And now it was down to Court Gentry. The last man standing.

What he did not know was why.

He could reveal what he knew about the program and the termination order for the assets, but first he needed proof. Without proof—if he just called up the New York Times and told them what he suspected—he’d be considered a crackpot and there would be no story.

The CIA would deny his allegations, and the CIA would win, because the CIA had significantly better media outreach than Court Gentry had.

He needed proof. If he found proof, he would find justice, and that was what he was after.

Not revenge, he told himself. Justice.

There were men here, in the area, who Court felt sure would have the answers he sought. He had no illusions that they would give up their answers willingly, but Court was prepared. He’d seek these men out, find out what they knew, and rectify the mess his life had become. He told himself it was doable, that he wasn’t naive, but part of him wondered if he’d just grown too tired of running, if he was racing headlong into his own death just to end it all.

He pushed the negativity out of his mind as best he could, and he drifted off just before ten a.m., and, for the first time in months, he slept the sleep of the dead.

10

Denny Carmichael lay on the leather couch in his dark office, but his eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling. He’d stayed up working until past seven a.m., then he slept for a couple of hours, but only fitfully. Now he lay awake, brooding and plotting. Worrying and calculating.

The door opened slowly, letting a little light into the room. This startled the director of National Clandestine Service. No one walked into his office unannounced. He had a vision of the Gray Man, his face darkened with coal, a hooked knife with a flat black finish in his hand, his eyes cold and dark and dead like those of a snake.

Carmichael rolled quickly up to a sitting position and reached out in the dark, finding and then pulling the chain on the banker’s lamp on the desk.

Jordan Mayes stood over him with two cups of coffee. “Sorry. I thought you’d be sleeping.”

Carmichael rubbed his eyes and took a cup, and he motioned for Mayes to take a seat on the other side of the coffee table.

“What time is it?”

“About ten a.m.,” Mayes said. “I’d have given you another hour, but I just got word from the homicide detective in charge in Washington Highlands.”

“Talk.”

Mayes rubbed his own eyes, the all-nighter evident on his face. “Brandywine Street was Violator, no question.”

“We know this how?”

“Fingerprints left at the scene.”