operation . . .” Klossner laughed now. “And you kept on walking. Not your cup of tea, as the English say. You found me immoral. Dishonorable.”

“Like I said . . . A simpler time.”

The German considered this, then bobbed his head towards a stocked mirrored bar along the wall. “Care for a drink?”

“Nein, danke.”

“If you aren’t here to kill me, we can party all night.”

“I’m looking for work. Something to get me out of Europe, quickly and quietly. Something that pays.”

“I’ve never had a job applicant show up in my bedroom with a suppressed Glock in his hand.”

“I couldn’t be sure if you still held a grudge about Ankara.”

“I’m a businessman, Violator. That was business.” He shrugged. “And if you want to work for me now, that’s business, too.”

“Any openings?”

Klossner raised an eyebrow. “As much as I’d love to employ you, I must admit the fact that you killed your last employer in St. Petersburg gives me a moment’s pause.”

“Not true.”

“Not true that you killed him, not true that it was in St. Petersburg, or not true he was your last employer?” When Court said nothing, Klossner shrugged. “Whatever, no harm done. Gregor Sidorenko was a madman. Bad for the security industry at large. I’m glad you slotted him.” He added, “I just hope killing the boss isn’t your new trademark.”

Court holstered his suppressed pistol under his jacket.

“And they also say everything that happened in Washington, D.C., a couple of months ago was you. All the attacks and killings there.”

“Sounds like someone is giving me too much credit.”

The German smiled again, and this time it did not fade. “That’s a good line, but the problem is, I do know some of the things you’ve done in the past, so I know you are one of the few out there who actually lives up to his hype.”

“I’m here looking for work, so far be it from me to discourage you from your belief that I am a superhero.”

The German laughed harder than before. “It’s nice to see you again. Wasn’t at first, I must say. Who wants to meet the Grim Reaper in their bathrobe?”

“I’ve got to get off the continent,” Court stressed. “I’m willing to go anywhere, as long as I can get out of here.”

Lars Klossner looked at the American with a curious eye now. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

Court stood silently against the wall.

“Right. None of my business. Let me think . . . A job in Caracas just fell into my lap. It’s not your speed, really, a little simplistic for you, small-arms training for a rebel outfit that’s in need of some—”

Court interrupted him. “Think bigger.”

The German did so. “Ukraine?”

“I said out of Europe. Ukraine is in Europe, Lars.”

“That it is . . . just thought you might want to see Kiev again.”

Court didn’t blink at this reference to his past, and Klossner let it go. The German rubbed his thick cheeks. “Well . . . there is something else, but you’d have to get your hands dirty. Very dirty. The Violator I knew four years ago wouldn’t have touched this, but if the news can be trusted, you might have changed, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Where?”

Klossner hesitated. “The job is in Syria.”

Court faked a little chuckle. “No thanks. The Free Syrian Army rebels are floundering. I’m not going to be the last rat to jump onto that ship before it goes down.”

Klossner waved a hand in the air. “No. Not the FSA. Not the Kurds or the Turks or the Americans or the Iraqis.” He shrugged. “This is work for the other guys.”

Court nodded slowly. “I see.”

“I’ve heard all about your moral code. I’m sure that’s cost your handlers a mint in the past. If you do the job in Caracas, it might align more with your sense of right and—”

“I’ll work for the Syrian regime. I don’t give a shit. Not anymore.”

Klossner scratched his snow-white hair. “I’d love to hear the story about what turned you into a black hat.”

The room remained silent, and Klossner took the hint quickly. He said, “Never mind, then.”

“Tell me about the job.”

“You’d be working with a militia.”