by Brad Thor
Nearer the old town the streets narrowed and the architecture became more interesting. Harvath removed a map he had picked up in the hotel lobby and studied it as he walked. He strolled up and down the Siete Calles, or seven streets as they were known, and got a feel for the neighborhood. It was full of shops, bars, and restaurants.
Behind the cathedral in the Calle de la Tendería he found a Basque restaurant within sight of the street’s only tobacconist. He took a seat inside, two tables back from the window, withdrew a guidebook from his pocket, and made himself comfortable.
Over the next three hours, he pretended to linger over his food and his guidebook as he watched the traffic patterns at the tiny tobacco shop. He even tipped the busboy to go buy cigarettes for him.
As he watched the young man cross the street, he debated finding a stand-in to do the exact same thing for him tomorrow. He was concerned that the meeting could be a setup. But if he conned some unsuspecting person into going into the shop on his behalf and something happened, the person could very well be killed. That wasn’t a risk he was comfortable with.
He knew he had to walk into that store himself tomorrow if he wanted the truth about the Troll. He didn’t like it, but there was no way of getting around it. All he could do was be as prepared as possible.
CHAPTER 8
CHICAGO
TUESDAY
John Vaughan had accepted Burt Taylor’s handshake and a promise that a check would be forthcoming. They’d get to the paperwork later. Too much time had already gotten away from them. As it was, it took him a full twenty-four hours before he could unravel himself from his police work and start on the Taylor investigation.
Tuesday afternoon, he stopped in a tiny sundries shop, bought a small spiral notebook, and walked back to his car. Inside, he wrote Alison Taylor’s name and the pertinent details he knew thus far of the case. He then focused on his next step.
The city of Chicago was divided into five policing “areas,” each with its own headquarters. Alison’s hit-and-run had happened in Area Five.
The detective division of each area was broken into three sections—Special Victims Unit, Robbery/Burglary/Theft, and Homicide/Gang Crimes/Sex. To streamline operations, the city no longer maintained a major accident investigation division. Instead, cases like Alison Taylor’s were now handled by HGS—Homicide/Gang Crimes/Sex.
Vaughan understood the rationale behind it, but collapsing vehicular crimes into HGS had never seemed like the best fit to him. Homicide detectives are used to pursuing linear crimes; A shot B, this is why A shot B, we’ve captured A, case closed. There is often malice involved, and that helps them track down and apprehend offenders.
Hit-and-runs, on the other hand, are atypical. They are not very sexy, and that was why, without even having seen Alison Taylor’s file, he knew the HGS detectives probably hadn’t put a lot of effort into pursuing it. It wasn’t because they were bad cops or because they were lazy, it was simply because with all of the cases they had, human nature was such that you pursued those you felt best equipped to handle and which you saw yourself having the greatest chance of solving.
The only people who took on loser cases were the young idealists who felt it was a personal failing if they didn’t solve every case that crossed their desk. A year of overwhelming detective work in a city like Chicago helped grind that idealism out of most detectives. Vaughan made a call to an Area Five HGS cop he knew and within ten minutes one of the detectives from Alison’s case called him back.
“You’re welcome to see the file,” said the detective. “But we didn’t make a lot of progress. Her coworkers were blitzed. Even if we had located the cabbie, their testimony would have been worthless in court.”
“I’m sure you guys did the best you could. I just want to be able to tell the family we didn’t leave any stones unturned.”
“I hear you. When can you get down here?”
Vaughan looked at his watch. “How’s a half hour?”
“I probably won’t be here, but—” There were a couple of seconds of silence while the detective muffled the mouthpiece before coming back on the line. “Ask for Detective Ramirez. I’ll leave the file with her.”
Vaughan wrote down the name and was about to thank the man, but he didn’t get the chance. The detective had hung up.
The half-hour drive, thanks to Chicago traffic, took almost an hour. When he arrived at Area Five and found Detective Ramirez, she told him, “You’re late,” as she handed him the file and offered to let him join her at her desk.
He hung his suit coat over the back of the metal chair, removed his notebook and pen, and opened the file. The detective he had spoken with had been right. They hadn’t made a lot of progress.
There was an incident report, pictures from the scene, and witness statements. In addition to the statements taken right after the hit-and-run, the detectives had gone back to interview Alison Taylor’s friends when they were sober.
A piece of black plastic had been recovered from the scene and was believed to have come from one of those triangular, rooftop advertising setups popular on taxis throughout the city.
The neighborhood had been canvassed for further witnesses and phone calls had been made to all of the cab companies. None of it resulted in any additional leads.
Vaughan arrived at the end of the file. Flipping the last page over he said, “Where’s the blue light camera footage from the intersection?”
Ramirez didn’t even bother looking up from the report she was reading. Reaching into her desk drawer, she withdrew the DVD the detective had given her for Vaughan to look at.
“Is this a copy for me to keep?”
“No. That’s our copy. There’s a DVD player in the conference room,” she said pointing across the sea of desks to a door on the other side of the room.
