“Reminiscent of John le Carré…”

“Exquisite in its execution, the relentlessly riveting, “Agent in Place” firmly plants Greaney alongside Brad Taylor and Brad Thor as the masters of this thriller subgenre.”

providence journal

“Greaney’s steady escalation of the risks that Court faces, and the exceedingly clever ways he tackles them, make this entry in the exemplary Gray Man series a can’t-miss.”

publishers weekly

“Readers of the great Tom Clancy will salivate over this fast-moving and well-plotted yarn, which is part of a consistently appealing series in which each assignment is billed as the most dangerous ever. Somehow, Greaney cranks out one winner after another. That’s a lot of work for the Gray Man and plenty of vicarious pleasure for thriller fans.”

kirkus reviews

“Erstwhile CIA operative Court Gentry, now a freelance mercenary, has a tall order in bestseller Greaney’s excellent seventh Gray Man novel (after 2017’s Gunmetal Gray): first he has to kidnap the mistress of Syria’s tyrannical president, Ahmed Al-Azzam, to enlist her aid in toppling his murderous regime, then rescue her infant son left behind in Damascus. As cover, Court joins a mercenary force supporting Al-Azzam. Greaney brilliantly contrasts Court’s pro bono humanitarian mission with the greedy mercenaries who fuel the Syrian civil war. Court, whose nom de guerre denotes a moral ambiguity, is not without avarice himself, but the mercs’ depravity and lack of esprit de corps disgust him. When related missions out of his control are compromised, Court undertakes the suicidal task of eliminating Al-Azzam. Greaney’s steady escalation of the risks that Court faces, and the exceedingly clever ways he tackles them, make this entry in the exemplary Gray Man series a can’t-miss.”

publishers weekly

Agent in Place

One week earlier

Cimetière du Père-Lachaise is the most visited cemetery in the world, but the Paris landmark was all but deserted on this rainy, gray, and cool weekday morning. An elderly couple fed squirrels on the cobblestones; a dozen young people stood solemnly in front of Jim Morrison’s fenced-off but simple plot. A group of German hipsters lounged among the graves surrounding Oscar Wilde’s tomb, and a lone man took photos of the statue of Euterpe, the muse of music, as she wept above composer Frédéric Chopin’s mausoleum.

There might have been seventy-five visitors in all on the property, but the cemetery spread over one hundred hilly and wooded acres, so anyone who wanted privacy could find it easily here in the warren of tombs, crypts, cobblestoned lanes, and old oak.

And one man had done just that. A dark-complected fifty-five-year-old with thinning gray hair old sat alone a few rows up the hill from Molière’s tomb, on a small bench that one had to either know about or stumble upon to locate. His name was Dr. Tarek Halaby, and there wasn’t much about the man to make him stand out from the average Parisian of Middle Eastern descent, although someone with knowledge of fashion might pick up on the fact that his raincoat was a Kiton that ran north of two thousand euros, and they therefore might come to the quite reasonable assumption that this was a man of significant means.

As he sat there in the stillness of the cemetery, Halaby pulled out his wallet and looked at a small photo he kept there. A young man and a young woman standing together, smiling into the lens, with hope and intelligence in their eyes that said the future was theirs to command.

For twenty seconds Halaby stared at the photo, till drops of rain began to fall, splashing on the image and blurring the smiling faces.

He dried the photo off with this thumb, put his wallet back in his coat, and looked up to the sky. He lifted his umbrella and got ready to pop it open, but then the phone he’d placed on the bench next to him buzzed and lit up.

He forgot about the impending shower, put down the umbrella, and read the text.