“He was young when we ran him…still, he’s late forties now, I suppose. You think he still has some capabilities?”
“Iknowhe does. He’s leaving a trail of dead and damaged trying to get to me.”
“Bloody hell. How can I help?”
“Put feelers out. I need to know how I can sneak up behind him, should the need arise. Addresses, known associates, methods of operation, whatever you can learn.”
Fitz clicked his tongue a few times, as if he were trying to think ofsomething. “I know his da wasn’t from Belfast. He was from somewhere north. County Antrim, near the coast, I think. It’s been so bloody long, just can’t remember.”
“You know anything about a mother?”
Fitzroy thought back. Finally, he said, “Rory’s wife? I don’t. Truthfully, if I ever knew, I’ve long since forgotten.”
“Whowouldknow?”
“A little Irishman named Bill Tully. He was RUC, he ran Whetstone up close. He’d know.”
Court quickly typed the name William Tully into Google, looking for a photo. Instead, he found a day-old news article about a senior Northern Ireland police official’s body turning up in England. “Remember when I mentioned Coyle was leaving a trail of bodies to get to me?”
“Old Bill is lying along that trail?”
“That would be my guess. He was found in a shallow grave outside of Oxford yesterday.”
“Oxford? That’s strange. Certainly not Tully’s normal stomping ground. Wonder why he was in England.”
“Any ideas?” Court asked, still scanning the article.
“The MI5 man who ran Tully, back when Tully ran Whetstone. His name is Sir Allen Glazebrook. Back then he was the same rank I was. He’s got a place in the Cotswolds. Not far from Oxford.”
“Can you ask him about Whetstone for me?”
“Old Allen and I never got on, really; he saw me as rougher, more base, perhaps. Too keen to break the bones of my enemies. I saw him…well…I suppose I saw him just as he was. An Eton prick, a plugged-in Oxford grad trying to pass his time in Ulster without mussing his hair. He quite failed at that, I’ll say. And then, after the service, Sir Allen and I became competitors. Hiring blokes like you, running commercial security services around the globe. But since I’ve left that game, I imagine that arranging a chat with him shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll ring a mutual friend and report back.”
“Thanks, Fitz.”
“This mess going on in America. Is this related to that?”
“It’s looking that way.”
“Are you back home, then, doing what you do?”
“It won’t benefit either of us if you know where I am and what I’m up to.”
“That’s fair, lad. Word is American secrets are for sale, and whoever’s doin’ the buying intends on some real damage over there. I hope you get it squared away. America with its house in order is a good thing for the rest of the world.”
Court had a camera on the flybridge of his boat, and it faced pier B and the parking lot beyond it. He had noticed a black Suburban pull up a few seconds earlier, and now he saw a group of four men coming up the pier, unlocking the gate with a key as they did so.
Court said, “Rumors around here are that Russia or China is involved.”
“Bollocks,” Fitzroy said. “America itself is the one you have to fear. Sorry to say, but whether it’s China or Russia who’s benefiting from what’s happening right now, the fact remains there are people high up in your intel community who are happy to let this happen.”
Court thought this over; he couldn’t argue, especially because only half his attention was going to Fitzroy’s comment. The other half was on the group of men heading up the docks in the direction ofShip Happens, Two. Matt Hanley was at the center, and the three men around him, Court suspected, were part of the Five Guys, the security team that worked at Ghost Town. Hanley had his phone in his hand, held to his ear.
“Gotta run, Fitz. Glad to hear you sounding good. Please get back to me when you have something.”
Court’s phone beeped; he looked and saw that Hanley was calling him.
“Will do, lad. Keep ducking those bullets.”
