The Gray Man Page 32

  The big car lurched ahead. Claire’s door slammed shut with the movement. She shrieked as she spun around to look out the back window. She banged her little hands against the glass.

  On the gravel behind them, Jim teetered forward off his knees, then fell hard on his face.

  A dust cloud from the car’s wheels in the gravel whited out Claire’s view of the man left behind.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Court pulled himself pitiably across the gravel drive with his arms. His legs barely moved, and pebbles stuck to the blood on his forearms and face and in the sweat on his scalp. It was five yards to the wet grass. From there it was two hundred yards to the edge of the apple orchard. At the pace he was moving, it would be night-fall before he reached any measure of cover.

  It was hopeless, but he moved without rationale, only instinct. Get out of the kill zone. Destination unimportant.

  “Yo! Tough guy? Where the hell you think you’re going?” Lloyd’s shout came from behind. It was followed by the crunching of shoes on gravel. The footfalls closed quickly.

  “I have to admit . . . you’ve lived up to your hype. You torched the SAD files and you got the Fitzroys. Looks like you managed to save everyone’s ass but your own.”

  Court kept crawling on his bloody forearms, into the cold, wet lawn. Lloyd finally stepped on his back to stop him. The Gray Man looked over his shoulder with a wince. The lawyer held a small Beretta pistol out in front of him. His left arm and shoulder were bloody and limp. Lloyd seemed unfazed by his wounds.

  “I shot you in the back. Not terribly noble, I suppose. I didn’t know you had a vest on. Bet that still hurt, huh?”

  Court rolled slowly on his back. The morning sky had blued considerably since he’d entered the château, maybe fifteen minutes earlier. Lloyd stood over him and looked straight down. Court knew his Glock had skidded away somewhere when he fell. He had no strength to lift his head to look for it.

  “I still don’t remember you, Lloyd,” Gentry said it through a raspy cough.

  “Well, you’ll remember me in hell, won’t you? My face will be the last fucking thing you see.”

  Lloyd lifted the pistol to Court Gentry’s face, and a shot rang out.

  Lloyd cocked his head, a show of confusion. The young lawyer staggered forward a half step. Blood appeared on his lips and in his nostrils. His eyes remained on Court, though the lids narrowed. He steadied himself and again raised the gun to Court’s chest.

  From behind came another shot, then another. Lloyd spasmed with each crack. His Beretta fired, but it was low by his side now. The bullet kicked up a spray of white stones between Gentry’s legs as the Gray Man just lay on his back and watched.

  Lloyd dropped his pistol in the gravel, then crumpled down on top of it, dead.

  For several seconds Court just stared at the sky. Finally he forced his head up, looked back to the château. Riegel was in a third-floor window, the glass shattered in front of him, his pistol now trained on Gentry.

  Slowly, the German lowered his gun to his side.

  The two men just looked at one another for a few seconds. They were both too weak for words, too far apart for eye contact. But the long acknowledgment showed a sense of mutual respect: two warriors, each recognizing the efforts of the other.

  Kurt Riegel fell backwards and disappeared from view.

  Court dropped his head back in the grass. Through the ringing in his ears he noticed the distinctive sound of a helicopter. It was not the black Eurocopter; it was a bigger ship, steadily approaching from the east.

  His head did not rise back off the dewy grass, but he rolled it to the right in time to see the large white Sikorsky land seventy-five yards away. LaurentGroup was written in blue on the side. Armed men poured from the vehicle, a half dozen or so. They began moving towards the château carefully. Then the aircraft disgorged a trio of men in orange jackets carrying backpacks: doctors or EMTs or some other sort of emergency personnel. Lastly, three men in suits crouched low as they ducked under the rotor’s wash. One carried a notebook of some sort, another hefted two large briefcases, and a third, who was much older, wore his suit coat across his back like a cape.

  Like a Frenchman.

  Court lost interest in the activity and went back to enjoying the beautiful sky. A minute later, or maybe it was ten, a rifleman stood over him, but he seemed to be more interested in Lloyd’s body lying alongside. The Frenchman shouted into a radio.

  Shortly thereafter, the three men in suits appeared. Court raised himself up to his elbows as they approached.

