“Guns, gates, and guys,” she replied flatly. “Trust me, that castle in the Highlands will be the safest place to be on Earth for the next few days.”
* * *
• • •
The knock at the door to Court’s basement apartment came at seven in the evening, a half hour after Court had been promised by Brewer that someone would arrive to watch over Belyakov.
He looked through the peephole, then unlocked the door and opened it. The same young bearded redhead from whom he’d taken the Volvo and the equipment the day before stood there, and he gave Court a surprised look.
“You?” he said.
“Me. What’s up, Red?”
“It’s Jason, actually. What happened to your face?”
Court didn’t answer. Instead he said, “November, Delta, Zulu, fourteen, Golf, Whiskey.” He crossed his fingers, then lifted them up by his face. “Your turn, kiddo. I’m rootin’ for you.”
Jason laughed at this despite himself. “I’ve been practicing. Oscar, Oscar, Kilo, seven, eight, India, X-ray.”
“You rock,” Court said with a tired and pained smile.
To this Jason just said, “I heard you shot up my Volvo.”
Court stepped aside so Jason could enter and said, “Dude, I was crouched down behind it when the bullets started hitting it.”
“The thing this afternoon in Mayfair is all over the news. Was that you, as well?”
“I don’t kill and tell.”
Jason continued up a hall towards the main room, but Court took him by the arm and stopped him in the darkened hallway. “The subject is Vladimir Belyakov. You know him?”
“Know of him, sure. Damn. Really?”
“He’s going to need some new pants before you take him out of here. We don’t need him charged with indecent exposure.”
“Damn,” Jason said again.
“I want a gun in your hand at all times. The location is secure, and he’s tied to a chair and not going anywhere. But remain vigilant. He knows things that people will do anything to keep quiet.”
“I . . . I don’t have a gun.”
Court sighed. CIA case officers didn’t normally carry firearms.
“Take mine. I’ve got a spare.” He unstrapped the Glock 43 from his ankle and handed it to the young man.
Jason took the weapon and said, “We can’t work with the Brits for some reason, so it will take two hours for a cleanup team and an extraction team to show up. I’ll watch him carefully till then. When the cavalry arrives, we’ll get him out of here and the safe house sanitized.”
“Good man.”
Court hefted his backpack off the floor and slung it over his shoulder, groaning in pain with the movement. “Thanks, Red. I’ve got to run.”
The young CIA case officer followed Court to the door and locked it behind him when he left, then drew the Glock from its holster. He headed back up the hall to begin his shift babysitting one of the richest men in London.
* * *
• • •
Zack landed at London Heathrow at nine in the morning, shuffled off the aircraft with the rest of the passengers back in steerage, and made his way towards passport control. Since Wheeler was traveling under a diplomatic passport, he made it through much faster than Hightower, who had documents supporting his civilian cover.
When he finally got through, Zack began jogging through the airport, scanning in all directions, knowing he couldn’t lose Wheeler, not because there was still any chance that he was the mole, but because his orders from Brewer were not to lose him, and Zack was a man who prided himself on always following his orders to the best of his abilities.
Soon, however, Zack realized he needn’t have worried about misplacing the dapper fifty-one-year-old assistant deputy director. While Zack just had a satchel over his shoulder with another set of clothes and a few odds and ends, Wheeler stood waiting for his checked bag with virtually everyone else from the rest of the flight.
Zack rushed on through the airport, went outside, and then, after a few more minutes of jogging, found his way to the vehicle Brewer had waiting in the short-term lot for him. It was a boring four-door Kia, which didn’t exactly thrill the former SEAL Team 6 man, but he climbed behind the wheel and dropped the visor to catch the key fob that fell down.
Minutes later he was back in the arrivals area in front of the international terminal. He pulled in as if he were picking someone up. Wheeler appeared ahead of him, climbing into a black cab, and Zack followed him through the scrum of vehicles trying to get off airport property.
He thought about his job to come. For some weird reason Hanley wouldn’t admit that Renfro was the traitor, even though that seemed obvious to Hightower. So Zack would be stuck following this innocent bore to the embassy, and then following some other innocent bore around London before he headed up to Scotland for the conference where, no doubt, Zack would be tasked with following both Wheeler and Karlsson around some more.
Zack followed Wheeler’s taxi, hanging back, not bumpering. The thrill of all this was long gone now that the man he was certain was responsible for the treason was dead in the morgue.
This was a boring gig, nowhere as exciting as what he’d hoped for.
He figured that wherever Court Gentry was these days, that was where the real action would be going down, and this pissed him off.
Zack followed the taxi to the east, approaching greater London. He stayed far back, not that he was worried about the cabbie noticing he had a tail, but simply because it was more work to do a close-in follow, and he already knew the assistant deputy director was heading to the embassy, so he had no real fear of losing him outright. He hung a dozen car lengths off his objective vehicle, trying not to lose him in the sea of other black cabs out there, but didn’t stress too much about it.
In morning traffic it was over an hour’s transit from Heathrow into the city, but when Zack began driving along the Thames on Great West Road he knew he was getting closer. The U.S. embassy was on the south side of the river, and he fully expected to be following the taxi across the Battersea Bridge, but the cab bypassed the turn and continued along the northern bank of the Thames.
This seemed odd to Zack, but still, he didn’t stress. The cabbie would know the way better than he.
And then the taxi made a left on Oakley Street, turning to the north and away from the embassy, and now Zack was thoroughly confused.
He started to call Brewer, just to let her know that he’d be delayed getting to the embassy because the suit he was tailing was diverting, probably heading to Harrods for pink socks or some shit, but just before he tapped his phone, the taxi made a quick right turn on Kings Road. This was followed by another right on Chelsea Manor, and now Zack was pulling up tighter to the taxi, worrying he would lose Wheeler with all the oddball maneuvers his cabbie was making.