Mission Critical Read online

  TITLES BY MARK GREANEY

  THE GRAY MAN

  ON TARGET

  BALLISTIC

  DEAD EYE

  BACK BLAST

  GUNMETAL GRAY

  AGENT IN PLACE

  MISSION CRITICAL

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

  Copyright © 2019 by Mark Strode Greaney

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Greaney, Mark, author.

  Title: Mission critical / Mark Greaney.

  Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2019. | Series: Gray man

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018047590 | ISBN 9780451488947 (hardback) | ISBN 9780451488961 (ebook)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Espionage. | FICTION / Action & Adventure. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction | Spy stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3607.R4285 M57 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018047590

  First Edition: February 2019

  Cover design by Steve Meditz

  Cover photos: upper right: Bridge over river by Marchal Jeremy / Getty Images; lower right: Shanghai China at night by chinaface / Getty Images; Man running by Mohammed Itani / Arcangel; Riveted metal by Melinda Podor / Getty Images; Scratched red wall by Dan Thornberg / Getty Images

  Interior art: Black-and-white Paris map © Nicola Renna / Shutterstock.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Titles by Mark Greaney

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Characters

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  FOR LAUREN GILLILAND

  NOVEMBER 27, 1984–

  JANUARY 19, 2018

  REST IN PEACE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Joshua Hood (JoshuaHoodBooks.com), J.T. Patten (JTPattenBooks.com), Scott Swanson, Chris Clarke, Emily Field Griffin, Taylor Gilliland, Mike Cowan, Nick Ciubotariu, Tiffany Glanz-Dornblaser, Derek LeJeune, Igor Veksler, Larry Rice, the Memphis Greaneys, the Tulsa Greaneys, the Houston Greaneys, Jon Harvey, Bridget Kelly, Mystery Mike Bursaw, Michele Prusak, Jon Griffin, and Brandy Brown.

  I’d also like to thank my agents, Scott Miller at Trident Media Group and Jon Cassir at CAA, along with my editor, Tom Colgan, and the remarkable staff at PRH: Grace House, Jin Yu, Loren Jaggers, Bridget O’Toole, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, Christine Ball and Ivan Held.

  VALOR LIES JUST HALFWAY BETWEEN RASHNESS AND COWARDICE.

  —MIGUEL DE CERVANTES

  CHARACTERS

  COURTLAND “COURT” GENTRY (AKA THE GRAY MAN; CODE NAME, VIOLATOR): CIA contract agent and former CIA employee, former member of Special Activities Division (Ground Branch) and the Autonomous Asset Program

  MATTHEW HANLEY: Deputy Director of Operations, CIA

  SUZANNE BREWER: Senior Officer, Programs and Plans, CIA

  ZOYA FEODOROVNA ZAKHAROVA: Former SVR (Russian Foreign Intelligence) officer

  DIRK VISSER: Luxembourg-based banker

  WON JANG-MI (AKA JANICE WON): North Korean virologist and intelligence asset

  VLADIMIR BELYAKOV: Russian oligarch

  CHARLIE JONES: Nottingham-based crime boss

  ANTHONY KENT: Nottingham-based criminal

  ALEXI FILOTOV: Russian GRU (Military Intelligence) officer

  ZACH HIGHTOWER: CIA contract agent, former CIA Special Activities Division (Ground Branch) team leader

  WALT JENNER: CIA Special Activities Division (Ground Branch) team leader

  CHRIS TRAVERS: CIA Special Activities Division (Ground Branch) officer

  LUCAS RENFRO: Deputy Director of Support, CIA

  MARIA PALUMBO: Senior Executive, Operations, CIA

  MARTY WHEELER: Assistant Deputy Director of Support, CIA

  ALF KARLSSON: Executive, Operations, CIA

  DAVID MARS: London-based businessman

  FEODOR ZAKHAROV: Former director of the GRU (Russian military intelligence), father of Zoya Zakharova

  ARTYOM PRIMAKOV (AKA ROGER FOX): Russian mafia (Bratva) Vor (made man)

  JON HINES: Bodyguard to Roger Fox

  SIR DONALD FITZROY: London-based security consultant (retired)

 
PROLOGUE

  The flight attendant standing at the top of the jet stairs slipped a hand behind her back and threaded her fingers around the grip of the pistol tucked under her jacket. Thumbing the safety down, she eyed the figure approaching confidently from the darkness beyond the lights illuminating the tarmac and wondered if she should go ahead and pull her weapon.