  The older man with the coat for a cape was unfamiliar to Gentry, but Court figured from his bearing and his dominion over the other two that this could be none other than Marc Laurent.

  “Monsieur Gentry, I presume?”

  Court said nothing. The little man with the notepad on Laurent’s right stepped forward and kicked him with an expensive-looking shoe. Court did not feel the blow; his entire body had gone numb. “When Monsieur Laurent asks you a question, you answer!”

  “It’s okay, Pierre. He’s unwell.” Laurent looked around him at the bodies and broken glass and smoke billowing from the roof of the château. “Pierre? Make a note. We’ll need to move the board of directors’ Christmas retreat this year. I don’t believe we will have the property cleaned up in time.”

  “Oui, Monsieur Laurent.”

  “Mr. Gentry. I see young Mr. Lloyd there. He appears to be about as useful as ever. Would you happen to know where I could find Herr Riegel?”

  Court spoke softly, sleepily. “Lloyd killed him. He killed Lloyd. There was some interdepartmental rivalry in your corporation shortly before you arrived.”

  “I see.” Laurent shrugged, as if his people died all the time, and it was of no special concern to him.

  “I knew nothing of what was going on here,” said Laurent, and Gentry did not respond. The statement was made in the way a man of power says something manifestly untrue. He had no concern whether the Gray Man believed him or not, only that it was put out there, as if to fulfill legal obligations.

  Implausible deniability.

  The next words from Laurent’s mouth surprised Court. “I am in need of a man.” He looked around at the bright morning. “It’s a problem, you see. A fellow with whom I’ve had a long-standing business relationship has outlived his usefulness. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he’s in possession of information that might prove embarrassing to myself and my pursuits. Allowing him to continue on in his present course of action would serve no one’s interests.”

  Marc Laurent seemed almost bored. He looked at the fresh manicure of his fingernails. “And, as it happens, I understand you are the man to see about such problems. Might you be available?”

  Court was up on his elbows in the wet grass. He turned his head to the left and to the right and took a moment to regard Lloyd’s body.

  Gentry said, “I am kind of in the middle of something at the moment.”

  Laurent waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, I can see to that.”

  “That would be good,” Court replied with extreme understatement.

  “And as I understand it, you might just have a personal interest in the demise of former president, and now regular citizen, Julius Abubaker. Rumor is you eliminated his brother, and now the former president is arranging attempts on your life.”

  Court blinked twice before answering. “I’ve heard that rumor, as well, Mr. Laurent.”

  Laurent nodded. “Abubaker has made certain claims about me. All lies, of course. I run a business based on integrity and impeccable core values of honesty.”

  Gentry’s facial expression did not change. “No doubt.”

  “Still, sometimes sensational claims can take on a life of their own, raise unnecessary concerns, invite uncomfortable scrutiny. I’d like to avoid that if possible.”

  “So you want me to kill him.”

  Laurent nodded. “I’d pay handsomely for your services.”

  Court hesit
ated. “I just see one little problem with your proposal.”

  The Frenchman’s eyebrows rose. “And what would that be?”

  “I am bleeding to death.”

  Laurent chuckled, snapped his fingers, and the three men in orange jackets appeared with a stretcher.

  “No problem, young man,” said Laurent as Court dropped from his elbows and passed out. He relived the conversation in a dream, and thought it later to be one of the oddest and most fanciful dreams he’d ever had.

  EPILOGUE

  There were only four days left until the Christmas break, and Mummy had told the girls they could wait until after the new year to return to school. Kate had taken Mummy up on the offer, but Claire declined. Routine is important for a child; she wanted to get back into the swing of things.

  Maybe it would help her forget.

  She would love to forget Daddy’s funeral, the château in France, the noise and the fear and the guns and the blood. She would love to forget leaving Mr. Jim behind. Grandpa Donald had promised her that Jim had gotten away, but she did not believe a thing Grandpa Donald told her anymore.

  She knew that Jim, like Daddy, was dead.

