Burner (Gray Man, #12)

by Mark Greaney

Nobody . . . nobody . . . was going to come here and fuck with Constantine Pasternak tonight. • • • Court Gentry had come here to fuck with Constantine Pasternak tonight.

Now Court was here, on the other side of the world, and just as he’d imagined, security seemed exponentially more robust around this vessel. The enemy was adapting to his tactics, that was clear, but Court wasn’t worried. He’d adapt right the fuck back.

Court hadn’t killed or even injured anyone on the first two attacks, but tonight he knew it was likely that at least a couple of assholes would lose their lives, and he really didn’t give a shit. These guys worked for Russian oligarchs, crooked beneficiaries of a monstrous regime with targets on their heads. Fuck these divers, Court told himself as he pulled the tab.

Gentry was paranoid, but not without reason. The world was full of people who wanted him dead. From Mexican cartels to Chinese intelligence officers, from German private military corporations to dictators, despots, and human trafficking organizations. And the CIA. Always the fucking CIA.

Paranoia was much more than a full-time job. It was a job that forced its employees to work nights and weekends, as well.

“Brief her?” Court muttered. “She really has no clue about any of this, does she?” “I’ll rectify that and fold her into this operation. She’ll stay remote, but honestly, that woman could use some dirt on her hands.” Working denied ops was part of the job in CIA operations, but most case officers and execs went their entire careers without touching anything too incriminating to implicate them in any sub-rosa acts. Brewer was saying she wanted Lacy sullied by the same sorts of black operations that got Brewer’s own hands so dirty.

Alex crouched down and covered his head as the car spun out at sixty kilometers an hour; even through the fresh panic hitting him now, he was able to register that he was about to be in his second car crash in ten minutes, and the thought of this boggled his mind.

He was about to run highly skilled Russian military intelligence assets on the streets of Europe. He was both thrilled and terrified of the prospect of this, but if he had to be honest with himself, he was mostly thrilled.

“I’ve worked in five duty stations since joining the Agency. We’ve done good things in every country, and we’ve fucked things up in every country, as well.” “Christians in Action,” Court mumbled, using a pejorative term for the CIA.

he saw a Black woman ambling past his left shoulder and then continuing up the aisle, moving towards the front of the train. She glanced his way casually but didn’t seem to take any interest in him as she moved by. He found himself interested in her, not for any reasons pertaining to countersurveillance or tradecraft; he just thought she was hot.

“The Russians have been waging a back-channel campaign for some time. Using the wealth the Kremlin commands to . . . influence opinion in the West.” “And?” Brewer demanded. “And the campaign has involved powerful people in the United States. People who can ensure that the trade pact is signed, as long as they are not exposed as being compromised by Moscow.” Brewer hesitated, and Kirby said, “I am following the president’s orders, Suzanne. Just like you will.”

Washington wants this trade agreement with Moscow to go through, and Altman digging up dirt on Russian crimes right now would be bad for the agreement’s prospects.” “That figures.” “How high do you think this goes?” she asked. “There’s presumably millions of dollars getting into the West. It’s going somewhere, it’s tainting someone. I don’t think we can rule anything out.” “Six, if the CIA is involved, we have to assume other federal agencies are, as well, or at least members of them.” Court nodded. “DOJ, Homeland Security. Fuck, why just federal? The NYPD could have Russian agents pulling its strings.”

She’s doing the bidding of someone else. Why? Money?” Six said, “She’s not in it for the money. It’s about power and prestige to her.” “I don’t give two shits about prestige,” Angela said. “Power, on the other hand, if used in the right way, is a good thing.” “If used in the right way,” Six repeated. “The ‘if’ in that statement is doing some heavy lifting, wouldn’t you agree?”

Luka turned to the man now. “I’m from the Aquarium.” The man from the DPR Security Service Battalion knew the nickname for the GRU’s headquarters, so he reacted with a little surprise in his posture. “Calm down,” Luka admonished. The man looked back out to the frozen pond. “Rank?” “Major.” Mozgovoy raised his eyebrows, then turned back in the man’s direction. Luka spoke softly. “If you fucking salute me right now, I’m going to beat you to death.”

Zoya nodded, then looked into Alex’s eyes. “You are very brave.” Alex’s eyes shifted down and off to the side, as if he were looking at the floor next to the table. “Krupkin was right. This isn’t about being a hero. It’s about salvaging a little bit of my soul.”

He sipped more of the vodka, then held up the glass. “This works for pain, right?” “Depends on the type of pain you’re suffering from.”

The summit at the UN Headquarters building in New York had begun this morning; word on Capitol Hill was that the following day around noon the foreign ministers would sign the accords. The Russians would then be subjected to a pro forma, sternly worded lecture from the United Nations Security Council, and then, immediately after the dressing-down, a UN resolution would be signed encouraging nations to resume trade with Russia as long as Moscow adhered to some semblance of a cease-fire. Immediately trade would begin booming again. Gas, oil, and grain would flow; Western commercial interests inside Russia would reopen; banking and finance sanctions would be eased. It would be the perfect ending for many, but not the perfect ending for all.

Russia would remain in control of tens of thousands of square miles of Ukrainian territory, having killed tens of thousands of people, many civilians, in the war. Ukraine, being Ukraine, would not accept the accords and would continue its attempt to push into Russian and separatist-held regions, but Western nations would agree to stop supplying Ukraine with weaponry. In the name of lasting peace.

“I tried to knock some sense into you, Henry, but I see it hasn’t worked.” “What is it you three think I did?” Calvin asked. Court replied, “All sorts of shit, I imagine. But one thing you did is the one thing that brought us all together today, and it’s the reason you have a broken nose.” Calvin touched his forehead. “It’s my forehead. I don’t have a—” Court’s right foot shot out and kicked the attorney in the face, and he crumpled to the floor, clutching his nose as blood poured through it.

Daniil Spanov died last night.” Court lowered his beer and turned to her. “Holy shit. How?” “They haven’t released a COD yet, but I imagine he went out in the common way for those who fail the Kremlin.” Court nodded at this, then said, “He fell eight stories to his death from a basement window?” Lacy laughed. “Something along those lines.”