by Brad Thor
“I said two hours of my time. It might take me forty-eight overall to get a name and a cab number for you, but I’m only going to charge for the two hours I work. Plus expenses, of course.”
“What kind of expenses?” asked Vaughan.
“Don’t worry, Sergeant. I’ll keep it under a hundred bucks. So do we have a deal?”
Vaughan didn’t need to negotiate with him. If Davidson could deliver, and do it that quickly, it would be worth ten times the amount. “You’ve got a deal.”
He gave him the rest of his contact details and asked, “When can you start?”
“How about right now?”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course not,” said Davidson. “I’m on vacation. I’ll call you when I get back to the city.”
Vaughan said good-bye and set the phone down on the table. Davidson reminded him of a cocksure young Marine he’d gone into Tikrit with. Everything was a joke and he never broke a sweat. Twelve hours later, when the Marine went in to clear an insurgent safe house, he zigged when he should have zagged and died on the spot.
CHAPTER 12
BASQUE PYRENEES
SPAIN
The out-of-the-way route Harvath had chosen meant that it was well after midnight when he drove into the village of Ezkutatu. Like many of the villages he had driven through since entering the Pyrenees Mountain Range, Ezkutatu was composed of rugged, squat buildings made of stone. Its highest point was the steeple of the local Catholic church.
With its tiny, storybook-like railway station, it was as if he had driven back in time. Clear the cars from the streets, and the village would look no different now than it had over a hundred years ago.
Pushing further into the heart of Ezkutatu he came upon its cobblestoned, communal square. According to the route that had been planned for him on the GPS, this was his final destination. He would have liked to have done some reconnaissance, but the village was built along the side of a mountain with only one road in and one road out.
Against the lights illuminating the church facade he saw the silhouette of a man in a long, dark coat. As he slowed the Peugeot, the man began walking toward him. Harvath balanced the sawed-off shotgun on his lap; his finger on the trigger. He had no idea who the man was and didn’t like that he had apparently been waiting for him.
When he got within forty yards of the church, he realized that the figure was not dressed in a long coat, but rather the vestments, or soutane, of a Catholic priest.
Harvath brought the Peugeot to a stop on an angle, powered down the passenger window, and raising the sawed-off said, “That’s far enough, Father. Let me see your hands, please.”
The figure lifted his hands into the air, but kept walking forward. Harvath gripped the weapon tighter and aimed for center mass. Though they couldn’t have looked more dissimilar, the man’s flowing garb reminded him of the robes worn by many Muslim imams and he had learned the hard way how well the costume lent itself to secreting weapons and psychologically disarming opponents.
“That’s far enough,” he repeated. The man was within ten feet of the vehicle and Harvath could now make him out. He looked to be about the same age as him, with dark hair and a clean-shaven face. He held himself ramrod straight, almost military-like, as if he were undergoing an inspection. And while he projected a serene countenance, he was not like any priest Harvath had ever seen before. Something about his eyes put him on edge.
“You seem to be carrying a lot of weight in your trunk,” said the priest. “Should I be preparing to hold funerals tomorrow, or can we release those two men and let them return to their warm beds and families?”
Harvath recognized the man’s voice from the phone call two days ago in Virginia. “That depends. Why were they following me?”
“To protect you.”
“To protect me? From whom?”
“From whoever tried to kill Nicholas,” said the priest.
“These are Nicholas’s men?”
“No, I sent them.”
“Funny, they didn’t strike me as altar boy types.”
“Mr. Harvath, it’s late. I’m tired, and because you changed the route those men are long overdue at home.”
“Hold it a second,” replied Harvath. “How do you know what route I took?”
“You’re driving a vehicle that belongs to the Basque Separatist organization, ETA. I have been receiving updates on your progress ever since you entered the foothills from the opposite direction from the one I programmed into the GPS device we left for you.
“Now, in the trunk of your vehicle you have the cousin and brother-in-law of one of the district commanders. For your sake and mine, I hope that they’re still alive.”
“They are.”
“Good. The sooner you let them go, the sooner they can report in and the sooner the men of this district can stand down and we all can get some sleep.”
Harvath lowered the shotgun and stepped out of the car. He scanned the buildings around the square and wondered how many pairs of eyes they had on them at the moment.
“So this is ETA country?” he said as he met the priest at the trunk.
“Practically the epicenter,” replied the man. “Once we take care of this, I have a bed and food waiting for you.”
“I’d like to see Nicholas first.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. It’s too dangerous. We’ll leave in the morning.”
“Where is he?”
The man smiled. “You expected us to keep him here in the village? Please, Mr. Harvath. You may not find us very sophisticated, but we’re not amateurs.”
“That’s good to know,” said Harvath as he lifted the lid of the trunk and revealed the two Basque men hog-tied inside. “Because if you had sent amateurs, I would have been insulted.”
CHAPTER 13
The embarrassed priest produced a Basque Yatagan and cut the men loose. Both glared at Harvath as they climbed out of the trunk and massaged their stiff limbs. Though he didn’t speak Basque, he had no problem interpreting the priest’s remarks as he chastised the men and sent them home.
