a young man but couldn’t break out of the thick midlist of local pugilistic talent. Then he found work as a tough guy, a bouncer in Dublin nightclubs. He branched out, did some rough stuff for a local syndicate, slapping around lazy Polish hookers and knocking Turkish drug dealers’ heads together for not making quota. He graduated to some low-level killings: gang versus gang stuff, nothing fancy till he was sent on an errand to the Continent. In Amsterdam he’d made the big time, killing his boss’s rival in a hail of bullets after using his gnarled fists to bash in the faces of two of his bodyguards.
From there he’d climbed to the second tier of the killer-for-hire trade. Wet jobs in Ankara, in Sardinia, in Calcutta, in Tajikistan. He did not run solo, Court had noticed in his file; he wasn’t the brains behind his operations, but his curriculum vitae included some respectable kills. Not respectable in the moral sense; no, he’d reportedly killed a police detective, an honest businessman, a journalist or two. But Court appreciated that the operations themselves had been, if not spectacular, at least competently executed.
But his last hit on file was six years ago. Court couldn’t help but notice that Sid’s dossier on Slattery went wafer thin after that. A few speculative inferences aside, all that was known about his life since then was that he played the drum in a traditional Irish band that performed five nights a week in the touristy Temple Bar section of Dublin.
Hardly work that got your name scribbled onto a termination order.
Gentry found this to be one of his more morally neutral operations. The man was a killer, but so was Court. Court rationalized the difference; he vetted his targets, made sure their deeds warranted extrajudicial killing. Dougal Slattery clearly did not. According to Sid, the Irishman was now on retainer for an Italian-run international criminal organization. His next victim might well be a recalcitrant prostitute or the owner of a restaurant that failed to pay protection money to the Mafia.
Killing Dougal Slattery wouldn’t much improve the evil ways of the world, Court decided, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt.
Well, it wouldn’t hurt anyone who was not named Dougal Slattery.
Hello? You still there? Sid’s previous post was three minutes old. Court had drifted off-mission for a moment. He forced himself to concentrate on his phone’s tiny screen.
I’m here. No problems.
How long will you need?
Unknown. Will assess situation tonight. Act at first prudent opportunity.
I understand, my friend. Don’t take too long. I have more work after.
There was always more “work,” Court knew. But most “work” involved contracts Gentry would never accept. Court would be the judge if there was “more work after.” He didn’t argue the point with Sidorenko, though. Instead he just replied, Okay.
I look forward to good news. Do svidaniya, friend.
Court just logged off. He shut down the phone and stuck it in the side pocket of his peacoat. He finished his meal, paid, and left the hotel.
In the late afternoon he walked the neighborhoods around Grafton Street. He’d spent an hour looking at the dress and mannerisms of the locals, trying to assimilate. It would not be hard for the trained professional; Dublin was an international city full of Poles, Russians, Turks, Chinese, South Americans . . . even a few Irish here and there. There was no one look or walk or attitude to parrot; still, Court stepped into a used-clothing shop on Dawson Lane and stepped out with a bag. In the bathroom of a department store he changed into worn blue jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and a black denim jacket. Black athletic shoes and his dark blue watch cap finished off the ensemble.
By nightfall he was a local, moving with the masses. He ran a security sweep, backtracked, stepped on and off a few trains on the DART—Dublin’s mass transit—all to make sure he was not being followed. There were more people in this world who wanted Court Gentry dead than would ever give a rat’s ass about Dougal Slattery, and Court kept this in mind, just to keep his operation in perspective. His secondary objective was to kill the Irishman; the primary objective, as always, was to keep his own ass alive for another day. His PERSEC, or personal security, needed to remain at the forefront of his thoughts.
Satisfied he had not grown a tail, he headed to the Temple Bar neighborhood on the southern bank of the River Liffey.