by Brad Thor
Harvath opted for an espresso, while Sølvi had an Aperol Spritz, and Dominique—glad to be putting the workday behind her—ordered a Calvados.
She was even more chatty than she had been at lunch. Harvath wondered if maybe she had stopped for a drink with her other clients before arriving here.
There was a benefit to it, though. She seemed more comfortable around them and, without coaxing, she brought up Aubertin.
It was brief. She didn’t know much about him. He spoke with an Irish accent and while polite, was exceedingly professional. So much so, that he wasn’t known to socialize with any of the other guides. In fact, the only social situations Dominique had ever seen him in were when he was at a restaurant or a café with clients.
He was considered an excellent guide and had sent her some wonderful referrals over the years. “Present company very much included,” she added.
She didn’t know anything about his personal life and believed that he lived somewhere along the coast.
And as quickly as the subject had come up, she moved on to discussing something else.
If nothing else, the fact that he spoke with an Irish accent confirmed Nicholas’s information. Aubertin was their assassin.
The piece about him living somewhere along the coast was interesting and might be helpful in their hunt for him.
After waiting a few minutes, Harvath stood up and excused himself from the table, telling the ladies that he would be back momentarily.
He walked back to the men’s room, but it was occupied and so he stepped outside to compose a text to Nicholas.
Standing there, thumbing out the message, he shuddered. It was unlike any feeling he had ever experienced before. Immediately, he looked up, half expecting to see a tiger charging at him, or a meteor falling out of the sky. The best way he could have described the feeling was with a saying his grandmother used to use. It was as if someone had walked across his grave.
But, of course, as he looked around there was no tiger, no meteor. There were only tourists, a group of whom had just entered a shop across the lane.
Shaking it off, he finished his text, hit Send, and returned inside.
CHAPTER 49
When the ladies had finished their drinks and Harvath his espresso, they left the Auberge Saint-Pierre and headed off for evensong, or as it was referred to at Mont-Saint-Michel, vespers.
As with every Point A to Point B excursion on the island, there were inclines and stone steps—lots and lots of steps.
Dominique had assured them that she knew a shortcut and was shaving considerable difficulty off their walk. Harvath watched with interest as they passed a young couple, baby and stroller in tormented tow, arguing. Someone in that family—husband or wife—needed to get much better at pre-vacation reconnaissance. This was not a destination to which you brought babies or small children. It was physically strenuous, even for adults.
Its inaccessibility, though, was what had made it such a formidable stronghold for well over a thousand years. The more time Harvath spent walking its streets and ramparts, the more he grew to appreciate it. It spoke to the warrior in him.
True to her word, Dominique had indeed found them a shortcut to the abbey, and was able to get them in through a side door. She had already purchased entrance tickets, which she handed over to a church official standing just inside.
As she did, she directed Harvath’s attention to an offering box bolted to a thick stone column and intimated that he might want to make an additional donation.
Seeing as how they had been allowed to use God’s VIP entrance, the least they could do was to show their appreciation.
Harvath didn’t have a problem with it at all. Even if they had been forced to queue up at the main entrance, he still would have donated a little extra.
Wherever he traveled, he loved seeing older houses of worship. They were always works of art, with incredible attention to detail. Helping keep such beauty alive was an honor.
Directed to a special set of pews, they took their seats. After a few minutes of requisite history from Dominique, the service began. And it was amazing.
Six monks and six nuns, shrouded in white, stood at the front of the ancient church with its soaring ceiling. As they sang, their hallowed voices reverberated off the centuries-old walls, and was one of the most beautiful things Harvath had ever heard.
It didn’t even seem real. It sounded like a movie soundtrack. But considering the movie-set-like beauty of Mont-Saint-Michel, it was fitting. Sometimes, if you stopped to appreciate it, real life was often more beautiful than fantasy.
At the tree line of civilization, though, evil was always poised, ready to rush in.
Maybe that was why he felt such a special kinship with houses of worship. If there was one thing religion understood, it was evil. The fact that some officiants referred to their faithful as their “flock,” also had a special resonance with him. The whole sheep/sheepdog, wolf/wolf hunter thing seemed to be especially clear when he was sitting in a church.
It was also a sanctuary, the one place he should be able to let his guard down and reflect—to think about who he was, what his place was in this world, and if what he was doing was a noble, virtuous, even moral thing.
As he allowed himself to slip into a contemplative frame of mind, dropping his guard just a fraction, lulled by the music, the shudder swept over him again.
Like someone had walked across his grave. And just as it had outside the Auberge Saint-Pierre, it shook him.
Moving his hand to his concealed pistol, he turned his head and swept as much of the church as he could with his eyes. All he could see were tourists, though. Nothing but tourists.
Yet if that was the case, why were his Spidey senses tingling off the charts? Was he getting jumpy again? Like he had when leaving the truck driver’s house or when Landsbergis had lingered in his driveway and not come directly inside? Or was this something else?