  She entered Hyde Park. She always cut through on her way to school, walked purposefully east on North Carriage Drive, turned down a footpath that led over to North Row, and then shortly to her school on North Audrey Street. Her mummy wanted to walk her to school, but Claire had said no. She wanted everything to be the same as when Daddy was around. She’d walk herself to school, walk herself home.

  A man sat on a bench by the footpath. She paid him no attention until he called her name as she passed.

  “Hello, Claire.”

  She stopped in her tracks and turned to face Jim. Her knees weakened from shock, and she dropped her schoolbooks to the footpath.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you. Your granddad told me you did not believe that I was okay. I just wanted to come and show you that I’m fine.”

  She hugged him, her mind not quite accepting that he was there.

  “You . . . you were awfully hurt. Are you feeling better?” she asked in a sob of joy.

  “I’m all better.” He stood and smiled and took a few steps up the pavement and then back to her. “See, I don’t even need you to help me walk anymore.”

  Claire laughed and hugged him again. Tears filled her eyes. “You must come to the house straightaway. Mummy would so love to see you. She doesn’t even remember you being there in France.”

  Jim shook his head. “I’m sorry. I have to go. I only have a few minutes.”

  She frowned. “Are you still working for my Grandpa?”

  Jim looked off into the distance. “I am working for someone else right now. Maybe Don and I will patch things up someday.”

  “Jim?” she sat down on the bench, and he followed her lead. “The people who killed my father. You killed them, right?”

  “They won’t hurt anyone else, Claire. I promise.”

  “That’s not what I asked. Did you kill them?”

  “Many people died. Good and bad. But that is all over now. That’s all I can really tell you. I can’t help you make sense of it all. Maybe someone else can. I hope so. But not me. I’m sorry.”

  Claire looked across the park. “I am glad Grandpa Donald wasn’t lying about you.”

  “Me, too.”

  It was quiet for a moment. Jim began to shuffle a little on the bench.

  Claire said, “You have to go now, right?”

  “I’m sorry. I have to catch a plane.”

  “That’s okay. I have to go to school. Routine is important.”

  “Yeah.” He paused. “I guess it is.”

  They both stood, hugged again. “Take care of your sister and your mother, Claire. You are a strong girl. You will be fine.”

  “I know, Jim. Merry Christmas.” she said to him, and then they both said good-bye.

  Court walked slowly out of the park and onto Upper Grosvenor Square. The limp he had managed to hide from Claire had returned, and he winced with each step. A black Peugeot sedan idled just outside the gate. He ducked into the backseat without a word to the occupants.

  Two Frenchmen in suits turned to face him from the front. One handed him a satchel as the car pulled into traffic. Quietly, Court opened it, checked its contents, and zipped it shut.

  The middle-aged Frenchman in the passenger seat said, “The jet is waiting at Stansted. Three hours’ flying time. You should be in Madrid by early afternoon.”

  Court did not respond; he only looked out the window.

  “Abubaker will arrive at his hotel at six. Are you sure you have enough time to prepare?”

  Still nothing from the American.

  “We have arranged a room on the floor directly below his suite.”

  Gentry just stared at the park as it passed. Children walked with their parents. Lovers arm in arm.

  The Frenchman in the passenger seat rudely snapped his fingers in front of Gentry’s face, as if admonishing an inattentive servant. “Monsieur, are you listening?”

  The Gray Man turned slowly to the man. His eyes were clearer now.

  “Understood. No problem. Plenty of time.”

  The older Frenchman barked, “I don’t need you fucking this up.”

  “And I don’t need your advice. It’s my show. I call the time and location.”

  “You are my property, monsieur. We have spent a lot of money on your recovery. You will do as you are told.”

  Court wanted to protest, wanted to reach into the front seat and break the passenger’s neck, but he checked his urges. Kurt Riegel’s successor was a bigger asshole than Kurt Riegel, but he was also Gentry’s boss.

  If only for the time being.

  “Yes, sir,” said Court, though he wanted to say more. He turned his head back to the window, caught a final glimpse of the southern tip of the park, the lovers and the children and the families and the lives of others so incredibly different from his own.

  The Peugeot turned left on Piccadilly, left the park behind, and melted into the heavy traffic of London’s morning commute.