Agent in Place (The Gray Man #7)

But it was Court’s job to fit in, no matter what the surroundings, and he did his job well. He was invisible here, because it was his job to be so, just as it had been his job to remain invisible while riding the Metro in D.C., roaming the streets of Hong Kong, or piloting a yacht off Minorca.

His eyes flicked back to the runway, and as the beautiful women came out one by one, he continued scanning them.

Not her. Not her. Not her, either.

His attention moved from the slow procession of models and off the runway entirely. Two athletic men with dark suits and dark hair entered the hall on his right from an access door near the entrance to the stage. They stood back against the wall, scanning the crowd. Court pinged on them instantly, and his eyes casually followed them as they moved closer to the curtain where the models emerged.

Across the lights of the runway he saw another pair of goons, similarly attired, both dark and swarthy. They stood close to the action, and directly behind them a few seated men and women called out to them to try to get them to move.

A security man attached to the venue stepped over to the pair on the far side and ushered them a few feet closer to the wall. They complied, more or less, but they remained within reach of the models on the stage and runway.

And then a tall female model with coal-black hair marched out from behind the wings in a black chiffon dress with silver piping. She was as beautiful as all the others, perhaps even more intense and serious about her work than the rest as she moved up the runway. Through the flashing of dozens of cameras, she marched her stilettos to the beat of an old David Bowie song souped up with industrial techno. Court noticed all four of the big men looking up at her, and then he noticed all four men turning and scanning the crowd. They didn’t follow her walk down the length of the raised platform, but their eyes stayed on the three hundred or so in the audience.

Court turned his attention away from the bodyguards, and he focused again on the model.

She was utterly stunning. And she was his target.





CHAPTER 3


Court had her bio down cold. Her name was Bianca Medina; she was twenty-six, positively ancient for a model, although she was one of the most gorgeous women Court had ever laid eyes on, striking even on a runway full of stunning women.

There was a confidence in her moves that he, a complete layman in the world of fashion modeling, recognized instantly.

He raised his camera, pointed it at her, and took a few shots like the rest of the crowd holding cameras, but quickly he turned the lens to the first duo of security men at the back wall. He took several pictures, then shifted in his seat a little and got a few shots of the pair on his right, on his side of the runway.

Private security protection was not the norm for the models here at the Zuhair Murad show, but Court knew things about Bianca Medina no one else in the room did, and for that reason he knew she didn’t have much in common with the other women walking the runway today.

She showcased her dress and left through the sequined curtain at the rear of the stage. The security men disappeared through the stage doors at the same moment she did, no doubt forming around her backstage to escort her to her dressing area. Court assumed she’d be hustled into another outfit and sent back out onto the runway in minutes, but he’d seen all he needed to see, so he stood and left the Salle des Lustre.

As he headed down the grand staircase on his way to a side entrance of the H?tel Potocki, he thought about what he’d just learned. He’d been told Medina would have her own security team of five men, but he’d needed to test the accuracy of this information he’d been given on this assignment. With his own eyes he’d seen four bodyguards, and he assumed another man would be waiting outside in a vehicle, so his intel appeared to be accurate.

Good, he thought. His client’s tradecraft might have been amateurish, but it seemed, so far, at least, that his intelligence product was solid.

Court exited the building, passed by dozens of mostly young men and women clambering to get a look at a famous guest or a beautiful model at the side exit, then he walked two blocks to his black 2010 Yamaha XJ6 motorcycle, left in a lot on the Rue Chateaubriand. Here he unlocked the top case on the back of his bike and then took off his Armani jacket. After kicking out of his leather wingtips, he pulled the two-piece motorcycle rain suit from the case and put it on in seconds, then slipped into a pair of black tennis shoes. He crammed his coat and shoes in the case and relocked it, donned his black helmet, lowered the smoked visor, and climbed aboard the bike.

He drove around to the back of the venue, having already scoped out the exit the models were using for the fashion show. Here he parked fifty yards from the door but remained on his motorcycle, and he steeled himself for a long wait.



* * *



? ? ?

?Court sat on his bike, his attention shifting from the H?tel Potocki to the passing vehicles on the roads to the windows and roofs of buildings in the neighborhood. Every now and then a car would roll up to the rear door and someone would either climb out of the vehicle and step into the building or step out of the building and climb into the vehicle; the three dozen or so onlookers on the sidewalk crowded behind the rope and kept back by a security man took pictures of the action. But despite the movement, Court saw no hint of his target.

An hour and forty minutes after Court took up his watch, a silver Cadillac Escalade pulled up by the rear door of the Potocki, and the employee access door opened in symmetry with the big vehicle’s arrival. Court locked his eyes to the scene now, thinking this looked like it could be a trained security movement in action. Just as he suspected, a pair of Bianca Medina’s bodyguards stepped out of the building and looked around at the small crowd and the street, and then the model herself appeared. Her hands held her camel raincoat tight against her neck, her massive bag swung from her shoulder, and she walked with a determined gait. She kept her head down; many in the crowd took pictures of her because she looked famous, even if they didn’t know who, in fact, she was.

In five seconds she was ensconced in the SUV, and it was moving as soon as the last door closed.

Court fired up his bike and followed the Escalade to the east.



* * *



? ? ?

The Yamaha wound through the thick early-evening traffic on the Avenue de Friedland following 150 yards back from the Escalade. He found himself too far behind at one point, so he ignored the lane markers and darted through the gridlock at an intersection, swaying left and right as needed to keep his momentum while the cars and trucks around the motorcycle moved at a snail’s pace.

Court kept his head on a swivel, his eyes firing down to his mirrors, making sure there wasn’t a chase car working with Medina’s protection element, or even another group targeting and following the model and her entourage. He’d satisfied himself he hadn’t been compromised, but his tradecraft skills caused him to resatisfy himself of his own personal security every few seconds.

They were heading east, and this indicated to Court that they weren’t going to one of three hotels with rooms reserved for models in the Zuhair Murad show. He’d doubted from the beginning his target would have much contact with the other women and girls, and this just confirmed his suspicion.

He wasn’t surprised she was steering clear of the more public places; he just leaned lower on his bike and told himself he couldn’t lose her now, because he probably wouldn’t be able to reacquire the woman if the Escalade disappeared in the traffic.

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