and the magazine release mechanism was poorly placed and inefficient. Yes, Court knew, he could poke bloody holes in a few of these Micks if it came down to it, but if they moved on him in force and with motivation, he’d be good and well fucked.
He took a chug of his Guinness. Never had a pint looked so large. He thought he’d never drain down to the bottom of his glass so he could head out and get back to the dark street. Behind him he heard Slattery whisper something to the men with him. Court did not look up into the mirror. Slattery had seen him earlier at the Oliver St. John Gogarty; that was clear enough. Now he’d be letting his friends in on the situation. With good luck, Slattery would bug out, set up some sort of confrontation in the street. Send his men outside to hide in the dark and leave with them. With bad luck, it would go down here and now. Dougal would stand and proclaim to the room that the man who pitched the stranger through the front window would earn himself a year’s supply of Guinness.
Son of a bitch, Court thought. Recuperating in France, he’d really wanted to get operational again, but this was much too fucking much.
Court began to stand. His pint was half-full, but he thought if he could leave this pub under his own power at any time, it would be right now, before Slattery got his plan together. But before Gentry could slide all the way off his stool, the bartender lowered his newspaper.
“Don’t fancy yer pint, eh?”
The redheaded, barrel-chested sixty-year-old must have sensed the bad juju in the room between Slattery and the stranger.
Court didn’t want to say too much. Instead he shifted on his stool, like he was just rearranging himself, and lifted his glass. Tipped it to the bartender and took another gulp. “It’s just grand,” he said. He thought he sounded Irish but wasn’t sure.
To his left the two men in the booth with his target stood and left through the front door. Two more at a table behind him stood; Court tracked them through the mirror as they approached. They sat on either side of him menacingly.
The man on the left spoke first. His breath was hot with Irish whiskey and tobacco.
“Woar ye from?”
Court looked straight ahead. He dropped the attempt at an Irish accent. “Workin’ a Maersk freighter. We docked this afternoon. Leave out in the morning.”
“Woar are ye from?” The other man repeated his mate’s question.
“I told you.”
“You born on the freighter? ‘Where you from’ means where you come from?”
“Lads. Leave the man to enjoy his pint in peace.” It was Dougal Slattery speaking. He had stood, strolled over to the bar with his limp, and made eye contact through the mirror. “Always good to see a new face here. Travelers included. Don’t pay the lads any attention, friend.”
Court wondered why it was that everyone was calling him “friend” today.
THREE
Five minutes later Gentry left the Padraic Pearse. Slattery had gone first, just after rescuing the stranger from the two locals, who had returned to their table without another word. The bartender had not looked up from his paper through it all.
Court walked east on Pearse Street, moving deftly in the shadows a hundred yards behind the limping man with the drum on his shoulder.
Everything had changed now; the entire operation had been accelerated by Court’s decision to walk through the front door of the pub. He could not just do a soft recon as he’d originally planned. No, his target was spooked, and his target would run or build up his defenses. It did not take a brilliant tradecraft mind to thwart an imminent attack from one man. Run away or circle the wagons and pass out the guns. It was page one from the How to Avoid Assassination manual, and Gentry had no doubt Dougal had read it.
If the Gray Man was going to complete his contract, he knew he’d have to do it tonight. Slattery turned right into the open front gates of a drab block of flats and did not look back as he began climbing up a slanting car park towards a door. Court moved on through the darkness, closer to his prey, a prey that would be expecting him, yes, but hopefully not quite so soon.
A thick young man in a black rugby shirt stepped into the street from his hiding place behind a large