J.W. nodded, and Mike unmuted the phone. Scardino said, “Whetstone, I am going to appeal to my asset inside the intelligence community to get me everything possible on Violator and all his associates, as soon as possible. I will give you that information the second I obtain it. Stay low in the area until I get back with you.”
“Right. But don’t take too long. Your operation just gets tougher by the hour.”
“I’m well aware. I’ll call you back.”
The call ended, and Scardino and J.W. looked back and forth at one another for several seconds. J.W. said, “He could be playing us.”
Scardino nodded. “Thought of that. He could just want this intel on the Gray Man so bad he’s trying to make us think we need to obtain it and task Whetstone to him as a form of self-preservation.”
J.W. then said, “But whatever happened last night in Washington Circle…That was a few men causing an incredible amount of damage. So far, we’ve heard nothing from any of the agencies saying they were involved, and it definitely wasnotD.C. Metro PD. If it was an unknown actor…it could be Hanley, the Gray Man, and maybe a few other assets.”
J.W. thought a moment more, then said, “Keep your surveillance team right up Shaw’s ass. Donotlose access to him when he leaves ODNI. I will reach out to him now, tell him what we need him to find out.
“We’ve got a long way to go,” J.W. said. “Well over a dozen targets left.”
“If Hanley has some kind of a field team working against us, then we’ve got more than twelve targets to deal with.”
“Let me bask in our success a second, Mike.” After a moment he took a sip of coffee and sighed. “The Chinese better come through with their promises at the end of this.”
Scardino said, “Nobody plays the long game like China. We’re showing our value to them; we’ll both be rewarded when this is all over.”
—
Court climbed off his Yamaha bike, walked it into a storage shed, then locked it up. It was just after noon; the air was cold and the wind was so still that the water here at the marina looked like a sheet of glass.
He walked up pier B with his helmet still on, his backpack in his hand swinging down by his ankle, then climbed aboard his sixty-three-foot Sea Ray sport cruiser at the end of the pier.
He stepped over a telltale, a thin strand of fishing line he’d lightly taped across the passageway between the swim platform and the aft deck. The fact that it was still there, undisturbed, made him confident no one had been aboard in his absence, but still, after he unlocked the door to the companionway down to the saloon, he drew his pistol and cleared the area, flashing the light on the gun a few times, then checked the various holds and rooms belowdecks.
This done, he turned on the stereo, sat at a table in the saloon, and flipped on the monitor that displayed all the camera views around the boat, including two cameras on the hull under the water. He checked for any activity on the cams since he’d left the boat, and saw that all was as it should be.
Satisfied he had no immediate threats to deal with, he put his unholstered pistol on the table next to the monitor, then lifted a seat cushion off a lounger next to him. It came up easily and revealed a stowage area large enough for the twelve-gauge shotgun he retrieved from it. This he put on the table, as well, and only now he felt ready to deal with anyone who might try to board from the dock onto the main deck above.
His immediate needs met, he pulled a burner phone he’d just purchased from his backpack and loaded the Signal app onto the device.
Five minutes after this, he looked down to his Casio G-Shock watch, checking the time, adding five hours to account for the curvature of the Earth, and then he dialed a number he had memorized.
The phone rang several times on the other end, but to his relief it was finally answered, and then a familiar voice spoke.
“Yes?” The accent was British, the tone raspy, with a hint of mistrust.
“Hey, Don. It’s me.”
Now the man brightened instantly. “Hello, lad. So good to hear your voice.”
“You, too.” Sir Donald Fitzroy had been Court’s handler for years, back when Court was a freelance assassin. They’d been in touch sporadically in the time since, having seen each other most recently in Mexico earlier in the year.
But Court hadn’t called the man to talk about Mexico. No, Court was interested in Fitzroy’s time in British intelligence, when he’d been a very highly placed MI5 officer serving in Northern Ireland.
“Where in the world are you right now?” Court asked.
“I’m on the Continent. You’d be proud of me. No danger or skullduggery. Too busy healing these old bones up from the last time I saw you, actually.”
“That skullduggery will get to you if you’re not careful.”
“Too true. My life is quite the opposite of the old days, lad. I have beautiful countryside to look at, music to listen to, a home that is small enough that I can almost take care of it myself, though I do have help.”
“How are you feeling?”
