Brewer didn’t press. She said, “Well, I guess if the compromises stop, we’ll know Renfro was the right guy.”

“Perhaps,” Hanley said, then stood back up. “Tell Romantic that he needs to keep pressing the others. Another round with the two still in the States till they head over to the Five Eyes conference, then we send Romantic over with them. There he can turn up the heat on Karlsson.”

Matt Hanley left through the door, his shoulders slumped. Brewer could tell he was devastated that he no longer believed that Renfro was the culprit. She took one last look at the body of the deputy director of Support, then followed her boss back down the stairs and out into the quiet morning.

* * *

• • •

Court Gentry sat in a first-floor window above Savile Row, watching over the front door of Norton & Sons Tailors, just across the street. He’d only positioned himself here seconds earlier, after entering the building through an unlocked door and running up a staircase as quickly but as quietly as possible, passing a room full of tailors huddled over their workbenches. The first floor was dark and empty of people, filled instead with huge rolls of fine fabrics and other supplies.

Before he even had a chance to take stock of his personal security here in the large, dimly lit storage area, across the street a black four-door Mercedes S-Class limousine slowed and stopped in front of Norton.

Court knelt down and backed away a bit from the window, even though he doubted he would be seen from here because of the reflection from the sun on the outside of the window glass.

He’d been following this Mercedes on a rented bicycle from the owner’s Mayfair apartment through streets so congested the bike had a hard time keeping back from the slow-moving car. Once he saw they were approaching Savile Row, however, he began moving up a parallel street as fast as he could pedal, because he had a good idea where his subject was going.

A young man climbed out of the front passenger seat of the S-Class limousine. He rushed around and opened a back door, and a heavyset balding man with messy white hair stepped out. Together the two men headed through the front door of Norton as the driver climbed out and stood by the vehicle, his eyes scanning up and down the quiet street.

From his vantage point Court was able to see the older man shake hands with two young employees inside, and then he headed towards the back, out of view.

Sir Donald Fitzroy had been Court’s handler back when the American worked in the private sector as an assassin for hire. Fitz and Gentry worked together for years; the former MI5 operative and security consultant found jobs that virtually no one on Earth could pull off, and then Court went out and pulled them off.

Usually.

Court did his part; some of his ops were so successful and his getaways so clean that people began referring to a mythical Gray Man, an invisible, uber assassin, capable of anything.

It was close, but it wasn’t accurate. Court balked at missions that he didn’t think stood a good chance of success, he’d begun operations only to back out when something changed in his target’s habits or security structure, and he’d even had a few targets he was never able to find.

But even with this, he became arguably the most successful assassin on the planet, either government run or private.

Court hated the moniker first given to him in a media release by Interpol because he hated the attention, but Fitzroy had thought it perfect for marketing purposes. Those few cutouts in the world that knew Fitzroy was running the Gray Man knew exactly whom to call if they were presented with an extremely difficult problem that no one else could solve.

Now Court looked to the driver of the Mercedes. After a grand total of thirty seconds checking for threats, he was now leaning back against the vehicle, eyeing a shapely mom with two daughters in tow as she strolled up the street to his right.

Some security officer, Court thought. Sir Donald was legendary for his poor personal security. He’d been kidnapped, blackmailed, and otherwise threatened, yet after all this he moved through the city with a grand total of one bodyguard and one lazy driver.

“C’mon, Fitz, I’m not saving your ass again,” he said to himself, but then he wondered if the paltry protection in light of all the danger Fitzroy had faced in the past meant the man was retired now, and therefore considered himself less of a target.

The woman with the two girls neared the Mercedes, and Court assumed they would pass the scene in front of him, but the woman stepped over to the driver, talked to him a moment, then turned in to Norton & Sons, the girls following behind.

Court looked on, only mildly curious about the new arrivals in his area of operations, but once he recognized that the little girls were clearly twins, he sat up straighter. The second girl through the door paused and looked back, up and down the street, and he lunged for the small binos he’d placed on the windowsill. He brought them to his eyes, and a soft sound came from his throat.

“Claire?”

He wasn’t certain how old Claire and Kate Fitzroy were—he thought they must have been ten or eleven by now. They were Fitzroy’s granddaughters, children of his deceased son. Court had saved the kids’ lives once, plain and simple, but he never thought of it that way. As far as he was concerned, Claire had saved his.

They were so grown now, and he caught himself blinking mist out of his eyes as he watched them.

Elise was the mother, Sir Donald’s former daughter-in-law. Court wondered if she had remarried in the years since her and her children’s lives had been saved.

Court watched while Fitzroy came out of the back wearing a new bespoke suit, the girls hugging him, telling him stories that he showed great interest in.

After another fifteen minutes the entire group left the tailor; the bodyguard held Fitzroy’s bags, a dramatic breach in close-protection protocol that caused Court to roll his eyes. The family piled into the Mercedes limo with the guard and driver, and it rolled off up the street. Court was already downstairs on his bike by now, out of sight of the group, who would have been able to easily identify him.

* * *

• • •

Fifteen minutes later the Fitzroys sat at an outdoor café just a block from Buckingham Palace, and Court stood across the street in a passing crowd, looking on while the girls ate and Fitzroy and Elise drank wine. It was a beautiful sunny Saturday, the kids were obviously out of school, and it looked like everyone was happy.

Except Court. He just spoke softly to himself, though he was thinking about Sir Donald. “We can’t do this in front of the kids, Don. Wrap up lunch and go home.”

He softened a bit, thinking about the girls, wondering about their lives now. There was always fallout on any mission, collateral damage. The kids’ lives had been ever affected because Fitzroy was the handler of the Gray Man, and Court wished he could somehow make all the pain they’d gone through after losing their father wash away so their lives could be happier.