But his next words—“What do you want to know about him?”—told her she had won.
She softened her tone. She knew when to bludgeon, and she knew when to coax. Now was the time for the latter. “Everything you can give us would be greatly appreciated. Obviously there will be sources and methods you will want to protect, even from your friends, and I can understand that. But I’m not Menachem; I don’t care about any big picture in our relationship. All I am concerned with, in any way, is finding this man and stopping him in any way I can.”
Carmichael did not respond immediately, so she pressed gently. “For example, before Court Gentry became a hit man, what did he do for you?”
“He was a dynamic operations specialist.”
She wrote on her pad and spoke aloud. “He was a hit man, then.”
“I did not say that.”
Ruth nodded, but she did not strike through her note.
Carmichael asked, “What does your service know about him already?”
“Mossad’s dossier on Court Gentry’s time with the CIA is thin. We don’t make it a point of compiling a large amount of information about operatives at allied agencies; our enemies keep us busy enough.”
Denny raised his eyebrows, giving off the message that he did not believe that for a second. The Mossad was legendary for spying on their friends as well as their enemies. Ruth knew what she was saying was not true, but she also knew she had to say it. Moreover, she knew Carmichael would know it was a lie, but she also knew he would let the comment go.
Such was the nature of relationships between friendly intelligence agencies.
She continued, “We don’t have too much more on his days post-CIA, but from what we know, his assassinations have seemed to follow some sort of a moral code. He has killed for money, repeatedly, but all his targets have been personalities with large amounts of blood on their hands. When discounting all the Gray Man killings that are nothing more than rumor, we have never seen him target anyone like our prime minister in his past.”
She summed up her dilemma. “We understand why the Iranians want Kalb dead, but we do not understand why the Gray Man wants Kalb dead.”
Carmichael sipped water from his bottle. “He’s a snake.”
Ruth cocked her head. “Kalb, or Gentry?”
“Gentry. Court Gentry has built up a reputation for two things. First, that he is the best black operator in the world. That reputation is, quite possibly, valid. His performance evals in the field were stellar. But the second part of his reputation is a complete and utter fantasy. That he is some sort of Robin Hood with a sniper rifle. A virtuous paladin.”
“Not true?” Ruth asked with a tone of genuine surprise.
“Forgive my language, but that is bullshit. Since he left CIA he has been a cold-blooded killer. Nothing more.”
“Perhaps our intelligence is faulty. It is our understanding he is an assassin with a conscience. We know he has turned down many contracts, lucrative contracts, because of the nature of the target’s history. There seems to exist some moral code involved, even if it is hard for us to discern.”
Carmichael responded tersely. “Gentry has killed colleagues of mine, Ms. Ettinger. Men with families, futures. I will begin to take it very personally if you continue to talk about how he is one of the good guys.”
“Of course I am not saying he is a good guy. I am only trying to understand how his sense of morality would be satisfied by killing Ehud Kalb. This information is very much pertinent to hunting him—”
Ruth stopped speaking. She understood. There was something personal going on here that she had not detected until now. “You knew him. You actually knew him personally.”
He waved his hand in the air and sat back. “Not well. There are a lot of guys like him. Not like him in the sense… you know what I mean. A lot of tip-of-the-spear operations personnel. So, no, I did not know him well. But yes… I did know him.”
Ruth wrote something down. “Well then. You may be the best person to ask. The legend of him is quite remarkable. They say he could pass you on the street and you would not notice him.”
Now Denny smiled thinly. “Ms. Ettinger. He could pass you in your kitchen and you would not notice him.”
She stopped writing. Looked up. “He’s that good?”
He smiled. “Find him and you can see for yourself.”
Ruth smiled back now. “If you let me see his file, I will do just that.”
Denny drummed his fingers on the polished table for a moment. “There is a man I want you to meet.”
“Director Carmichael, unless this man is Courtland Gentry, I am already talking to the most important person in the equation.”
“That’s not exactly true.”
Ettinger cocked her head.
Denny said, “I’m talking about the director of the operation against Gentry.”
“Very well. Is he available?”
“If I tell him he is available, then he is available.”
She smiled. Fighting the urge to stand up. “Is he here at Liberty Crossing or over at Langley?”
“Neither.”
“He is posted to a foreign station?”
“He’s not with the agency.”
Now Ruth Ettinger was utterly confused. Denny saw this and said, “We have found it prudent to bring in private sector assistance to help us with the Court Gentry situation.”
“You’ve outsourced the hunt for your number one target?”
Denny nodded, picking lint off the collar of his suit. “Townsend Government Services.”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“And I hope, when this is all over, you will forget that you ever did. They are based here in D.C. I can get you a meeting immediately with director Leland Babbitt.”
Ruth was still having trouble understanding. “A private company of manhunters?”
Now the American smiled. “That’s pulp fiction dramatics, Ms. Ettinger. The real world is rather more boring. Townsend is staffed with ex-military and intel folks, all cleared and vetted, all perfectly capable. They’ll get him, soon enough, but I will have them read you in on status of the investigation, and I will let Babbitt know that you will be joining his hunt.”
“That would be ideal, Director Carmichael. I’d like to meet this Mr. Babbitt this morning, if possible.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Back when he stood in front of the Quds Force operative who passed him the assassination target in the south Beirut hotel room, Whitlock had appeared relaxed and indifferent as to his target’s identity. But as soon as he returned to Rafic Hariri Airport he’d locked himself in a bathroom stall and ripped open the sealed folder, already counting down the hours remaining and hoping like hell he had some previous knowledge of the man he was being sent to kill.
Within seconds he saw the name of his target and his place of residence. The name was familiar to him, but he could not place it, and he didn’t take the time to investigate immediately. Instead, he looked at the location of the target, then rushed out of the bathroom and to the counter, where he bought a first-class one-way ticket to France. Within ninety minutes he was airborne on his way to Charles de Gaulle in Paris, and three hours after this he boarded his connecting flight to the Nice Côte d’Azur airport. He arrived at his final destination before ten P.M., less than eight hours after being handed the name of the man the Iranians wanted him to kill.
The name handed over by Quds was that of an Iranian-born French citizen, Amir Zarini. He was a fifty-six-year-old filmmaker who, if the Iranians were to be believed, had blasphemed the prophet and insulted the Iranian government repeatedly during his high-profile career.