Vaughan took the disc and walked over to the conference room. He was back fifteen minutes later.
“God, I hate our blue light cams.”
Ramirez was still working on her report and not very interested in Vaughan’s problems. “Let me guess. The footage was blurry, and the camera automatically panned right at the minute you needed to see something.”
“Exactly.”
“Those cameras aren’t for solving crimes,” she said, looking up. “They’re for deterring crimes. I’m surprised they record any footage at all.”
Vaughan shook his head. They had footage of the cab speeding through the intersection, but it had happened so fast it was all blurry. And just like she had said, the camera panned away at the crucial moment where the cab number could have been identified. “There has to be another camera that caught this accident.”
“Are you done with that?” she asked as Vaughan began tapping his thigh with the folder.
“Yeah, I’m done,” he said, handing it back to her. Standing up, he removed his jacket from the back of the chair and pulled out his business card. “In case anything comes up.”
She dropped it into the file and offered him a piece of advice. “Because you’re a lawyer probably getting paid by the hour, I’m not going to tell you you’re wasting your time, but there are a lot of cabs in the city. Don’t get too emotionally involved.”
Vaughan understood where she was coming from. Detachment was the key to staying sane in their line of work. He still shook his head. “Lawyer, cop, it doesn’t matter. I’m a human being, and so was the woman who got run down in that intersection. I want to find the guy who did this.”
Ramirez held his gaze for a moment and then dropped her eyes back to the report she’d been using as an excuse to ignore him. “Have a nice evening, counselor.”
CHAPTER 9
BILBAO
WEDNESDAY
Harvath spent a good portion of the morning doing additional reconnaissance on the tobacco shop. Just after ten a.m., he stepped away from the tour group he was shadowing and with both his Glock and Taser handy, entered the shop.
The old man behind the counter didn’t
even bother looking up.
“Do you have Argos and Draco brand cigarettes?” he asked in Spanish, using the names of the Troll’s two dogs.
“Three Euros,” the old man replied, reaching under the counter and producing a pack of Fortuna Lites.
Harvath gave him the cash, pocketed the cigarettes, and exited the store. He conducted what felt like his hundredth SDR of the day and when he was confident he wasn’t being followed, walked into a small hotel he had identified earlier and headed into its café. Taking a table near the back, he ordered coffee. Once the waiter had walked away, he pulled out the pack of cigarettes and examined it.
It had a plastic wrapper, but had been opened from the bottom and resealed. Harvath peeled off the plastic and opened the package at the top. It was stuffed with tissue paper. After removing the paper, he withdrew a car key rubber-banded to a prepaid parking receipt. In addition to the name and address of the parking facility, someone had written C-11.
Harvath remembered having joked that the only thing the Troll’s offer was missing was a dark alley. It would seem that he hadn’t been creative enough. A dark parking structure was much more apropos.
The underground garage was on the other side of the river. It took Harvath about fifteen minutes to walk there, fifteen minutes for reconnaissance, and another five to locate the car. So far, so good.
He found a structural column and used it for cover as he depressed the button on the remote. The lights flashed. The door unlocked.
After thoroughly checking the vehicle for explosives, he tossed in his backpack, climbed into the driver’s seat, and started the car. He reversed out of the space, drove up two levels, and after using the prepaid receipt, exited the facility.
He drove through several neighborhoods before finally pulling over and looking for a clue as to where he was supposed to go next.
Inside the glove compartment were a portable GPS device, a window mount, and cigarette adaptor. After powering up the GPS, he toggled to the screen with pre-loaded routes and saw it contained one destination labeled “Nicholas.”
It appeared to be a village in the Basque Pyrenees. According to the GPS, the drive was five hours and forty-three minutes. Harvath kept his gun where he could get to it.
Incredibly, he found a radio station playing the American funk classic “Pass the Peas” by Fred Wesley, and turning up the volume, he pointed the car toward the Autopista and stepped on the accelerator.
Fifteen kilometers outside of Bilbao, he noticed he was being followed.
CHAPTER 10
The immediate exits outside the city offered only bad neighborhoods, and the shoulder of the highway was equally dangerous. Harvath decided to wait.
As long as they weren’t trying to overtake him and run him off the road, he was fine. The problem lay in whether or not there was an ambush waiting somewhere up along the route; somewhere he could be forced off the road and everything could be made to look like an accident.
It seemed a bit over the top, especially when they could have arranged for something to have happened to him in Bilbao, but maybe they had another scenario in mind. All Harvath knew was that he didn’t like being followed. He needed to find out who these people were and what they wanted. Fifty kilometers later, an opportunity presented itself.
Gunning the car, he sped off the Autopista and raced down the exit road to the service area. The parking lot was crowded and Spaniards coming or going from their cars gesticulated wildly and cursed him for his excessive rate of speed.
He slowed down as he neared the restaurant and parked in one of the handicapped spaces up front. Grabbing his backpack, he unplugged the GPS device, tucked it in his pocket, and left the keys in the ignition. He wouldn’t be coming back for the car.