As if he needed something to complicate matters further, his phone began to vibrate. Pulling it out he saw it was a call from Nicholas. He couldn’t take it. Not here. Not during vespers. He sent a text back. Can’t talk now. And slid the phone back into his pocket. As soon as he did, it started vibrating again.
Harvath pulled it out, silenced the call, and sent another text message. I will call you ASAP.
Almost instantly, a message came back. We got a lock on his phone. We’ve located Aubertin.
The people around Harvath were getting angry that he was on his phone and not respecting the mass. He understood where they were coming from, but this couldn’t wait. It also would have been a hell of a lot more disruptive if he had stood up and walked out.
Where is he? Harvath texted.
He’s there, Nicholas texted back. At Mont-Saint-Michel.
Where? Harvath asked, stunned. Specifically?
At the abbey. Where are you?
Taking one very slow, very long look around, Harvath texted back, Also at the abbey.
CHAPTER 50
The abbey was a collection of buildings and outdoor spaces—some of which were off-limits to the public. Aubertin could have been anywhere. Harvath, though, knew he wasn’t just anywhere. He was close. He was here.
The reason he had recommended Dominique was because he was already booked for the day. If, as Nicholas had texted, he was at the abbey, it was because he had brought clients. And if they were on the premises at this time of the evening, it had to be because they were attending vespers in the church. The challenge for Harvath was to find him, without being seen.
As he took another look through the crowd, Sølvi leaned over and asked him what was going on. Handing her his phone, he let her read the texts.
The look on her face said it all. She couldn’t believe it either.
“What do we do?” she whispered.
Harvath didn’t have an answer—at least not a good one. They had been shoved down their pew to make room for a group of latecomers. It was going to be impossible to exit
without crawling over people. And no matter how quiet or polite about it they were, it was going to draw attention.
While they had an excellent view of the service, when they were forced to slide farther down the pew, the view behind them became partially obstructed by a column. As a result, Harvath was unable to see a considerable slice of people. He was convinced that was why he hadn’t yet been able to spot Aubertin.
But even if he had, what was he going to do about it? Pull out his pistol and yell for the man not to move? There were too many civilians. He needed to come up with a better plan.
With the tide coming in outside, there was only one way off the island—via the causeway. There were several ways, though, to exit the abbey and make it down to the main gate. He and Sølvi were going to have to split up. If he lost Aubertin up top, he would be counting on her to trap him at the bottom.
He emphasized the word trap, making sure to clearly distinguish it from the word kill. Aubertin was the next link in the chain. Without him, Harvath would be in the dark again, back at square one.
When the pair was done whispering, Sølvi leaned over to Dominique—who had been watching their exchange out of the corner of her eye—and gave her regrets. She explained that they had received bad news from Canada about a close friend and that she needed to return to the hotel.
Dominique explained that the service was almost over. Sølvi, insisting that she had to leave, thanked her and said goodbye.
Harvath told her he’d join her there shortly and stared straight ahead. Aubertin, as far as he knew, had no clue who Sølvi was. Even if he saw her get up and leave, it wouldn’t have given him pause. Already, other tourists—prompted by their guides—were gathering their things and getting ready to be the first ones out the church doors in order to beat the rush.
He wished the tracking system Nicholas was using was more precise, but despite not knowing where Aubertin was sitting, he still had the ultimate advantage—the assassin had no idea he was there.
As the final, haunting note of the service reverberated through the church and faded away, Dominique tapped Harvath on the arm and said, “C’est fini.”
“This is for you,” he replied, having pulled another generous tip from his pocket. “I need to join my wife. Thank you for everything.”
Before the guide could respond, he was headed off in the opposite direction. Not toward the door by which they had entered, but rather deeper into the church.
Like a shark moving through the water, he slipped through the crowd. His senses were fully heightened, keen, and on alert. He kept his head down and his eyes up, sweeping back and forth, searching for his quarry.
As he moved, he expected the shudder to hit him again—for Aubertin to walk across his grave once more and announce that he was there. But the shudder didn’t come.
Instead, a flash of something else caught his attention. Just off to his left—a polo shirt he had seen earlier. As if it were a drop of blood in the water, he swam toward it.
Getting closer, he noticed a familiar skirt. Then a blazer, a sundress, and a pair of sandals. He knew these details, these people. He had seen them before—outside the Auberge Saint-Pierre.
This was the family that had been entering the shop across the road when he had first felt the shudder. They appeared wealthy enough to hire a private guide. And if they had, he was willing to bet that he knew the guide’s identity.
So where the hell was he?
Harvath continued scanning the people around them. Then, suddenly, he saw him. Aubertin.
The apex predator part of his brain took over and he went for his pistol. That was when all hell broke loose.
It was so out of context that Aubertin didn’t immediately recognize him. His expression, though, was unmistakable. It had changed in an instant—like someone had thrown a switch. Only when he pulled his weapon out did he realize who he was looking at—Scot Harvath.
Aubertin drew his weapon but, unlike Harvath—who must have been concerned about the crowd—he didn’t hesitate. He fired.
