the question. “I have a family. They could get to them. My wife and three children—”
“Five children, actually.” The American said, his voice menacing. “Must be hard to keep up, isn’t it? Three with your wife, Marina, in central Moscow, plus a six-year-old girl with Mina, a Thai factory worker, and a twelve-year-old boy with Elmeera, a Tunisian flight attendant.”
“Yes,” said Gennady slowly, frightened now that the dangerous man knew so much about him. “But my family in Moscow, even if the FSB couldn’t get me. If I talk about Sudan, Sidorenko or the FSB will kill them.”
“A team from the International Criminal Court is in Moscow now. You call your wife and tell her, and I will call the team, and your family will be taken from Russia, to safety, within the hour.”
Gennady shook his head without reservation. “No way. Just leave now, American, and I will not report this. But do not—”
“Your family will be safe if you say yes to my offer. And you will be a wealthy man. Relocated in the West with a new life. A good life. But if you say no . . .” The American leaned forward. His face moved away from the rainwater’s reflection but darkened to black as it lost the light from outside. “You will have no life at all.”
“You are threatening to kill me?”
The American shook his head. “I wish it were that easy. But we need you. You are important. You know important things. We need you to stop the war.”
“Then, what are you—”
“You talk to the ICC, or I will take from you what you hold most precious.”
Gennady Orloff’s face went slack. He felt a weakening in his gut that threatened to cause him to lose control of his bowels. The man in front of him was a cold-blooded, heartless killer. “My children?”
No words were exchanged for a half minute in the living room. Finally the American sat back up, lightened a bit, and said, “But I don’t see it coming to that.”
“I will kill you!”
The assassin shook his head slowly. “No, you won’t.”
Gennady’s fury was absolute. But his fear of the man in front of him was equally powerful. He did not dare attack him. He was a pilot, not a killer. Instead, he thought of his children, about his predicament, and he slowly broke down. He cried softly for a long time on the sofa of the dark room. Only his sobs and the rain outside broke the stillness. The American assassin sat quietly in the chair.
Twenty minutes later Court stood in a phone booth on the avenida el Recero, a block away from the hotel Gran Meliá. The rain fell in torrents, and his raincoat was soaked, fogging up the glass inside the tight space. Outside passersby with umbrellas jammed the sidewalk, heading to cafés and concerts and hotels and bars. They moved like the water rushing along the gutter in front of Gentry.
His eyes focused on the water and followed bits of trash floating by the phone booth, traveling downstream. He knew he should be scanning the crowd around him for threats—he was operational, after all—but the narcotics in his bloodstream sent his brain off on little errands that served no purpose. He tracked a crushed can of juice that shot by and watched it swirl down a metal grate in a deluge. He looked for another bit to follow on its path to—
“This is Ellen Walsh.”
Court forgot momentarily that he was holding the phone to his ear. Quickly he refocused and said, “He agreed. I moved him to my room: 422. I didn’t want to leave him there with the girl.”
“I’ll have his family picked up immediately. We will debrief him here at the hotel tonight.”
“You are here? In Caracas?”
“I just arrived an hour ago.”
Court watched the tiny river of runoff flow down the street while he carefully chose his next words. “Are you here for Gennady Orloff, or are you here for me?”
There was a long pause. “I am here for Orloff. I have decided to leave the events on the road to Dirra, back on the road to Dirra. You will not be indicted for what happened.”
“Thanks.”
“Six, I am worried about you. I don’t know what you said to Orloff to get him to agree to provide evidence to the ICC, but I assume it was not something I would approve of.”
“It was not something I approve of. But the ends justify the means.”