Mark Greaney: On target

"I realized there was no one who had both the brains and the stomach. Someone with the brains for business and the stomach for violence could survive and thrive in the new Russia like no one else. I had the brains… this I knew. But the stomach? That took a while to develop."

"So, do you throw your employees in acid?"

"No, my employees are treated well by me. They are National Socialists, if you had not yet guessed. They beat immigrants for fun. They think you are from the Caucasus from your complexion and hair… so they are no fans of yours. No, I do not threaten them; I let these young men live as they wish, give them free run of my home, and I pay them extremely well."

"In gold chains?"

Sid laughed, genuinely amused. "Ha. No, not in gold chains. In euros. Used to be in dollars but, well, time marches on. You can come here, angry as you are, and you can tell me you do not want to work with me any longer. But, Mr. Gray, I promise you, I am the best that there is for what you need."

On the wall to Gentry's left and Sid's right was a huge painting in a massive gilded frame. In the smoky light of the room, the square face and penetrating eyes of Joseph Stalin stared back at Court.

"Cute picture," Court said as he sat down in an uncomfortable wooden high-backed chair in front of Sid's desk.

Sidorenko regarded the portrait as if he had only just noticed it. "Yes. I respect the authority that it conveys."

"You don't strike me as one of the old guard."

"What do you mean by that?"

"A commie. I thought all of you billionaire mobsters were capitalist pigs like the rest of the civilized world."

Sidorenko laughed with his mouth open and a high gurgle in the back of his throat. "Oh yes, I am a pig, but not an ideological one." He stared at the portrait as he said, "He was a terrible man, yes, but Uncle Joe said perhaps the most brilliant words ever spoken. He said, 'Death solves all problems'-"

Court finished the quote. "'No man, no problem.'"

Sidorenko smiled appreciatively. "Of course you would know this. It is your own personal mission statement, is it not?"

"It is not."

Sid shrugged. "An operational credo, then?" He did not wait for Court to answer. "Stalin, the Romanovs, the Great Patriotic War, the current skinhead Russian nationalist phenomenon. I have, you see, an affinity for terrible, terrible things. I am a fan of the power of cruelty. A man who has the ability to inflict death and misery on his fellow man is more powerful than the rich, the famous, the good."

"Your operational credo?"

"Not really. A pastime, nothing more. Most of my business interests are rather benign: prostitutes, money laundering, stolen cars, credit cards, drugs… money-makers, yes, but money is not my true passion. There is, you see, nothing to me so fulfilling as to be a player in the industry in which you ply your trade. I am speaking of the industry of death. I am Russian. Our history is gloom and destruction. There are many sufferers and only a few dealers in suffering. I chose to be one of these. Awful, but preferable to the alternative, yes?"

Court said nothing. He was accustomed to working for, with, around, and against total nut jobs. This Russian freak was just par for the course on which he played.

Sid continued, "You are my instrument. You are my tool."

"If I choose to be."

Sidorenko smiled. "Yes. If you choose. Which is why I brought you here today."

"I thought you brought me here to intimidate me."

"Are you intimidated?"

"Not in the least."

Sid smiled. "Ah, well, good thing I have another reason. I have a job." He took another long sip of his purple tea and leaned forward on his desk as if to get down to business. "If you could kill anyone in the world right now, who would it be?"

"Greg Sidorenko."

Sid laughed. Court did not. Sid's levity chilled and morphed into a slight smile. "The best assassin on the planet wants to kill me. I should be frightened. But I'm not, because once I tell you who your new target is, you will thank me, and you and I will be the best of friends."

Court stood and turned on his heel. Quickly the four men by the door behind him pushed off the wall and moved closer. Court said to Sid, "I'm leaving. These guys try to stop me, and they will get hurt. I get the impression that you might get off on watching that, but you'll have to find yourself a new crew of hoodlums."

"President Bakri Abboud," Sid shouted the name, the name echoed in the long hall, and the Gray Man stopped dead in his tracks. He did not turn around immediately.

Court said, "I don't mind difficult, but I insist on the possible. He is an impossible target." He began walking again.

"Normally, yes, it would be so. But I have a way in, I have his schedule, I have access to him, and I have a way out."

Court chuckled derisively. "Then do it yourself."

"I did not say it would be easy. But you… you can do it. Just listen to my plan. You may still walk away, of course, if you do not like it. But I am sure you will be satisfied."

Court turned and took a few steps back to the desk. "The president of Sudan knows he is a wanted man. There is a warrant for his arrest by the International Criminal Court in The Hague for the genocide in Darfur. A hunted man who is surrounded by bodyguards, controls a national police force, an intelligence agency, an army, an air force, a navy… who rules an entire fucking nation? One man cannot get to him."

Sid sipped his tea again slowly. "Nine days from now a Russian transport plane will depart Belarus with military equipment for President Abboud's army. The aircraft's destination is Khartoum, the capital. It is a secret flight. No manifest, no customs, no problems. Four days after that is April 10, Abboud's birthday, which he always spends in his hometown of Suakin, an ancient port city with no military garrison and no major government installations. He will travel there with his close protection detail, two dozen or so men, but that is all. His farm will be well-guarded, to be sure, but he will go to the local mosque three times a day while he is there. In the morning, at dawn, the president will perform the muezzin's call to prayer himself from the minaret of the mosque. Suakin is also surrounded by ancient ruined towers and buildings from the time of the Romans. A competent man equipped with a sniper rifle could find many good places to position himself, yes?"

"I don't know," said Court, an affectation of annoyance in his voice, but he was listening.

"Mr. Gray, I can put two million dollars into your bank account tomorrow. I can put you on that transport plane into the Sudan in nine days, and I can arrange for you to slip out of the airport facility without being detected. I have a man who can drive you to Suakin. One week after this, presuming you accomplish your mission, I can similarly arrange for you to get back into the airport with no trouble from the locals, and fly back to Russia on a Russian jet. Once home, you will find two million more dollars in your account."

"Four million. Plus whatever cut you are keeping for yourself. You must have been commissioned by a party extremely interested in the termination of President Abboud."

"Indeed I have."

"Who?" Court sat back in the uncomfortable chair.

Sidorenko cocked his head but did not seem too surprised. "It was my understanding that you don't normally care who the payer is, only whether or not the target is worthy of the punishment you are being paid to dole out."

"I am not in a very trusting mood after the last contract."

Now Sid did show genuine surprise. "Slattery? He was exactly who I said he was."

"But the payer was not who you claimed him to be," responded Court flatly.

The Russian weighed the comment carefully, his beady eyes nearly turning in on themselves as he thought. His pupils flickered in the light from the burning logs in the fireplace. At first Gentry thought Sid was going to argue, to feign confusion, to deny. But instead, the Russian just raised his hands in sheepish surrender, shrugged, and said, "Yes, true. I deceived you. I am sorry. But in response to your question, no less than the Russian government wants Abboud dead. They are putting up the money. They are commissioning the contract. Through intermediaries, of course."