by Brad Thor
“Unless you can convince a judge you’re from Mexico, you’re definitely going to be on the next plane out of here. Can you habla Español?”
Miraj looked up at Davidson and then turned his tearful eyes to Vaughan. “Please, sir. There are no jobs in my village in Pakistan. I send money to my family so they can buy food. If you send me home, we will all starve.”
“But look at it this way,” replied Davidson, placing an arm around his shoulder and steering him toward the passenger door. “At least you’ll all be together.”
“No,” implored the mechanic. “Please, sir, no. Do not send me back.”
“There’s nothing we can do. We have to follow the law. Besides, you should see what you did to the hood of my Bronco.”
“I can fix your Bronco, sir.”
“Wait a second,” said Vaughan, who had figured out Davidson’s plan B the moment he stepped out of the Crescent office waving a pair of handcuffs at the mechanic. “Maybe there is something we can do. Maybe, if Mr. Miraj can help us, we can help him.”
“Javed can’t help us. He’s going back to Pakistan.”
Vaughan looked at the man and shrugged. “Sorry, Javed.”
Miraj hung his head as Davidson opened the passenger door of his Bronco. Just as Davidson was about to place him inside, he took a deep breath and asked, “If I help you, you will help me?”
Davidson stopped and leaned him against the side of the truck.
“It’s your decision,” said Vaughan. “You either help us or you go to jail and get sent back to Pakistan.”
The mechanic winced and Vaughan saw another flash of what he had previously thought had been a smile.
“I must go to the toilet,” said the man. “My stomach is very bad. You chasing me has made it worse.”
“No,” corrected Davidson. “You running from us made it worse. Now, if you’ll pardon the pun, shit or get off the pot.”
The Pakistani was confused.
“He means, give us something we can use, or you are going to jail. Right now.”
“The logbook they showed you is false. It is not real.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard them,” replied Javed. “They told Ali Masud to make up a new book.”
Davidson knew it. They’d even spilled tea on it to age it and disguise the fact that it was brand new. “So we were right,” he said. “The cab from that night had been there.”
“Yes.”
“Who worked on it?” asked Vaughan.
Javed looked at him. “I did.”
CHAPTER 18
PROVENCE
FRANCE
SATURDAY
Forty-five kilometers east of the border, Padre Peio pulled into a tiny French village and parked behind a four-year-old blue Citroën. He had taken a circuitous route through the mountains and down into France. Much of what they had driven on could hardly have been called roads at all. In fact, Harvath suspected that they were very likely Basque smuggling routes, but he didn’t ask. He was more interested in listening to Peio.
As they drove, the priest had opened up about his past. The information came slowly at first, but built from there. Harvath wondered how many people the priest had ever shared his story with. He doubted his fellow priests would fully understand. Harvath wondered if, because of their similar backgrounds, Peio felt more comfortable with him; that somehow Harvath was better equipped to understand it.
He began by talking about his family. They were Basque, and his father had worked for the government. When Peio was in his first year of high school, his family had moved to Madrid. With so many members of the family involved in the separatist movement, they were worried about him and his older brother becoming involved with ETA too.
The fear wasn’t unfounded. Within a year of graduating from high school, Peio’s older brother had returned to the Basque country and joined. Three months later, he was killed in a shoot-out with police. The family was devastated.
Peio did his compulsory military service and proved himself quite proficient in military intelligence. He extended his tour, completed his college degree on nights and weekends, and eventually transferred into the Spanish Intelligence service, where he met his wife.
They deeply loved their jobs and each other. They had a plan to work five more years in the intelligence field and then transition into something steady and less dangerous so that they could begin a family. They were six months shy of that goal when, on a cold March morning in 2004, Peio’s wife, Alicia, boarded a rush hour commuter train for Madrid.
At 7:38 a.m., just as the train was pulling out of the station, an improvised explosive device planted by Muslim terrorists detonated, killing her instantly.
It was the Spanish 9/11 and Spain was in shock. Peio was beyond devastated. As an intelligence operative who specialized in Muslim extremism, he felt that he had not only failed his country, but that somehow he should have been able to prevent the attack. Because he hadn’t, he had gotten Alicia killed.
None of what was going through his mind could have been further from the truth, but Peio had slipped into a very dangerous mental and emotional state.
He came into work the very next day, demanding to be allowed on the investigation. His superiors rightly refused his request and sent him home, placing him on a leave of absence. Friends from work took turns staying with him over the next two days until the third day when he disappeared. His colleagues assumed he had gone up to the Basque country to get away from Madrid and the scene of his wife’s murder. They had no idea how wrong they were.
Over the next thirty-six hours, Peio hunted down and brutally interrogated several Muslim extremists, severely hampering the Spanish investigation. No matter what direction the authorities chose to follow, Peio, like some all-knowing deity, had already been there.
He captured two members of the terror cell and tortured them for three days before executing them. After drawing out all the money in his bank account, he left Madrid for the island of Cabrera, where he drank himself nearly to death and became hooked on heroin. When he ran out of money, he attempted suicide.