Once they had driven off, the priest formally introduced himself. “I am Padre Peio.”
Harvath shook his outstretched hand. The man had an unusually strong grip.
“I have a car nearby if you’re ready.”
Harvath nodded and quietly followed the priest down a small street to a battered Land Cruiser. “Would you like to place your bag in the back?” the man asked as he opened Harvath’s door for him.
“No thank you, Padre. I think I’ll keep it with me.”
The priest gave a slight nod as he walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in. Though it was an older vehicle, the inside was meticulously kept and the engine instantly sprang to life. Harvath closed his door, and Padre Peio pulled away from the curb and piloted the Land Cruiser out of the village.
“I’m sure you have many questions,” said the priest.
“One or two,” admitted Harvath.
“Well, when I take you to Nicholas in the morning, I’m sure he’ll be happy to answer them for you.”
“Who are you? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I don’t mind. I’m just a priest. A friend of Nicholas.”
Harvath doubted that was the long and the short of it, but changed the subject anyway. “Does he know who attacked him?”
The priest took a moment to find his words. “It is a delicate matter, Mr. Harvath, and I think it would be better if he explained it to you himself.”
It was obvious he knew the answer to the question, but he wasn’t going to give it up. “Let me rephrase my question. Is the person who attacked Nicholas still alive?”
“No, dead.”
“Who killed him?”
“It wasn’t a he, it was a she, and the dogs killed her.”
“Nicholas was attacked by a woman?”
The priest downshifted as the road began to climb. “According to what he told m
e, she was a very patient assassin. She bided her time; worked on gaining his trust. She even got him to remove the dogs to another room. That is when she struck.”
“Then how did the dogs kill her?”
“They heard his screaming and broke through the heavy oak door of his bedroom. She was mauled to death and they tore her throat out. There was blood everywhere.”
“Didn’t Nicholas have any security?”
“No one was supposed to know he was here.”
It was a subtle, disapproving tone that Harvath picked up on. “He invited her, didn’t he?”
“Mr. Harvath,” said the priest, returning to his previous posture, “I think it’s best if you discuss these things with Nicholas.”
Harvath watched as the headlights bounced off of large rocks and thick-trunked trees. He wanted more answers. “Are you a priest, or is that just a cover?”
“No, I am actually a priest.”
“Have you always been a priest?”
“I have been many things,” the man replied, his eyes focused on the road.
Harvath could only imagine.
As they gained altitude it grew colder. Peio reached over and adjusted the temperature knob, trying to coax a little more heat from the Land Cruiser’s vents. “How do you know Nicholas?” he asked.
“You could say we met through work,” replied Harvath. “How about you?”
“I also met Nicholas through work.”
“Don’t tell me. You were in the seminary together.”
“I take it you don’t think much of him.”
“In all honesty, Padre, I don’t know what to think of him. He has done a lot of bad things in his life.”
“Haven’t we all?” asked the priest.
Harvath didn’t reply.
Peio maneuvered the Land Cruiser around a small slide of rocks and once they were back on the road stated, “I know very little of who Nicholas is and what he has done. He has not taken confession with me.”
“Be careful what you wish for, Father.”
The priest looked at him. “No one is beyond God’s love and mercy. Not you. Not Nicholas. Not anyone. Despite what you may think of him, Nicholas has a very good heart. There is incredible decency in him. As do all men, he has his failings, but he has a desire to do good in the world.”
“You’ll forgive me for asking, but how long have you known him?”
“Many years now.”
“And you say you met through work? What kind of work?”
Peio removed a pack of cigarettes from the dashboard and offered one to Harvath. When he refused, the priest removed one for himself, lit it from the vehicle’s cigarette lighter, and cracked the window. He took a long, deep drag, and then exhaled. “Have you ever heard of the children of Chernobyl?”
Harvath, like everyone else, had heard of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster. It happened in the Ukraine in 1986 and was the worst nuclear power plant disaster in history. The only level-seven event to ever occur on the International Nuclear Event Scale, it distributed four hundred times more fallout than the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. Fifty-six people were killed directly, with about 4,000 more being stricken with various forms of cancer. Nuclear rain fell as far north as Ireland and over three hundred thousand people had to be resettled across huge swaths of area far beyond the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone.
He had never heard any reference, though, to the children of Chernobyl. “I assume these were children somehow adversely affected by the disaster?”
Peio took another drag on his cigarette. “Sixty percent of the fallout landed upon Belarus. You can imagine the consequences. One of the most disturbing has been the increase in birth defects. Parents in the affected areas are usually poor, scared, and lacking in hope. If they have children born with mental or physical impairments, they often abandon them at state orphanages. It is such a common occurrence that a word for them has entered the lexicon, Podkidysh: one who is left at the door.
“Early in my priesthood, I did missionary work at one of the orphanages in Belarus. That’s where I met Nicholas.”
