Марк Грини - One Minute Out

Travers scribbled this all down on a small pad. “Got it. Interrogative: where did we get this information?”

“That’s ‘need to know’ only, Zulu. Just treat the intel as credible.”

Need to know? Travers thought. Why wouldn’t the guys on the ground need to know where the hell the CIA was getting intricate location and disposition-of-forces intel?

He didn’t argue, but he did ask another question. “Do we know the time when the target should arrive at this poz?”

“Time, now, Zulu. Get there ASAP.”

“Roger that. We’re en route.”

Suzanne Brewer then said, “As per the DDO, the subject is to be taken alive. Is that clear?”

Travers sighed in disbelief now. Court Gentry was his friend, more or less. At the very least they had fought and bled alongside each other. Travers had been given the rules of engagement already, so he knew Gentry wasn’t hostile. Gentry was just being Gentry, doing his own thing, and the DDO wanted his ass dragged back to the East Coast so he could be put back in service.

Yeah, he might not want to go, and he would try to escape and evade. Gentry might even throw a fist or try out some of his whiz-bang judo shit. But neither side was going to pull guns on each other.

Court was a good man in the Ground Branch team leader’s book, despite what the Agency brassholes said about him from time to time. There was no way Travers or his team was going to kill him, and Brewer’s stressing of the rules of engagement just made him dislike the already dislikable woman even more.

But Travers was a good soldier. He kept his voice much more dispassionate than he felt as he replied, “Alive. Understood and wilco.”

He then transmitted on his interteam radio. “Listen up, Zulu. New target coordinates, one klick my poz on foot to the east. Everybody flex over there, and double-time it.”

THIRTY-SIX

Here I am, in yet another dark room, in yet another congested European city, looking out yet another dirty window in search of yet another group of assholes.

At times like these I can’t help but wonder if I should have gone to college.

I’ve been working at the packed restaurant and nightclub downstairs for the past two hours, carting ice to the bartenders, changing out kegs of beer, and schlepping cases of wine and liquor down two flights of stairs, then schlepping the empty bottles out to a loading dock in the back.

But at a quarter till midnight I slipped away from my assigned duties, picked an office door lock on the second floor, and found an overwatch position above the alleyway that looked directly out towards my objective.

I’m sitting in the dark, staring down on my target location, waiting for something to happen.

The Casino of Venice is in an ornate palace with a simple facade, tucked away in a tiny square surrounded by taller structures. Next door to it is a square building with a pair of large red wooden doors on the other side of a stone forecourt with an impressive iron gate. I see several people milling about inside the gate, all male, all dressed in fine suits. These don’t look like security, and they don’t look like Italian mafia to me.

So I’m guessing these shitheads are the buyers.

I’m assuming there are more inside, and I’m also assuming the women from Mostar have already been brought in, either via the passageways in front of me and off to my left or else through some sort of back entrance. The building does back up onto a small canal, so I know I may miss some of the comings and goings, but I also know beggars can’t be choosers, and this spot gives me a good chance of getting a look at some of the players.

I pull out my camera and begin taking pictures of the men I see, all the while scanning the buildings, windows, and alcoves within sight. I take it to be a one hundred percent chance that the Consortium will be on the lookout for me, and they’d be idiots not to put surveillance at the front entrance to tonight’s market. But despite my searching, I don’t see any threats except a couple of goons standing at the casino door.

Still, I know they are out here somewhere.

Close to me, hunting me.

I keep shooting images, but soon I hear a voice in the alleyway off to my left. I don’t move closer to the window to improve my angle so that I can get a visual on the noise, but instead I patiently wait for whoever is talking to come into view.

Finally a group of seven or eight men, all in business suits, walk together in a tight profile, casting one long shadow as they pass in front of a streetlamp. One of their number is talking loudly, in an animated fashion, as if he is on the phone. I can’t make out the words, but I can hear that he’s speaking English.

I focus on the middle of the cluster of men as they turn and begin down the alleyway towards the casino entrance. I see the top of a bald head, barely visible among the much taller men around.

I see a phone to his ear and realize he’s the one speaking.

Who the hell is this guy?

I don’t know why I’m asking myself that, because I know. He’s American, short, bald, and obviously important.

This is exactly how Roxana Vaduva described the Director of the Consortium.

Holy shit, I say to myself.

If Roxana was aware that the man she knew as Tom was going to be in Venice tonight, she sure didn’t tell me. I saw no signs of her trying to deceive me back on La Primarosa , so I’m guessing she had no idea he’d be making an appearance.

This makes me wonder if she was correct about her going to the USA after the sale.

And it also makes me worry, because if the Director is here, it may mean he’s already raped her.

I close my eyes and fight to push the thought out as a wave of guilt washes over me. I tell myself I could have found a way to get her off that boat, even if she didn’t want to go. I know I could have but, if I’m being honest with myself, I know exactly why I didn’t do it.

Roxana was absolutely right—she was Talyssa’s best chance for finding out who was running the Consortium.

I left her there, on the yacht and in mortal danger, because she was our agent in place and, despite the risks to her, we needed her in play.

I’d never tell her sister this in a million years, but it’s the truth. Roxana’s life was worth risking for me to complete my mission.

And knowing all this does nothing to mitigate the guilt I’m feeling.

I open my eyes, refocus on my objective, and start taking pictures like a madman.

Soon the men enter the tiny square, then step through the iron gate in front of the house next to the casino. They walk through the small forecourt and enter through the red doors.

I don’t get a single usable shot of the man in the middle of the security detail.

Son of a bitch.

All I can do now is sit here till they leave and shoot images of anyone else who comes and goes. There are over twenty women who will be lost in the wind forever unless I can ID the shitheads who are taking them.

I settle into place, ready to wait this out.

• • •

Willem Klerk stood inside a well-lit gelato shop on the Rio Tera San Leonardo, biting into a pistachio cone and gazing only intermittently out onto the touristy street, still relatively crowded at half past midnight. He was the only White Lion operative in a three-block radius, and as he listened in to the others reporting from their positions, all closer to the market, he put his own chances for sighting the Gray Man as low.

He ate more of his gelato as his eyes focused on a pair of men walking a meter apart through the crowd. He’d noticed they were moving a little faster than others around them, and this pace set them apart at first.