Mark Greaney - On target

"How does that help me?"

Zack smiled. "The security detail has a protocol for an attack when the president is making his morning walk to the mosque. If there is a threat while they're in the square in front of the mosque, they take Abboud into the local bank and lock themselves in the vault until help arrives."

"And I am guessing you have a way to make them think there is some sort of a threat?"

"Sudan Station does. They have a force of one hundred Sudanese Liberation Army rebels who can hit Suakin at six thirty-five a.m. on Sunday, ten April. Exactly when Abboud and his entourage hit the square. The president and some of his close protection detail will enter the bank, which of course will be empty."

"But it won't be empty."

Zack smiled and nodded aggressively, "You got it. You'll be in there, ready to disable the guard force and snatch Abboud, get him out of town while the SLA blows some shit up and jumps around for a few minutes, distracting the locals and the rest of Abboud's team. Then you meet up with me for the handoff." It was clear Hightower was excited by the operation; his hands and his body had not stopped moving since he'd begun his explanation.

Court sat there silently for a moment, then asked, "Is this where I start clapping?"

"This is a good plan, Six. Operation Nocturne Sapphire, we're calling it."

"A thrill just went up my leg," said Court sarcastically, still unfazed by Zack's vigor.

"But the best part is the deal I've been authorized to offer you."

Gentry looked at his former team leader a long time before speaking. "The CIA has wanted me on a slab for four years. What kind of deal could you offer that would interest me?"

"No slab, for starters. We call off the dogs. Not just CIA, but Interpol, too."

"Interpol doesn't scare me."

"I know they don't. You don't scare easy. Never did. But I know what does scare the Gray Man."

"What scares me, Zack?"

"We scare you. Wouldn't you like to be free of us? Free of the shoot-on-sight sanction? I know what your life is like, bro. People talk about the Gray Man like you're some sort of flashy-assed James Bond, jet-setting around the world, partying at the best clubs, and drinking martinis with the beautiful people on the Cote d'Azur. But I know what it's really like: living on the run, bouncing from one shit splat town to the next, no one loves you, no one likes you, no one fucking knows you. Always looking into the shadows for crazy motherfuckers like me hunting you down. Eating beans out of a can in a stairwell in a roach-infested flophouse while the real tuxedo crowd is around the corner dining on lobster tail at the Four Seasons."

Truer words had never been spoken, but Court was not about to give Zack the satisfaction of admitting he was right.

"I like beans."

"No, you don't. You don't like any of it, except the job. The job is you. The rest is just your fucked-up temporary predicament. I know the score, Sierra Six. Being the Gray Man sucks."

"So let me guess. You're here to take me away from all that?"

"Damn right. I can keep you on the job, but you won't be hunted anymore, at least by us."

"On the job? Working for who?"

"The CIA, of course." Zack reached across and held Court's face by the chin, turned it from side to side. "I thought we just covered that. What, did I hit you too hard?" He took the ice pack from Gentry and returned it to his hand.

Court said, "I do this gig in Sudan for you, but after that, you're offering full-time work? Just like the last four years didn't happen? Everything goes back to the way it was in the old days?"

"Negative. I'm offering contract work. Keeps Langley's hands clean, and it pays a damn sight better than a real government salary." He smiled. "We want you back." Then he shrugged his shoulders. "Well, let me rephrase that. I'm not talking about a desk and a reserved parking space at Langley. That doesn't happen to guys like you. CIA won't acknowledge working with the Gray Man. But from time to time we run into situations where I hear people say, 'Sure wish Sierra Six was still here, instead of out in bumble fuck, doin' private hits for pimps and drug dealers.' I swear, we miss you sometimes."

He paused before saying, "You always were the best. We want you alive, Court. Doing the dirty jobs under a false flag."

"How do I know you aren't just going to kill me when the Sudan op is done?"

"Because we need you. We aren't asking you to go raise daffodils in Iowa in the Witness Protection Program here. We want you to keep doing what you're doing, living out here in the cold, and we'll keep up the front that we're still after your ass. Look, this shit is in your blood, and the agency can still use you, despite your fuckup in '06. Washington won't let the SAD get its hands dirty these days. But if we play this right, we can let you get the dirty hands, and we can support you. It's fucking perfect, man. Like coke off a whore's ass. Know what I'm saying?"

Court shook his head slowly. "Not really, no."

"Look, you act all cynical, but I know you. You are a patriot, kiddo. You piss red, white, and blue. The White House has a need, I have a need, you have a need. We can all help each other." He grinned. "Everybody wins."

The discussion steered to the potential operation for several minutes. Zack had an answer ready for every question Gentry posed. When there were no other operational details left to go over, Court grabbed the ice pack back from Hightower and pressed it to the swollen flesh on his face. Zack looked at it longingly a moment but did not reach for it. Behind the ice pack Court said, "I need to hear this deal from somebody above you."

"Like who?" asked Hightower with no appearance of surprise.

"I'd settle for Mathew Hanley. I figure our old supervisor is probably running SAD now, if not higher up than that."

"Matt's out of SAD. Riding a desk in South America last I heard. Paraguay, maybe?"

Court did not hide his puzzlement. "He used to be the wunderkind of black ops. What happened?"

"You happened, fucko. Having one of his door kickers go nuts and shoot up his own squad didn't help his ascendancy to the top."

"So I get blamed for that, too?"

"History is written by the victors. You may have survived, sorta, but the CIA is still around to write the official version of what you did and why."

Court thought a moment. Finally he just repeated himself: "I need to hear this deal from someone above you."

Hightower nodded. "That's cool. Sit tight, and I'll be back."

Court was given his clothing back. He dressed, and then he waited.

Over an hour later two of Zack's men returned to the room where Court was being held. He'd spent the time massaging ice into his face. He wondered how he was going to explain the obvious bruising to his Russian colleagues /captors. Two of Zack's men, one big and black and the other older and white, led him down a narrow and low hallway, past water and steam pipes, up a narrow flight of stairs, and into a room on the upper deck. Zack's men didn't like Court, that much was plain by their eat shit looks and the way they bumped him with their muscular bodies to get him to turn into the new room. Gentry recognized that taking down one of their team with a cracking shot to the face wasn't going to endear him to these hardy boys.

But he didn't care. He wasn't looking to make friends, even if they were all going to work together on the mission to come. These guys would be pros, just like him, and the op would take precedence.

They didn't need to like each other to do their jobs.

Once Court was seated in the new room, he noticed a blue monitor on a desk in front of him. Zack entered a moment later, stowing a sat phone in a pouch on his hip as he did so.