Sixty-five-year-old Vincent Voland breathed the vapor of the rainy evening, walking alone along the wet cobblestones as he approached the lighted sign of Tentazioni, an intimate Italian restaurant at the top of a steep and narrow lane in Montmartre. The restaurant was nearly empty at ten p.m., but tonight’s meeting was set for this venue, at this time.
Tarek Halaby had called Voland just after his and his wife’s encounter with the two Police Judiciaire officers working for Syrian interests. He’d explained how the American had shown up minutes before the attack, then again during the attack, and about how he’d saved them both. Tarek then demanded a face-to-face meeting tonight, leaving it to Voland to determine the time and the place, and the Frenchman had picked this restaurant because of its small size, the visibility afforded by its windows, and its intimate atmosphere.
Voland knew Tentazioni well; he would sense immediately if anyone here did not belong, and he could then simply snake off down one of the nearby side streets and alleys and disappear.
The Halabys themselves weren’t particularly safe in Paris now, but Voland felt this locale would be quiet enough where they could get in and get out without encountering police or other interested parties.
The silver-haired Frenchman stopped in a wide patch of misty darkness, just down the Rue Lepic from the restaurant, far enough from the lights and tourists of the Sacré-Coeur up the hill to the east. As he stood there he looked into the windows of the little Italian eatery. There were just a few tables occupied, but Voland did not see either of the Halabys yet.
This surprised him. The Syrian couple knew next to nothing about tradecraft, so he didn’t give them credit for the play of showing up late for a meet to scout the location from afar.
He backed into the darkness along the sidewalk next to a simple storefront undergoing construction and looked down to his phone to dial Tarek on a secure voice app. But just as he lit up the screen, he felt the cold tip of a pistol’s suppressor touch him at the base of his skull. He flinched, then immediately froze, afraid to make any movement that would cause the person at the other end of the weapon to pull the trigger.
He spoke softly in the dark, still afraid to alarm whoever had a gun to his neck. Softly he said, “D’ou vien-vous?” Where did you come from?
The reply was delivered in English. “From somewhere in your past.”
Voland closed his eyes in an attempt to block out the fear, because he understood instantly what was happening. The Gray Man had him at gunpoint and, perhaps even more importantly, the Gray Man had him figured out.
He responded softly, lest he excite the man who held his life in his hands. “The Halabys told you how to find me?”
“They owed me a favor.”
“Oui . . . they certainly did. I heard about what you did to earn that favor. Two dead PJ investigators. By your hand, I assume?”
“My hand? No. By the weapon pressed against your spine.”
“Ah. I see.”
“Let’s go.”
“Where are we go—”
A rough hand grabbed Voland by the shoulder and yanked him backwards.
* * *
? ? ?
Court directed the man off the street and into the old building undergoing remodeling. Here he pushed Voland up to a wall that smelled like fresh plaster and stale rainwater, and he fished through the man’s raincoat. He pulled out his wallet while keeping the man pinned to the wall with the pistol pressed hard against his forehead.
As he fumbled with the wallet, he said, “I probably don’t need to tell you that I can pull the trigger before you can grab the gun.”
“Non, monsieur, you do not need to tell me a thing about your abilities.”
Court looked into the man’s eyes at this, then went back to his work. He one-handed the wallet open and held it close to his face so he could read it in the golden glow of filtered streetlight. “Vincent Voland. That’s your real name?”
“It is. I thought you knew who I was.”
“Only in the general sense. You are French intelligence, you think you know something about me, and you hired me through my cutout in Monte Carlo because, in your estimation, I was the only guy out there who could have pulled off last night while those ISIS shitheads were attacking.”
“I am not French intelligence, currently. But I was.”
“And what do you do now, Monsieur Voland?”
“I am a private consultant.”
“Yeah?” Court leaned close, menacing. “Well, I’d say I’m in need of some consultation right about now.”
The older man was nervous—Court could see the tells even in the low light—but Voland affected a little smile. “I am not currently seeking new clients.”
“Too busy leading Rima and Tarek to their deaths?”
“That is unfair,” Voland replied. The Gray Man was talking, not shooting, so Court could see the Frenchman’s fear about his predicament fading away, and he was growing a little less terrified, even though there was still a pistol pointed at his head.
“What do you know about me?” Court asked.
Voland’s eyes narrowed now. He knew something but didn’t seem certain how he should answer. Finally he said, “I know you used to be an American intelligence asset. And I know that the CIA has disavowed you.”
His information was old and incomplete, Court realized, but he had no intention of bringing him up to date. “Anything else?”
“Yes. I know about Normandy.”
Court chewed the inside of his lip. “What do you know about Normandy?”
“Two years ago I was an executive with DGSI.”
Court knew this was French domestic intelligence. “Go on.”
“I was involved in the investigation of a series of murders here in Paris, and then a massacre at a chateau in Normandy. It was determined that the man at the center of it all was the rogue American intelligence asset known informally as the Gray Man.”
When Court did not reply, Voland added, “And all that killing, of course, was done by you.”
Still Court said nothing.
Voland nodded and smiled. “Nicely done, by the way. The bodies recovered were a wide array of criminals and scum. Businessmen with nefarious connections, and foreign paramilitaries involved in all manner of illegal activity on French soil.” He shrugged. “The police here would still love to get their hands on you, even before what you did last night, and again today. But as for our intelligence services . . . let’s just say we’ve moved on to more pressing matters than Normandy.”
Court knew he should have denied all involvement in the incident Voland spoke of, but his thoughts were on the present, not the past. “I’m not here to talk about two years ago.”
The Frenchman nodded. “I understand. And I must thank you for what you did today for the Halabys. As their consultant, I suppose we should talk about you getting a hefty bonus for your work.”
Court lowered his pistol finally, and holstered it inside the waistband at his right hip. “And I’m not here because I want money.”
“Then you have me at a loss. Why are you here?”
“I’m here to figure you out. It’s obvious the Halabys are being manipulated by someone in all this. My guess is that someone is you. My survival depends on me having an understanding of who knows what about me. The Halabys don’t know anything, but you seem to know it all.”
“Why do you care about the Halabys and their objective?”
Court looked off out the window into the night. “I’ll be damned if I know.” Turning back to Voland, he said, “How about you? What’s your interest in all this?”
“The Syrian exiles are my clients. Can’t it be as simple as that?”
“Nope. If that were the case, you’d do what they told you to do. But I’ve seen enough to know that you are using them for your own agenda. I want to know what that agenda is, and who is pulling your strings.”
Voland gave an exaggerated shrug. “My nation is very energized to bring al-Azzam down. As is yours, by the way. Both of our countries have troops in Syria.”