  There was just one unknown subject in sight, so she’d settled on the handgun, but she had other defensive options available to her here in the Gulfstream IV executive jet. If there had been more threats she could have grabbed the loaded Colt M4 hanging by its sling in the coat closet next to her, and if things looked really dicey, she also had an M320 single-shot, 40-millimeter grenade launcher within reach.

  The approaching man wore a black ball cap and a gray T-shirt under a dark brown jacket. He walked with purpose, but there was no obvious menace to his movements. Still, the copilot leaned out of the cockpit, a look of concern on his face.

  “Is this our guy, Sharon?”

  The flight attendant kept her eyes on the man as she replied. “If it is, he has trouble following directions. Our passenger was instructed to approach from the terminal, but this joker is coming out of the dark near the fence line.”

  “You want us to move the aircraft?” The engines were spinning; the Gulfstream had been ordered to land here in Zurich and wait at idle on the tarmac for a single passenger to board.

  Sharon said, “Negative. If this guy starts any trouble, I’ll handle him. Just strap in and be ready.”

  “Say the word and we’re outta here.” The copilot returned to his controls.

  The man emerging from the darkness kept coming; Sharon could see a backpack swinging off his right shoulder, but his hands were down by his sides, his palms turned towards her to show he was unarmed. He stopped twenty yards from the stairs and looked up at the woman.

  With the turbines whirling there was no way they could talk at this distance. After a moment looking him over, she waved him up the steps with her left hand, while her right clamped down even harder on the grip of the SIG P320 9-millimeter. She pulled it out a fraction of an inch until she felt the click of her retention holster releasing the weapon, but she did not draw it completely free.

  The man climbed the jet stairs. When he was within speaking distance he said, “Think you’re my ride.”

  “How ’bout we confirm that, just to make it official?”

  The man said, “X-ray, X-ray, eighty-eight, Whiskey, Uniform.”

  The woman thumbed the safety back up and pressed down on the grip, snapping the SIG back into its holster. She removed her hand from behind her back. “Confirmed. Juliet, Uniform, thirteen, Papa, Echo.”

  The man in the ball cap nodded.

  “You had me worried, sir. You approached from the wrong direction.”

  A shrug. “I’m a bit of a rebel.”

  He was a smartass, Sharon saw immediately, but he gave a tired, friendly smile after he said it, so she let it go. She stepped up against the cockpit door to allow the man to pass into the cabin.

  “Welcome on board,” she said. “You must be something special; we were heading to Luxembourg on a priority movement when we were diverted here to pick you up.”

  The man shrugged. “Not special. Somebody at Langley wants a word, so I’ve been summoned.”

  The woman raised her eyebrows at this. “Well, good luck with that. Can I get a drink for the condemned?”

  “No thanks. I’ll be no trouble.” With that he moved to the back of the plush Gulfstream, tossed his pack into a chair, and sank into the port-side window seat next to it.

  The aircraft had seating for fourteen in the form of leather cabin chairs and an overstuffed leather sofa. A TV monitor inlaid in a rosewood front bulkhead showed their position here in Zurich, and bottled water rested in every cup holder in the cabin.

  Sharon closed the hatch and leaned into the cockpit to speak with the pilot, and soon the aircraft began rolling. She moved back to her single passenger and sat down in a chair across from him. “We’re to deliver you to D.C., but I’m afraid we have two stops to make en route. We’ll land in Luxembourg, pick up our passengers there, and deliver them to an airfield in the UK. We’ll refuel and get back in the air for the hop over the Atlantic. ETA at D.C. is around eleven a.m. local.”

  “Works for me.”

  “You really are no trouble, are you?” She stood, turned, and headed up to the cockpit.

  The man looked out the window at the darkness.

  The plane lifted into the night sky moments later, and Courtland Gentry, CIA code name Violator, drifted off to sleep soon after.

  * * *

  • • •

  He only awoke as they touched down at Luxembourg City. Court knew the Agency preferred using smaller or even private airfields when possible, but the big international airport here in the suburb of Findel was the only paved runway in the tiny nation.

  Just as in Zurich, the aircraft taxied and then stopped on the ramp, wide of any activity on the property.

  Court looked idly out the port-side window for a moment with a yawn.

