to outthink James Reece before the SEAL could track him down and put a bullet in his head, or worse. Grey had no illusions about the true reason James Reece was currently in the employ of the CIA; he needed their resources to find his friend’s killer. Since his former employer and the closest thing to a father Grey had ever known had been sent to a fiery grave, killed by one of the countless weapons with which he’d sown the seeds of revolution around the globe, Grey was now a rōnin. He needed a new master. Grey was sure that Tom Reece’s son had been involved in Vasili Andrenov’s assassination and he knew he was next on Reece’s list.
Grey had endured the brutal questioning from the criminal called Dimitry as well as the excruciating overland trip taking him nearly the length of the South American continent, both only made bearable by the sweet tobacco he packed into his old billiard pipe. Add in the international flights on aging aircraft serving cheap booze, and Grey was in rough shape. They hadn’t even offered him a coffee. An accountant by trade, he sought order in life, and that order was severely lacking at present. The watch was the only thing that had kept him sane, its hands moving steadily and predictably as his world became anything but. The irony was that the time wasn’t even correct. He hadn’t changed it since he’d left Buenos Aires.
Grey was not an imposing figure, and the travel had done nothing to improve his bearing. His beard needed trimming and had turned nearly snow white over the past few months. He wore a sweat-stained wool fedora over his cap of thinning hair, and his tweed coat was badly in need of washing. He hadn’t been able to bathe since he’d left Venezuela and looked like a disheveled university professor, wearing a bitter halo of stale sweat and metabolized vodka. His appearance was in stark contrast to the spacious and orderly hotel suite. It was known as the White Suite, thanks to the snowy fabric that covered its luxurious furniture. A large freestanding bathtub sat just feet from the rounded bed on a waxed parquet floor. What he would give for a warm bath and some sleep!
His escort hadn’t said a word, but had motioned for him to sit in a chair padded in white leather that faced a comfortable-looking love seat against the suite’s wall. He was near the balcony and had a marvelous view of the Tsentralny District. Though mentally exhausted, he took comfort from being in the land of his ancestry. His plan had been to rise alongside his mentor, Colonel Vasili Andrenov, the right hand of the returning leader. Instead, because of James Reece, he was here to beg for a job from a criminal.
Grey expected the security men would look like club bouncers in leather jackets, but the vory bodyguards who protected the mob boss were clad in finely tailored business suits. The neatly groomed men could have passed for agents of the FSO or Federal Protective Service and, in fact, some of them had history in that organization. Four of them moved into the room and joined the stoic figure already watching over him. Grey was frisked for the third time, thoroughly and professionally. A few seconds later the door opened, and two more bodyguards entered, stepping aside to flank the opening.
Though Grey was familiar with the details of the man who walked through the door, thanks to his former duties as a senior analyst on the Russian Desk at the CIA, he was not at all prepared for who entered the room. Written reports and long-lens photographs from surveillance footage only told you so much, which is why Grey had always envied the men and women on the ground who gathered human intelligence; the people who looked their subjects in the eye. Instead of an imposing figure who instilled fear, he beheld a man of slight build and of medium height; this was no track-suit-wearing thug. Ivan Zharkov was also older than Grey expected, with a handsome face and thoughtful blue eyes.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing?
Grey expected false bravado and swagger, but instead Zharkov walked with grace and poise. He wore a suit of thick charcoal cashmere with a burgundy silk tie knotted neatly at his throat. His beard was trimmed, his mustache purposefully bushier and more prominent. His hair had gone almost white. It was combed and parted neatly