The bullet dropped a man who had inadvertently stepped in front of Harvath to take a photo.
At the sound of the gunshot, there was instant panic, along with a stampede. Terrified families and tour groups were torn apart as they scattered in different directions. Numerous people, including children, were trampled. It was pandemonium.
And it provided Aubertin with an opportunity—concealment.
Surging with the crowd toward the nearest exit, he kept his pistol low and out of sight. He had no idea how Harvath had found him, or how many men he might have brought with him. Right now, all that mattered was escape.
Outside, he snatched a baseball cap from a discarded backpack and kept on running. Wriggling out of his blazer, he wrapped the garment around his right hand to hide his weapon. His only hope was to get off the island before police locked down the causeway.
But, of course, that was exactly what they would be expecting him to do. That’s where Harvath and his people would be waiting for him. They had him trapped—or at least, that’s what they thought.
Aubertin, however, knew the island. And he had a different idea.
CHAPTER 51
A Good Samaritan leapt into action. Balling up someone’s windbreaker, he applied a makeshift pressure bandage to the man who had been shot.
Harvath couldn’t have done better himself. What’s more, rule number one in a gunfight was to eliminate the threat. That was his job.
Charging out of the church, he gave chase.
“Talk to me,” he said over his earbud. “Where is he?”
“He’s on L’Abbaye Street,” Nicholas replied, studying the map on his screen. “Moving away from the abbey.”
Harvath was in a throng of tourists, all doing the same thing—getting away from where the gunfire had been.
“I think he’s headed for the main gate,” the little man added.
“He’s trying to blend in. That’s how he’s going to escape, hiding in the crowd.”
It was a smart move on Aubertin’s part—sow total chaos and then use it to your advantage.
“The Logis Sainte-Catherine is up ahead on the left,” said Nicholas. “There’s a shortcut through there that pops out at La Mère Poulard. If he knows Mont-Saint-Michel, he’ll know that’s his fastest route to the exit.”
“Tell me if he takes it,” Harvath replied, pushing his way through the crush of people, trying to gain ground on the assassin.
Up ahead, he could see the building known as the Logis Sainte-Catherine. Maneuvering to his left, he prepared to charge the stairs leading to its flat, grass-covered common area. It was going to be his best chance to close the distance with Aubertin. Then came the news from Nicholas.
“He blew right past it,” the little man reported. “He’s still on L’Abbaye. Headed west.”
What the hell was he up to?
Moments later, Nicholas believed he had it figured out. “I think he’s going out the other gate. The one on Les Fanils.”
Mont-Saint-Michel had two entrances, about fifty meters apart—the main gate and a secondary entrance near an administrative building.
“Ping Sølvi,” said Harvath. “Let her know that we think he may be coming out the other gate. Have her move to the causeway and watch for him there.”
“Roger that,” Nicholas responded, keying out a quick text.
But no sooner had he sent it than Aubertin changed his route. “Heads up,” he said to Harvath. “He just turned right.”
“What do you mean, he turned right?”
“On Les Fanils. He should have turned left to get to the gate. He didn’t. He turned right.”
At a stand of trees, Harvath escaped the sea of frenzied people to check the map Dominique had given him earlier in the day. One glance told him all he needed to know. “He’s headed to the beach.”
“Is he crazy?” Nicholas asked. “The tide’s coming in. He’ll never make it to the mainland.”
; “I don’t think he’s headed for the mainland,” Harvath replied, wishing that he had the drone overhead. “I think he’s worried about the exits and is looking for someplace to hide, here on the island.”
“If you’re right, there are only two places I can see that he might be headed to. A pair of structures—the Chapelle Saint-Aubert, or just past it, something smaller called the Fontaine Saint-Aubert.”
“It should be pretty easy for you to figure out which one. As soon as he stops you can relay the—”
“Hold on,” Nicholas said, interrupting him. “We just lost the signal.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. It was there and then it wasn’t. It’s completely gone.”
Harvath could see the tide coming in. “He ditched the phone.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s what I would have done.”
“I’ll pull Sølvi then and have her back you up.”
“Negative,” Harvath replied. “I want her to remain at the causeway. This could be a ruse.”
“Okay,” said Nicholas. “Good copy. Be careful.”
* * *
The tide at Mont-Saint-Michel swept in so quickly, it was said to arrive as fast as a galloping horse.
Already, it was lapping up the deserted beach and splashing against the rocky promontory upon which the tiny stone Chapel of Saint-Aubert had been built.
Harvath moved rapidly, hugging the boulder-strewn hillside, hoping that if a gunfight did break out, there was enough cover to protect him.
Up ahead, a narrow set of steps had been carved out of the natural granite of the promontory and led up to the chapel. With high walls on both sides, it was a death chute. Anyone standing above could fire down and he wouldn’t have a chance. Stepping into the rising water, he approached the structure from behind.
The sheer face of the promontory was slick with moisture, making it hard to get any purchase. But once he found a fissure he could wedge the toe of his boot into, he made quick work of it.