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.