Court worried this could have been some sort of a trap, so he took a moment to lift his head and begin a 360-degree scan of the area. Behind him was the dark golf course—he could see it through the bars of the iron fence—and just beyond the grounds of the country club, the silhouettes of darkened office buildings rose three or four stories into the sky. To Court’s left and right were other homes, and he’d neither seen nor heard humans nor dogs at either residence. And dead ahead was Lee Babbitt, his wife, and four armed dudes who didn’t have a clue this evening was about to become the most interesting night of their careers as security guards.
Now Court just needed to sit here till Babbitt and his wife went to bed. Once that happened, Court would wait for the guards to pass on their lazy patrol, then he would move to the window. He had purchased a high-end glass-cutting tool at the hardware store that could get him through the sliding doors without triggering the home alarm, although Court knew it would take at least ten minutes to cut through both panes. He’d have to work a couple of minutes, then secrete himself from the strolling Townsend men behind some raised flower beds before returning to work as soon as they moved around to the front. Eventually he’d remove an eighteen-inch circle of the double-paned window, and he’d slip inside the home. As long as he didn’t open the door or shatter any glass, the security alarm would not be triggered, and he’d be free to move around inside the home.
Just then, the two patrolling security men made an ambling pass through the backyard; a flashlight waved in front of them but didn’t reach into the corners of the property. Within a minute they disappeared around the side of the house on their way back out front.
Court looked through the back window again, and he noticed Babbitt’s wife had moved to the staircase and Babbitt himself had stepped over to his bar, facing the other direction. Court rose to his knees and began crawling through the garden, wanting to take the opportunity to cover as much ground as possible while no one was looking his way. This flower bed continued down the side of the backyard, almost to the back patio, so Court felt confident he could come close to within steps of the back door without risking compromise.
“Here we go,” he said softly, and he began his slow progression through the garden.
—
When are you coming to bed?” Babbitt’s wife asked. She stood at the top of the staircase, a halfhearted attempt at a come-hither look on her face, which was hard to generate, considering the person who generated it was tired and angry and the person it was directed to had shown not a shred of interest so far.
“Later,” Babbitt replied without looking up.
“What about now?” she asked again, hoping the cajoling would at least cause her husband to turn around.
“I’m on the scent of a new target, dear. Something big. You know it takes all my energy.”
“What energy?” She turned away. It was a rhetorical question. Before she disappeared on the landing to the second floor, she said, “This time, do try to go after someone you can handle.” There was a mocking tone to her voice, a small riposte to her husband’s rejection. “Not like that target in Belgium, I mean. All those funeral dresses I bought to wear last month went out of fashion on the first day of spring.”
—
Babbitt growled into his glass as he wet his lips with the Macallan. “Bitch.”
He turned on the stereo, flipped to a classical station, and began pacing back and forth across the living room, backed by Shostakovich’s Eighth Symphony in C Minor. His mind tuned out his wife’s barbs, and it went back to spinning with ideas and planning, logistics and tactics.
“Where the hell are you, Gentry?” he said softly, standing at the floor-to-ceiling window now, looking out over his back lawn and garden and the dark golf course beyond it.
Babbitt paced. Struggled with the mind-set of an assassin.
Gentry would have fled Belgium, for certain. The CIA thought he was in central Europe, but Babbitt disagreed. Fleeing the continent was Gentry’s usual MO after a big operation.
But where would he go?
Latin America? No. That had been his last distant refuge. He wouldn’t go back, not yet.
Africa was out; he’d gotten himself into quite a bit of trouble there a couple of years ago. Of course, it was a big continent, but Babbitt just didn’t see Gentry returning to Africa now.
Asia? Yeah, maybe.
Babbitt finished the last swig of his scotch, stepped back to his little bar, and made himself a third drink.
Returning to the window, he thought about Asia again.
“Asia. Yes,” Babbitt said. He felt confident he was in Gentry’s brain now. He knew where he’d go.
Immediately Babbitt pulled out his phone and began thumbing through contacts, looking for the number of his Hong Kong–based agent. It would be mid-morning there—he could reach his man and get him started on building an infrastructure for the hunt to come.
Absently, while he scrolled through his phone, he lifted his rocks glass to down a swig of Macallan. Just as he brought it up to chest height the glass cracked, broke apart, and fell from his hand, dousing his shirt and trousers with the tepid scotch.
Babbitt looked down at the mess, an expression of mild surprise on his face. He took a half step back, concerned he’d cut his hand on the lead crystal.
Then he saw the blood, and it wasn’t on his hand.