It was a priest on the tiny island who found him and helped bring him back from the dead. When it became time for Peio to decide whether or not to return to Madrid and put the pieces of his previous life back together, he felt that God had another plan for him.
As Harvath now sat waiting for Dominique Fournier, it was Peio’s last statement that made him wish the priest had kept his past to himself. The biggest regret Peio said he had was not the brutal interrogations, the tortures, or the executions of the terrorists he had captured. For those acts, he had repented, atoned, and would ultimately have to answer to God. What he regretted the most was not having had children with his wife. If they’d had children, even just one, those days and months after Alicia’s death would have been different.
Harvath doubted it. Any real man, especially someone with Peio’s background, would have tried to hunt down his wife’s killers. It was the six-month bender, heroin addiction, and suicide attempt that were troubling. Maybe a child would have prevented Peio from sinking so far into despair, but maybe not. There was no telling. For all he knew, Peio’s circuits weren’t exactly wired properly. The way his past life still seemed to pull at him, he had serious doubts about whether or not the man could or would remain a priest.
What bothered Harvath was the whole thing about not having kids. He didn’t mind Peio unloading on him. It was a long drive and maybe he really did see something in Harvath that made him feel he could confide in him. But that his biggest regret, even after God had supposedly called him to a life in the church, was never having had kids really stuck with Harvath. If this man, a priest, couldn’t get over it, how would he? There were parallels between Peio’s loyalty to the church and his loyalty to Tracy that he didn’t want to even begin exploring. He had some very serious things to consider, but for now they would have to wait. Dominique Fournier was almost within his grasp.
&nb
sp; Nicholas had been right about her security measures. They were indeed better than most, but they weren’t perfect. With limited bandwidth, his satellite phone, and a small wire transfer from one of his many bank accounts, finding Fournier’s Achilles’ heel had not proven difficult. The woman had made more than a few enemies in her lifetime.
The terraced hills near Fournier’s estate were fronted by stone walls and planted with grapevines and olive trees. The fields beyond were an undulating sea of lavender. It was definitely one of the more picturesque places Harvath had ever conducted an ambush.
After confirming that Fournier had left the house, he returned to the Citroën, tossed his binoculars into his pack, popped the hood, and waited. Fifteen minutes later, she and her bodyguard came jogging up the road.
Leaning against the front of the car, he put on his most charming smile.
Fournier was a stunning woman. She was in her late forties, stood almost six feet tall, and had been a print and runway model until the business had finished chewing her up and had spit her out. She had long red hair drawn back in a ponytail and green eyes, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her extremely athletic body, which Harvath had a more than ample view of as she was wearing one of the skimpiest jogging outfits he had ever seen.
Her bodyguard looked hard as nails. He was about the same age, but stood two inches shorter. He wore a fanny pack, which is where Harvath assumed he carried his weapon. He was clean-cut and intelligent looking. This guy wasn’t just hired muscle. He was experienced and professional. Harvath noticed his demeanor change the minute he spotted him. He stiffened up and gave his protectee a subtle signal to drop back.
As they drew closer, Harvath stood up straighter and waved. The bodyguard was in front of Fournier by several feet and cautiously approached.
In addition to jogging the same road every day with only one bodyguard, Dominique Fournier had another weak spot, her vanity. “If this is what roadside assistance looks like in France, I’m going to have to make sure I break down more often.”
Though Harvath spoke very good French, he wanted to put the pair at ease with him as quickly as possible. He figured the best way was to play the role of American tourist. He wasn’t ready for what came next.
“What’s wrong with your car?” said the bodyguard in perfect English. His accent sounded like he came from somewhere around Baltimore.
“Are you American?” asked Harvath, his smile growing even broader.
“Yes,” replied the bodyguard, who continued to remain professional. “What’s wrong with your car?”
“I don’t know. I think Citroën is French for piece of shit.”
The bodyguard cracked a smile. “When we get to a phone, we’ll call a wrecker for you.”
“Why don’t you see if you can help him, Richard,” said Fournier as she stepped up and introduced herself. “My name is Dominique.”
“Bonjour, Dominique,” said Harvath. “My name’s Russ.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Russ. Are you here for the summer, or just passing through?”
She had an incredibly sexy accent and Harvath could have stood there all day and listened to her speak. “I’m here for the summer actually.”
“Really? How nice. Did you bring your wife, or maybe your girlfriend?”
“Nope. Just me.”
“That’s even nicer.” The sex appeal just oozed from this woman. It was obvious that she was interested in Harvath.
He turned his attention to the bodyguard. “I appreciate your help. I’m not really a car guy.”
“Richard is very good with all things mechanical,” said Fournier.
“I’ll see what I can do. Why don’t you hop in and try to start it?”
While the man was being polite, Harvath could see that he hadn’t let his guard down one bit. He really was a professional. The only reason he was helping a stranded motorist was that his employer had asked him to. He knew better than most how often this kind of ploy was used to facilitate an attack.
“Okay,” said Harvath as he opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. “Here goes.”
