But wishing was useless. All he could do was get on with his current mission, because he wasn’t a therapist, he wasn’t a social worker, he wasn’t a psychologist.

He was a weapon. He was the one who caused the damage, physical and mental, that someone else would have to clean up.

Court left his position minutes before the check came.

CHAPTER 40

   Sir Donald Fitzroy climbed out of the back of his limo and shuffled through the guarded doors of his apartment building. His security man followed him, but only to the lift. The former British spymaster owned the penthouse; the lift could bypass the four floors below it and race directly to the top. Reginald rarely accompanied him up to the penthouse itself, because once Fitzroy was in the lift he was cut off from any threats and deemed safe by his security, and there was a second bodyguard who also served as his butler already waiting for him.

Fitzroy rode the lift in silence, and then it opened in front of a locked door. He put two keys in the two locks, entered, and then double-locked the door behind him. He entered the foyer and dropped his keys on the table, then glanced into his kitchen.

His bodyguard, Lou, wasn’t there where Fitzroy expected him to be, making him his first of many drinks for the afternoon. Just minutes ago he’d called ahead and asked for an old-fashioned, and he’d had no doubt in his mind it would be placed in his hand within seconds of walking in the door.

Curious, he stepped into the living room.

Court Gentry sat there in a leather chair, facing Fitzroy, his back to the far wall. “Hello, Fitz.”

Fitzroy saw no weapon, but he didn’t doubt there was one his old employee could snatch from under his shirt and bring to eye level in a quarter second.

The Englishman did not move a muscle. “You could give an old man a heart attack.”

“Sorry to barge in.”

“It’s all right, lad,” the man said. There was concern on his face, still the shock of seeing a man in his house. “What happened to Lou?”

“Who is Lou?”

“My security man.”

Court shook his head. “Didn’t see him. I did run into a bartender, though. Making a drink in the kitchen with his pistol dangling exposed from a shoulder holster. Disarms don’t come much easier than that. Not much of a security man, Fitz, but I bet that old-fashioned he was working on would have kicked ass.”

“He’s not hurt, I pray.”

“Zip-tied in the bedroom closet. Spilled a little bourbon on his shirt, but it’ll come out.”

Fitzroy smiled a little. “Am I free to walk over to the sitting area?”

“It’s your house. You should know by now I’m no threat to you.”

“Sorry, Court, but when one sees the Gray Man waiting for him in his private quarters, one cannot help but feel a twinge of worry. The world’s greatest assassin.”

“You know that’s just ridiculous hype.”

“I know that it’s not.”

“I just need to talk.”

“Certainly. Care for a drink? I’ll make it myself, since you’ve given Lou the afternoon off.”

Court motioned to the table in front of him. There, previously unnoticed by Fitzroy, stood two shots of Jura eighteen-year-old Scotch whisky.

“I helped myself,” Court said. “Join me.”

Fitzroy sat and took a glass. “What the bloody hell happened to your face?”

“I walked into a brick wall.”

“How many times?”

Court didn’t answer, because when Fitzroy picked up the Waterford crystal highball, Court saw that the man was missing two fingers on his right hand. “How’s that doing?”

Fitzroy held it up. “Oh, this little flesh wound? It’s nothing. I’ve cut myself worse whilst shaving.”

Court knew Fitzroy had been a hard man in his younger years, working for British intelligence in Northern Ireland. Having a pair of fingers lopped off by Chinese intelligence a few months earlier was more than a flesh wound, but a tough old goat like Fitzroy could handle it better than most, Court knew.

“I knew you couldn’t stay away from London long,” Court said.

“It’s in my blood. Like a disease.”

Court adopted an annoyed look. “Three guys, Fitz? You have three damn guys in your security detail?”

“Four, actually, but Andy has the flu.”

Court closed his eyes in disbelief.

“It no longer matters, lad. I am retired. My network is gone. My contacts are gone. I returned to London a pariah in the community. If you’ve come to me for work, I’ve nothing; if you’ve come to me for intelligence, I’ve nothing current. I’ve fuck-all to offer you other than a couch to sleep on and a pot of tea and the scotch in your hand. Of course, if you need some money I could—”

“I don’t need money. I need answers. Look, Fitz. You know people.”

“I know people who won’t talk to me any longer. How does that help you?”

“You know the fabric and the pulse of this city.”

Fitzroy drank much of his scotch. Court hadn’t yet touched his. “Bollocks, but go on,” the Englishman said.

“My question is about organized crime. Both Russian mob here in London, and other groups. Working together in some capacity. Working with the Kremlin, maybe.” Court shrugged. “Maybe not.”

“What are you on about?”

“There’s a mole at the Agency. He, or she, has gotten a lot of Operations people killed. We picked up a man who could help identify the compromise, but four nights ago at Ternhill a group of British gangsters got him away from us. The trail led me to a solicitor here, and from him I acquired a list of mostly Russian oligarchs and mobsters. I need to know how everything fits together, because I’m not smart enough to figure it out.”

“What do you want from me, then?”

Court pulled out the sheet of paper with the names he’d written down from Cassidy’s iPad. “Can you look over this list and tell me where I need to focus my attention?”

Fitzroy made no move to take the list. Instead he said, “So . . . you are doing this at the behest of the CIA?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Well . . . sort of.”

“Ah, the ambiguity in your relationship with the American government continues.”

“Don’t I know it?”

Fitzroy snorted a laugh, took the list, adjusted his glasses, and said, “What are you looking for, specifically?”