The lot was peppered with cars and long-haul trucks. Inside the café cum restaurant, most of the business was gathered around the beer taps at the counter. There were two families having a late lunch and Harvath noted four police officers drinking coffee at a nearby table, but that was it.
He stepped to the far end of the crowded counter and ordered a beer. Seconds later, he saw the car that had been following him since Bilbao, a black Peugeot, roll through the parking lot. When it came upon his vehicle parked in one of the handicapped spaces up front, it slowed down and then moved on. If Harvath had needed any further proof that they were following him, that was it.
The Peugeot had been moving slowly enough that Harvath could make out a large man at the wheel with a thick neck, a sloping forehead, and eyebrows so thick they were like Brillo pads. Then, the car disappeared from sight.
Harvath had a good vantage point. Not only could he look out the windows onto the parking lot, he could also see straight through the building’s front door.
As he continued to watch, he ordered a sandwich. He didn’t have to see them to know they were outside waiting for him. The same questions that had been plaguing him since he’d first seen them in his rearview mirror continued. Who were they, and why were they following him?
Asking the police for help was out of the question. The men outside would say they had no idea what he was talking about and that they had pulled in simply to rest and get something to eat. Naturally, they would then have plenty of questions for Harvath, who was carrying a firearm, a stack of cash, and had no idea exactly where he was going. He would have to pull this off on his own.
Removing the GPS device from his pocket, he powered it up and copied the directions down on the back of his paper placemat. Then he requested the device plan an alternate route for him, but because he was indoors and out of range of the satellites, the device was unable to complete the task.
Frustrated, Harvath turned the device off and slid it back into his pocket. Using his limited Spanish, he asked for the check, paid it, and then waited for the right moment to walk back to the men’s room.
The man at the urinal was about twenty years old and Harvath ignored him as he walked over to the sink and turned on the water. He splashed some on his face and then leaned heavily on the edge of the bowl.
When the young man approached, Harvath pretended to lose his balance before righting himself.
“Se siente bien, señor?” the young man asked. Are you feeling okay?
He feigned difficulty focusing. “Do you speak English?”
“I do. Are you okay?”
“I left my pills in the car,” Harvath said, gesturing toward the door.
“Do you want me to get them for you?”
He took a deep, labored breath. “I would really appreciate it. Thank you.”
“Give me your keys and tell me where your car is.”
“It’s a blue Opel,” he said. “It is in a handicapped spot just outside the front door. The keys are in it. It’s unlocked. I think I left the pills in the glove box or they may be in the pocket behind the passenger seat.”
“Wait here,” replied the Good Samaritan. “I’ll be right back.”
Harvath thanked him, and once he left the men’s room, followed him at a safe distance. He cut through the gift shop and exited the structure via a side door at the far end.
Since no one from the black Peugeot had come in looking for him, there was only a handful of places they could be. Either they had given up and left, which he highly doubted; they had driven off to another point where they would wait to pick up his trail again, virtually impossible to do without being seen; or they were sitting out in the parking lot somewhere. And if they were out in the parking lot, they would be positioned so that they could keep an eye on his car while they waited for him to come back out. It was the answer that made the most sense and therefore the one he went with.
It didn’t take Harvath long to find them. The young man from the men’s room was politely ransacking the Opel, looking for a nonexistent bottle of pills while the two men in the Peugeot watched in silence, trying to figure out what was going on.
The Peugeot was three rows back and they never saw Harvath coming. Using the but
t of his Glock, he smashed the rear passenger window. Popping the lock, he opened the door and sat down upon the spill of broken glass.
“Nobody move,” he said, holding his pistol so that both of the startled men could see it.
Next to Eyebrows was the driver, an equally beefy and thick-necked mouth breather with a thin scar on his right cheek. Whoever these two were, they were not operators. They were muscle. And poorly dressed muscle at that.
“Why have you been following me?” asked Harvath.
“No hablamos ingles,” said Eyebrows.
“Bullshit. Why have you been following me?”
“No hablam—”
“Shut up. Do you have any weapons on you?”
“Qué?”
“Dónde estan las armas?” he said, pulling Eyebrows’ shirt up so he could check his waistband. “Las pistolas? Dónde estan?”
“No pistolas. No armas.”
Harvath put the gun against Scarface’s temple and patted him down. He was clean.
He used his pack to brush off some of the glass on the seat and settled back. These two needed to be dealt with, but not here. “Vamonos,” he said.
“A dónde vamos?” replied Scarface nervously.
Leaning forward Harvath put his Glock against the man’s head and slowly repeated, “Va-mo-nos. Got it? Now quit jerking around and get moving.”
The Spaniard started the engine, put the car in gear, and pulled out of the rest area and onto the motorway. Two exits later, Harvath signaled for him to turn off.
They followed a small country road and he instructed Scarface to pull behind a thick copse of trees. He then told him to turn off the engine.
Climbing out, he instructed them to exit the vehicle one at a time. “Afuera.” His Spanish was lousy, but the pistol was a wonderful interpretive aid that seemed to help get his points across.