  He saw headlights approaching on the ramp, and soon a pair of commercial vans pulled to a stop at the bottom of the jet stairs. The doors opened and a group of men began climbing out. Court glanced idly to the front of the cabin and saw the flight attendant standing in the open passenger doorway, holding an M4 rifle slightly behind her back, muzzle down but ready to whip it up at the first sign of danger.

  She looked like she knew how to handle the weapon, which came as no shock to the CIA asset watching her. The Agency trained their transportation staff for anything.

  Court himself was packing a Glock 19 9-millimeter, a .38 revolver, and a .22 caliber suppressed pistol. One on his hip, one on his ankle, the other in his pack, and he was ready to go for them if he sensed any danger. But the flight attendant seemed to have it all under control. She spoke with someone just outside the cabin on the stairs, then hung the M4 back in the coat closet and beckoned the man in.

  Court closed his eyes and pulled his cap down; he was ready to get back to sleep.

  * * *

  • • •

  Forty-six-year-old CIA officer Doug Spano boarded the aircraft while his men waited on the ramp behind him for his all clear.

  Once inside he spoke to the attractive woman at the door, and then he turned to look over the darkened cabin. Immediately he saw a man seated in the back, a ball cap pulled down over his face. Spano cleared his jacket out of the way of his sidearm and gripped it, and then without taking his eyes off the man, he addressed the flight attendant. “Who the fuck is that?”

  “Agency personnel, sir. He’s cleared.”

  “Not by me, he’s not. This is a priority movement.”

  “So is he, sir. We were told to deliver your group to Ternhill and then to fly him on to Washington.”

  Spano grimaced in anger. Somebody had fucked up, and it was getting in the way of his op. He moved quickly down the cabin and leaned over the passenger in the dark. At first he thought him to be asleep, but the man lifted his cap, opened his eyes, and said, “Evening.”

  “Don’t take it personally, sport, but I can’t have you on this aircraft. Get Transpo to arrange another flight for you. I’ve got a priority mission you’re encroaching on here.”

  The man seemed bored. He closed his eyes again. “Call Langley, extension fifty-eight twelve. She tells me to get off, I get off.”

  “You don’t listen, do you?” When no response came he said, “Who are you with?”

  “Coded.”

  If this man was, in fact, on a code-word operation, then Spano wouldn’t be learning anything further from him about what he was doing on board.

  But he didn’t give a shit. “My op is coded, too, tough guy.” He then changed tactics, opting for direct intim
idation. “Not telling you again. Deplane. Now.”

  “Fifty-eight twelve,” the man replied in a bored voice. He was positively unintimidated, and he rolled his head towards the window.

  Doug Spano pulled his sat phone out of his jacket and stormed back up the cabin.

  * * *

  • • •

  Five minutes later the CIA officer held the phone to his ear, and Court could tell from his body language that he was pissed. He came storming in his direction, and he handed the phone over.

  Court took it and answered. “Hello?”

  “Making friends as always, I see.” It was his handler, Suzanne Brewer. She sounded annoyed, but Court couldn’t remember ever hearing her sound different.

  “Just being a good worker bee. You told me you wanted me on this plane.”

  “Well, yes, I need you here in Washington, stat. You’re on that flight, but you need to relinquish any weapons.”

  Court paused. Said, “I’m not really the ‘relinquishing weapons’ type.”

  “Do it.”

  “Why?”

  In an even more irritated voice Brewer said, “Because I asked you to, Violator.”

  Court sighed. “Okie doke.” He passed the phone back to the CIA officer, who disconnected the call.

  The man stood over him, obviously displeased by this intrusion on his operation. “Aren’t you a Billy Badass? Gettin’ to ride shotgun on a code-word op. Can’t say I’ve ever seen that shit.”

  “I’ll stay out of your hair, boss.”

  A finger came up, not quite in Court’s face, but close enough to annoy. “Damn right, you will. You’ll park your ass right here; we’ll take the front. You need to go to the lav, you will hit your call light and I’ll send a man to escort you. Now . . . let’s have those weapons. You’ll get them back at Ternhill.”

  Court pulled his Glock, backwards and with his fingertips, so as not to be threatening, and he handed it over. The man took it, dropped the magazine, and cleared the round from the chamber, letting the bullet fall to the floor. He reseated the magazine and stuck the gun in the waistband of his jeans.