He turned the key. “Anything?”
The bodyguard looked under the hood and laughed. “Turn it off for a second and try it again.”
Harvath did and the engine roared to life. “That’s fantastic. Thank you. What did you do?”
“The ignition control module was loose. I tightened it up, but you should get it checked out.”
“I will. Thank you,” said Harvath, who then looked at Fournier and added, “And thank you.”
“Do you have a pen?” she asked.
Harvath fished around in the glove box until he found one and then handed it to her.
“Give me your hand,” she said.
He obeyed, sticking his left hand out the window, palm up. Fournier leaned into it and allowed it to rub against her upper thigh for a moment. Harvath felt a jolt of electricity rush through him.
She then cupped his hand and wrote her cell phone number on his palm. “I suggest you call me before it rubs off.”
Before Harvath could respond, Fournier tilted her head and she and the bodyguard began jogging once again.
Harvath took a breath and noted that his heart was actually beating faster. Fournier had gotten to him.
Tossing the pen on the floor he shook it off and put the car in gear.
He drove slowly, allowing them to pull a bit ahead of him. It was a tactical decision meant to disarm the bodyguard. That said, it also provided an excellent opportunity to check out Dominique Fournier from behind. She was gorgeous.
Not only that, she had been very charming. He couldn’t tell why Nicholas thought she was such a bitch.
Harvath began to increase his speed until he pulled right up alongside the runners. “Thanks again for the help,” he said.
The bodyguard smiled back. “Anytime,” he replied.
That was when Harvath lifted the Taser and fired.
CHAPTER 19
Harvath slammed on the brakes as the bodyguard’s muscles seized up and he fell over into the road. He had to act fast.
He threw the Taser on the dash, its long wires running through the window to the two barbed probes embedded in the bodyguard’s chest.
He had figured that Dominique Fournier would take off on her long legs like a gazelle, but he had figured wrong. He wasn’t even halfway out of the car when she was on top of him. Immediately, his original opinion of her shifted as she kicked him in the groin harder than he could ever remember being kicked.
His vision dimmed, the wind whooshed from his lungs, and his knees buckled. He fell to the ground and realized how badly he had misjudged this woman.
He looked up just in time to see her considerably sized fist come sailing through the air at his head. He was on his knees between the car and its open door, powerless to do anything to stop her. He had no choice but to absorb the blow.
The problem was that it wasn’t just one blow; it was several, a combination. Two punches followed, and Harvath’s ear began to ring as a trickle of blood started to run from his nose. Whether this woman had taken martial arts training or had just attended one too many Tae Bo classes made no difference. He was getting his ass kicked and if she kept this up, he was going to end up being knocked unconscious.
And to make matters worse, it was only a matter of seconds before the bodyguard would be up and around. Once that happened, the game would be over.
Even though the woman had kicked his eggs so far up into the henhouse he thought his beak was going to snap off, he needed to do something. He needed to push aside the pain and get control of the situation, now.
Before he could do anything, though, Fournier grabbed the open car door and slammed it into his side. Harvath had a rule about striking women, but was about ready to tear that page from his book.
The whole right-hand side of his body was on fire and five feet away, the bodyguard was struggling to stand.
Planting his left
foot, Harvath exploded into the door with his shoulder and knocked Fournier backward with it. She lost her footing as she tripped over the bodyguard, and fell on top of him.
Harvath lunged for the Taser atop the dash and pulled the trigger. Because Fournier’s skin was in physical contact with her bodyguard’s, the electricity was transmitted to both of them and they got to “ride the bull,” as it was known, together.
The minute Fournier was incapacitated, Harvath removed a handful of Tuff Ties from his pocket and trussed her up tight. He did the same thing to the bodyguard. After removing the man’s fanny pack, he slapped pieces of duct tape over each of their mouths and placed hoods over each of their heads. Then he had to get them into the car.
Fournier had done a real number on him, and it was a lot harder moving the two of them than it normally would have been. The bodyguard was a pretty solid fellow and even though she didn’t have an ounce of fat on her, six feet of woman was a hell of a lot of sugar and spice to be moving right after the beating he had taken.
The bodyguard got dumped in the trunk and he laid Fournier down on the backseat and covered her with a blanket. He didn’t have far to go, but even out here in the middle of the countryside there was always the possibility someone would see them. The last thing he wanted was to drive past some bicycling tour of Provence with the red-headed Amazon queen in plain sight, bound and gagged across the backseat.
For their destination, he had searched for something close that would allow him to work without being disturbed. After driving around yesterday, he had found it. The abandoned barn was only a few kilometers away from the ambush site. Though part of the roof was missing, all of the sides were still intact. It was well off the road and hadn’t been touched in decades. It was perfect.
He drove the Citroën directly into the barn, turned off the ignition, and then got out and closed the barn doors.
Leaving her hood on, he pulled Fournier off the backseat and then took her to a stool in the middle of the barn. He sat her down and gently dragged his knife blade across her midriff before placing it against her throat and telling her not to move.