Mark Greaney: On target

"You're lying again. Russia and China are practically the only two countries who do have good relations with Abboud. Why would Russia-"

"Because Russia's relationship with the Sudan is not as good as China's relationship with the Sudan. Three years ago China was given expanded mineral rights in the Darfuri desert, specifically a large sector called Tract 12A. At the time Moscow did not care; it was just desert scrub land on the Chadian border."

"But China found something," said Court.

"Not just 'something.' The most powerful 'something' of all."

"Oil."

"Yes. A tremendous amount. The Chinese are running all over Tract 12A as we speak. Bringing in equipment and experts. Drilling will begin very soon. And Abboud has allowed this. But if Abboud were out of the way, powerful members of the Sudanese Parliamentary Council, people within Abboud's own party, have made it clear to Moscow that the new leadership will throw the Chinese out on their ears and give Tract 12A to the Russians with an arrangement beneficial to both countries."

"If the Sudanese already have an agreement with the Chinese, how can the new president just ignore this?"

Sidorenko looked momentarily disappointed in his assassin. He answered as if the man's question was dangerously naive. "This is Africa."

Court nodded. "And what will this new man do about the genocide in Darfur?"

"One cannot say for sure; you must know that. But it is logical that without President Abboud, the situation will improve. Abboud has a personality cult under him, his minions do his bidding, and he has no similar successor. Also, Darfur has become important for something other than eradicating a broken and hopeless people. His successor may end the genocide in order to get the UN to look elsewhere for a place to waste Western money." Sid smiled. "And then my countrymen will come."

Gentry said nothing, just looked off to his left, into the crackling fireplace under the portrait of Joseph Stalin.

Sid pushed. "So your act will take a very powerful and very bad man off this earth. Further, it is possible that it will go a long way to ending the genocide that has been perpetrated there for the past decade or so."

"So you say," muttered Court, still looking into the fire. He knew Sid didn't give a damn about genocide or an evil man walking the earth; it was just his attempt to create excitement for the operation in the mind of his killer, a man Sid no doubt thought to be a Goody Two-shoes.

The Russian behind the desk smiled. "It would be nice if you trusted me, but our relationship is new. Trust will come with time, I feel certain. In the meantime, feel free to look into this matter yourself, do your own research. I'll have my men take you to a nice hotel. You can spend the evening looking through material I have prepared for you, learning the players, the affiliations, studying the maps. You can come back here tomorrow morning and give me your answer. I am confident you will make the right decision, so after that, we can immediately begin preparing the operation to fit your requirements."

Court nodded slowly. He asked, "Your men… Am I to assume they are under orders to remain at my side?"

Gregor Sidorenko smiled, but his eyes were serious. "You may assume that, yes. Saint Petersburg is not a safe place for the uninitiated. They will watch over you." Then he said, with eyebrows raised and a bit of a mischievous smile on his sunken face, "You will have much to do tonight, but I can provide you with companionship. You've been working hard; there is no shame in a little… shall we say, recreation, before beginning your next operation."

"A hooker, you mean?"

"A companion."

Court's shoulders slumped. This was just one more thing to deal with. "Sid, don't send a hooker to my door."

"As you wish, Mr. Gray. I only thought it would improve your disposition." He said something in Russian to the guards and laughed along with them when he finished. Gentry did not pick up a word of it. With a wave of his hand, Sid moved on. "Until tomorrow, then."

Gentry dined alone at a Russian restaurant with no other patrons. He sat in the back, and his minders sat towards the front and turned potential customers away while the waiters sat by themselves and smoked morosely but did not complain. After his meal he was taken to the Nevsky Palace on Nevsky Prospect. The limousine pulled into a loading dock, and five of Sid's men ushered the American through an employee entrance. A staff elevator shot the entourage to the twelfth floor, and they continued down a long, bright hall to a corner room. Court was led inside a junior suite and was told his minders would be outside the door and in the next room all night. They would wake him at seven for breakfast and then drive him back to Sid to give him his answer.

A young man with a shaved head closed the door on his way out.

For a junior suite it was opulent, hideously so, and it had clearly been modified by Sidorenko's men. A large seating area led to a narrow balcony. The telephone was conspicuously absent. A hallway off the living room connected to a large bedroom-again, with no telephone-which was connected to a large, modern bathroom. Court found a massive stock of toiletries on the vanity, enough for a soccer team to prepare for a night on the town. On the bed he found a single change of clothes: a silk tracksuit, multicolored-black with a thick trim of purple and a gold V shape under the velour collar. Obnoxious anywhere in the world except for the countries formerly behind the Iron Curtain.

Back in the sitting room he saw a thick stack of papers, books, and booklets, open and bookmarked and at his service. Presumably Sid had these put here so he could check out everything the Russian mobster had said about the Sudan, the Russians, the Chinese, and Tract 12A in the Darfuri desert.

Court ignored his homework and instead stepped out on the balcony and watched the heavy traffic clogging the road below. He spent a minute scanning the buildings around, squinting down into the streetlights' glare. He then returned to the bathroom. He scooped up a can of shaving cream and a washcloth and slipped both inside the pockets of his jacket before stepping back onto the balcony. Deftly, he went over the railing with one leg and then the next. He shimmied down the ornamental drainpipe running along the wall next to the balcony, descended to the floor just below him, swung twice for momentum, and then kicked his legs forward. Immediately upon landing on the eleventh-floor balcony he could tell the corresponding room was occupied. Lights were on and clothes were strewn about, but no one seemed to be inside at present. Perhaps, he thought, they were out to dinner. The balcony door was locked. Quickly he shook the can of shaving cream and then pressed the button to discharge the white foam on the sliding glass door, concentrating it just next to the door handle. By the time the can was empty, the shaving cream had created a thick covering over the glass the size of a dinner plate. He wrapped his right hand in the washcloth and quickly punched through the thick cream, creating a fist-size hole with an audible crack but without the loud shattering sound of broken glass, as the foam both muffled the impact and muted the clanging of glass on the tile floor. He let the washcloth fall from his hand inside the room and then he reached in and unlatched the door.

He entered the room, checked the clothing in the suitcases and on the floor, and was disappointed to find nothing that fit. Disappointed, but not surprised. Nothing in his life was too easy; rarely did he pull off any scheme without a single hitch. He left through the door of the room and took the hallway to a stairwell. He descended four flights and then walked along another hallway, entered another stairwell, and then exited into the lobby. From here he found employee-only access that led him to a laundry room. No one paid any attention to him as he entered.