Page 142 of One Minute Out

Eventually he says, “Approved, under conditions. Is that it?”

He knows that’s not it. “No. I want Hightower, Travers, and four more Ground Branch guys at my disposal for seventy-two hours.”

Hanley laughs now, and I worry I just overplayed my hand. “That request is denied. They’re not your men to use, and you certainly can’t use them in the States.” He pauses, and I wait him out. Finally, he says, “But I’ll talk to Romantic privately. We might be able to throw you a bone. Again, with conditions.”

I’m not sure what he means by this, but it sounds like more than I had hoped for originally.

“What are the conditions?” I ask.

“You won’t find the Director; this guy is as good as anyone on the planet at insulating himself from his operations. That’s why he’s been informing on international criminals for ten years and he’s not taking a dirt nap in some gully somewhere. And it’s why we don’t know who he is.

“And if you roll up this psychologist, or this South African asshole, they won’t talk. They know the reach the Director has.”

“What are the conditions?” I repeat.

“But if I’m wrong. If you do somehow find the Director,” Hanley says, “then you absolutely cannot kill him, and you cannot have him arrested. He must remain in place. I don’t give a shit if you tear down his entire sex trafficking ring, but we need him in play in the international finance world; we need him able to operate a computer and deal with the offshore tax havens and criminal elements. And there can be no comebacks on the Agency. He can’t think we sent you.”

I don’t like this. Not at all. But I tell myself there is more than one way to skin a cat. “Deal. If I find the Director, I will let him live, I won’t turn him in, and I won’t let him know I spoke with you. What else?”

“I need you to be as discreet as possible. I know what you do, and I know how you do it. You can be deep cover, invisible, stealthy like a fucking greased ninja cat.” He pauses, then says, “And you can also shoot up city blocks on live TV like you’re Arnold fucking Schwarzenegger. If you are going to operate in the U.S. against an entity you aren’t sanctioned to take down, then I need you to be the greased ninja cat and not Rambo. You hear me?”

Arnold wasn’t Rambo, but I take his meaning.

“Agreed. What else?”

“What else? Don’t die, that’s what else. I have work for you.”

I bet he does. I say, “I understand and wilco on all, Matt. Thanks.”

He doesn’t say You’re welcome. No, he says, “Court, one of these days you are going to be more trouble than you’re worth.”

“But not today.”

Another long sigh. “Not today, no. I need you back here. Do your thing, follow the ROEs I set down, and then get your ass back to work. No more delays, no more excuses, no more rogue do-gooder bullshit.”

“Understood, sir.”

Hanley tells Hightower to take him off the speaker, and then Zack takes the phone to the front bulkhead and sits there, well out of my earshot. I look at everyone sitting around me, and as one they all relax. I’m no longer their prisoner, I’m no longer a threat. No, now I have sanction, more or less.

I’m back in the game.

FORTY-THREE

The Gulfstream aircraft owned by a shell corporation for the Consortium had taken off from Venice’s Marco Polo Airport over an hour before the CIA flight left Treviso, so it was over four hours into its transatlantic crossing now. In the cabin were Cage, Sean Hall, Hall’s six men, the two European girls known as Maja and Sofia, Dr. Claudia Riesling, and Jaco Verdoorn.

For the first hour of the flight Verdoorn, Hall, and Cage sat in the back, out of earshot of the rest, and they tried to piece together everything that had happened. Cage was furious at Verdoorn, Hall was furious at Verdoorn, and Verdoorn was furious at his men, especially Loots, who’d had the fucking Gray Man in the sights of his Sig pistol and yet failed to shoot him dead.

And he was furious at Rylond Jonker for getting his stupid ass shot and killed in a Venice alleyway.

Loots and the seven other surviving White Lion men would be taking a different private jet out of Verona, several hours to the west, because of concerns that the police presence would be significantly ramped up at Marco Polo after the shootout in the city proper.

For the second hour of the flight, however, Verdoorn had sat alone up at the front bulkhead, leaning forward and talking into his phone, scrolling through information on a tablet computer on his knees, and taking notes on a pad of paper. Behind him, Claudia Riesling talked to Maja and Sofia nearly constantly, trying to work them harder and harder so that they would accept the fate ahead of them. Sofia was teary eyed, no longer under the influence of drugs, but Maja was essentially impassive. Riesling saw her look over at Cage from time to time, but otherwise she did not show much reaction to anything said. Riesling knew the young woman was still in a state of shock, but at least she was compliant.

She’d be a good pet for Ken Cage, and the Director would appreciate his in-house psychologist for it.

•••

Kenneth Cage sat next to Sean Hall, who drank vodka on the rocks with a shaky hand. That his bodyguard was shaken up by the events of the evening was not lost on him, but Sean and his boys had done what he paid them to do. He wasn’t pissed at Sean; he was pissed at Jaco.

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