Court said, “The first thing we need to do is get out of here before your people come. You are going to have to do things my way. I need you to dump your phones or any other means Mossad has to track you.”
“Right.” She reached into her coat and took out her phone and disabled it, then reached into her purse and took out Mike Dillman’s phone and took it apart as well. She said, “I’m usually the one hoping the person I’m tracking doesn’t take countermeasures. First time I’ve been on the run myself.”
“Takes some getting used to,” Court acknowledged.
“What next?”
Court said, “We find a boat.”
Court walked down the length of the dock at the marina, focusing his attention on a thirty-five-foot yacht that bobbed in its slip. Ruth lagged behind him, but she made no attempt to hide herself. The boat itself was no better or worse than any of the other hundred-plus watercraft here, but this particular vessel was the only one that had anyone visible topside, and it was obviously about to set sail, so Gentry made a beeline to it before he lost his chance.
He called out to the man on board. “Nice yacht. Do you speak English?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “It’s been up here for repairs, and I’m taking her back to Copenhagen.”
“What’s that, about an hour?”
“That’s right. A little less.”
Court said, “Are you the captain?”
The man climbed down the boarding ramp. “Yes. May I help you?” He showed no hint of suspicion in his words or actions.
“How would you like to make one thousand euros?”
That got his attention. He smiled, bemused. “To do what?”
“We need to go to Germany. Now. If you take me over the Baltic and drop us off, you can get this back to Copenhagen just a few hours late.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not a water taxi.”
“Two thousand euros.”
He seemed to think about it a moment, then repeated himself. “I’m not a water taxi. Are you in some trouble?”
“Not at all,” Court said, keeping a straight face. “My friend hates to fly, and we’ve got the money.”
The captain wasn’t buying it. “There’s a Scandlines ferry that makes the crossing. It’s twenty-five euros each. Not two thousand.”
Court adopted an embarrassed posture. “I’ve been banned for life on the ferry. Got a little drunk after a stag party. You know how it is.”
The man looked at Gentry a long time. He clearly did not know how it was. Still, he named his price to play along. “Three thousand.”
“If I give you three thousand, you wouldn’t be a water taxi. You would be a water limo.” Court nodded. “We leave right now.”
“You are welcome aboard,” said the captain, and Court waved Ruth over.
FORTY-SEVEN
The door to Whitlock’s holding cell opened, rousing him from his fantasies of killing Leland Babbitt. His watch had not been taken from him, so he glanced down and saw that it was just after six P.M.
He’d been stuck here for more than three hours.
A police officer led him up a hallway and into a small room that looked more or less identical to the one he’d just left, with one major exception. A man in a blue pinstripe suit sat at a little table with a manila folder in front of him and a briefcase at his feet.
Russ did not recognize the man but instantly sized him up as coming from the U.S. embassy.
Russ slumped down in front of him, making no attempt to hide his pissed-off look. He had no need to remain in character for this guy; he’d just be wasting both of their evenings. Instead he waited for the Belgian policeman to leave and close the door, and then he waited for the other man to speak.
“I’m with the embassy,” he said, and he left it there.
No shit, Russ thought, but he did not say it. He just sat there, sullen, waiting for more.
The man in the pinstripe suit added, “You sure as hell pissed somebody off. You were traveling with a set of credos that should have been clean. But they were flagged stateside.” The man chuckled. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen Langley reel in one of their own like that.”
Whitlock thought about breaking the man’s windpipe with an open hand to the throat, but it would only make him feel better for a few minutes, and it would do nothing to improve his situation, so he fought the urge.
“Anyway, you also seem to have some powerful friends.”
Russ sat up straighter in his chair now.
The embassy man reached across the table and handed Whitlock the manila folder. He poured out the contents and looked them over. It was a new passport, a Michigan driver’s license, and several credit cards.
Russ cocked his head. “You aren’t here to take me back?” He knew better than to say anything more, but still, the man held his hand up to stop him.
“I’m a delivery boy. That’s all you need to know.”
Russ nodded. “So am I free to go?”
The American from the embassy stood up. “You can pick up your belongings, minus your passport, at the window outside. The Belgians will have a form for you to sign, basically saying you were treated with kindness and respect. Sign it”—the man reached out and took the passport back, just for a quick look—“sign it David Barnes.” He handed over the passport again. “Don’t know who you are or what you’re up to, but I’ll just play my part.” He smiled. “Have a pleasant vacation, Mr. Barnes.”
Russ returned the smile and stood. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he was damn glad to be back in business.
Lee Babbitt had spent a frustrating morning in the signal room at Townsend House. When his assets in place in Stockholm missed their target, Beaumont and his men searched fruitlessly for a few hours, until a surprise call from Yanis Alvey in Tel Aviv revealed to Babbitt that Gentry was on a train to Copenhagen, and a plan had been put in place by Israeli Special Operations to take him down when he got there.
Lee had rushed his Jumper team to intercept the train during its stop in Malmö, but when they boarded they discovered that Gentry and the Israeli woman had apparently disembarked at an earlier station.
An hour later, Babbitt received a call from Ruth Ettinger herself. She told him about Gentry’s claim that Dead Eye was planning to assassinate the Israeli prime minister on behalf of Iran. Babbitt did not know if this was true, but the fact that Gentry knew of Russ Whitlock at all was suspicious enough for Babbitt to have Parks find out if Whitlock had boarded the flight to the United States as agreed. When he checked all the cover credos available to Whitlock he learned he was, instead, on his way to Brussels.
This, needless to say, set off alarm bells at Townsend House.
Babbitt immediately ordered the passport flagged and Whitlock detained. He had enough to worry about with the hunt for Gentry to also have to stop one of his own employees from assassinating Ehud fucking Kalb.
As Babbitt conferred with one of his analysts, his secretary paged him over the PA and asked him to hurry back to his office. When he arrived, he found he had a call holding from Denny Carmichael.
Babbitt groaned, but he grabbed the phone and spoke in an upbeat manner. “Hi, Denny.”
Carmichael was characteristically terse and to the point. “I just had Dead Eye released from custody at the airport in Brussels.”
Babbitt had to control himself not to shout. “Why on earth did you do that?”
“Because Court Gentry is loose in the wind. Because the only way we can pick Gentry back up again is through Dead Eye. According to Yanis Alvey at Mossad, Gentry is traveling with Ruth Ettinger, and it appears they are pursuing Whitlock on their own.”