Harvath knew that when Nicholas stopped growing because of his dwarfism, his Russian parents hadn’t even bothered to try to find a suitable home for him. Nor did they even have the kindness to place him in an orphanage. Instead, they had sold him to a brothel near the Black Sea. That troubling aspect of his past, and the man’s obvious love for his dogs, had been two of the biggest reasons Harvath could not completely harden his heart toward Nicholas. Knowing his history made it easy to understand why he might be involved with an orphanage dedicated to the children of Chernobyl.
“He was very generous to the orphanage, as well as the children, with both his time and his money,” said Peio. “In exchange, he was accepted. I would even say loved by many of the people there.”
“What happened?”
“As Nicholas put it, the only way one can outrun his past is to keep running.”
“But his past caught up with him in Belarus, at the orphanage?”
“We never knew,” replied the priest. “One day, he just disappeared.”
“How did he end up here?”
“We remained in touch. I told him that when the day came that he got tired of running, he could come here.”
“And when exactly did he arrive?”
Either Peio hadn’t heard him or he had chosen not to respond. He quietly turned off onto a smaller road bordered by high rock walls. Three hundred meters later, a locked livestock gate prevented them from going any further.
The priest flashed his brights—long, long, short, short, short—and from behind a large boulder off to the side of the road a man appeared. He reminded Harvath of the two Basque from the Peugeot. He was about the same size and was cradling a similar sawed-off shotgun. He peered into the Land Cruiser and, after acknowledging Peio, unwound the chain from around the gate and swung it open for the vehicle to pass.
As they drove through, Harvath saw three more men through the open door of a wooden guardhouse that had been obscured by the large boulder. They sat around a propane heater, but instead of sawed-off shotguns, were armed with high-end tactical rifles and night vision optics.
“Where are we?” asked Harvath.
“Someplace safe.”
CHAPTER 14
Harvath was given four hours to rest in a small apartment above the stables. Judging by the heavily armed guards and all of the other security precautions he had seen on their drive in, they were at some sort of fortified ranch compound that probably belonged to ETA.
In the apartment, a single place had been set at a wooden table in the kitchen. Next to it was a chipped glass and a half bottle of wine. On the stove was a traditional dish of Basque beans flavored with ham and Basque chorizo.
After eating, Harvath slept fitfully with his hand wrapped around his Glock.
Just before sunrise, Padre Peio knocked at the door. “Good morning,” he said, handing Harvath a thermos of hot coffee. Gone was the soutane. In its place, the priest was wearing blue jeans, boots, and a dark green fleece. He had a small bag slung over one shoulder. “Were you able to sleep?”
“A little,” replied Harvath.
“Good. You’ll need your strength. It’s a tough journey. Ready to go?”
Harvath put on his jacket and grabbed his pack. “Will we be coming back?”
“No. And just so we understand each other, we were never here.”
“Understood,” replied Harvath as he followed the man into the hall and down a flight of wooden stairs.
When they stepped outside, two horses were saddled and waiting for them. It was cold and their breath rose into the air.
Peio offered him a pair of leather gloves. “I assume you are comfortable around horses.”
Harvath walked up to one of the animals and patted it on the neck. “I like all animals, Padre. It’s people I usually have problems with.”
“Is Nicholas one of those people?”
“Nicholas is a t
hief.”
“And yet you have come halfway around the world to help him.”
“I’ve come for answers.”
“We’re all searching for answers.”
“I think you and I have different questions, Father.”
“You’d be surprised, Mr. Harvath.”
After a cup of coffee, Harvath tucked the thermos into his pack, swung into the saddle, and fell in behind the priest as he led the way further up into the mountains.
The trail was narrow and didn’t allow for them to ride abreast, so they rode in single file. It made conversation difficult, which was fine by Harvath. There was still something about the priest that didn’t fit. Until he had him better figured out, he preferred not to get too chummy with him.
Harvath’s mount followed the horse in front and didn’t need much guidance. Either the animal was used to following the priest’s, or it had made this journey before. He suspected both answers were probably correct.
The trail was covered in scree and large rocks that had tumbled down from above. They passed precipitous drop-offs where he had serious concerns about the narrowness of the eroded trail combined with the weight of his horse. Twice, the animal lost its footing and scrambled nervously.
Two hours into their journey, the trail widened and they emerged from a high mountain pass. Beneath them was a lush valley bisected by a wide stream. Near the stream was a burned-out stone farmhouse.
“That was where Nicholas was staying when he was attacked,” said Peio as Harvath drew alongside him.
“Was the fire set on purpose?”
“I don’t think so. His bedroom had apparently been filled with candles. In the struggle, one fell over and ignited the draperies.”
Perched upon a steep cliff across the valley was a small hermitage or priory of some sort. “And that?”
“That is where Nicholas is now,” said the priest. “The monastery of Saint Francis Xavier.”
They descended into the valley and rode past the charred farmhouse. Harvath noticed the remnants of a diesel generator as well as multiple solar panel fragments. There were also cables coming from the stream and he assumed that they led to some sort of hydro-electric turbine.