Full Black sh-10

by Brad Thor

  Harvath kept a close eye on his watch and then reached down and shut off the gas.

  He pulled the hose from under the door, wrapped it around the cylinder, and tucked the device back into his pack. He then removed his lock-pick gun and went to work opening the door. A few clicks of the gun and a slight turn of the tensioning wrench later and he was in. Shouldering his pack, he drew a suppressed Glock and crept inside.

  The door swung noiselessly on its well-oiled hinges and Harvath made sure to close and quietly lock it behind him. The only illumination in the kitchen came from dim undercabinet lighting. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the semidarkness.

  Around the corner he could see the glow of television monitors spilling into a narrow corridor. Cautiously, Harvath made his way forward.

  He found Standing’s agent slumped over a small desk in the tiny security room that had likely functioned as a maid’s quarters at some point. Reaching down with his latex-gloved hand, Harvath felt for a pulse. The security man was still alive. Glancing up, he checked the monitors and located Standing’s three other security men, all of whom were still downstairs.

  Leaving the security room, Harvath passed through the kitchen, pausing only long enough to open a window, drop a piece of maroon foil from the top of an expensive Bordeaux in the trash, and locate a wineglass. Once he had taken care of those, he headed for the master bedroom.

  Harvath estimated the apartment had to be at least ten thousand square feet. Once a safe distance from the kitchen, he removed his respirator.

  At the end of a long hallway carpeted with Persian rugs, its walls lined with silk tapestries, was the door to James Standing’s bedroom. Harvath slid his fiber-optic camera underneath the door and took another long, slow look around.

  Satisfied that Standing was in bed, alone, and still asleep, Harvath tucked the device into his pack and carefully opened the door.

  His objective was approximately thirty feet away from Standing on the other side of the billionaire’s enormous bed. Harvath had no doubt that somewhere near the bed there was a panic button, so he crossed the room as quickly and as quietly as he could.

  Slipping into the master bathroom, he set down his pack and organized his materials. When he was ready, he closed the drain and turned on the water in the tub.

  James Standing awoke to the sound of running water. At first, he thought it had been a dream, but the longer the sound persisted, the more he became convinced that it was in fact real and that it was coming from his bathroom.

  But why would his bath be running? Still half-asleep, he threw back his bedcovers and swung his feet out of bed.

  Sliding his feet into his Stubbs amp; Woottons, he ignored his robe and padded across the bedroom to figure out what the hell was going on.

  As he got closer to the bathroom, the sound of running water got louder and he picked up his pace.

  Pushing open the door, he clicked on the lights and sure enough, his bath was running. How the hell was that possible?

  Walking across the polished marble floor, he arrived at the tub and reached for the handle. As he did, he heard a voice from behind say, “Let it fill up.”

  The voice so startled him that his heart nearly burst from his chest. Spinning around, he saw a man completely dressed in black holding a suppressed pistol, which was pointed right at him.

  “Who are you?” the billionaire demanded. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

  “Robert Ashford sent me,” said Harvath, as he watched the fear etched on Standing’s face deepen.

  “All I have to do is shout and my security team will be in.”

  “Who? The three men downstairs or the one near the kitchen I already took care of?”

  The financier didn’t reply.

  “You can shout if you want to, but nobody is going to hear you.”

  Standing looked as if he was thinking about doing just that, but quickly decided not to. “What do you want? Are you here to arrest me?”

  Harvath pulled a vial of pills from his pocket and tossed it to him. “Eat.”

  “Eat? What the hell are these?”

  “Laxatives.”

  “Why the hell would I want to take a bottle full of laxatives?”

  “Because you’re about to go on a very long trip with no bathroom breaks,” said Harvath.

  “What are you doing? Kidnapping me? Did that idiot Ashford put you up to this?”

  “I’m doing you a favor. Start chewing.”

  Standing opened the bottle and dumped several of the pills into his hand. He looked down and then threw the entire handful at Harvath. “Fuck you.”

  Harvath smiled and tucked his pistol away at the small of his back. Reaching above the toilet, he took down one of Standing’s monogrammed bath towels and started walking forward.

  Instinctively, the billionaire began backing away from him. The moment he did, Harvath sprung.

  Twisting the towel tightly around Standing’s head, he used it to pull him off-balance. As the older man fell, Harvath steered him toward the tub, where he landed with a splash.

  As soon as he hit the water, Harvath had him under it, careful to do everything with even pressure across the towel so as not to leave any marks.

  Standing was strong for his age and struggled wildly. After a few more seconds, Harvath let him up. As his head broke the surface, he sucked in huge gasps of air.

  “Let me make this very clear,” said Harvath. “You’re going to take those pills. Understand me?”

  Standing didn’t respond, but he was visibly shaken by the explosion of violence that had just occurred. The tub was almost full and Harvath turned off the water.

  In his fall, the billionaire had spilled the rest of the pills. Harvath scooped up a handful, gave them to him, and repeated his order. “Eat.”

  This time, Standing did as he was told. As the man sat soaking in his pajamas, Harvath removed an opened bottle of wine from his pack and pulled out the cork. After filling the glass, he walked over to the tub and handed it to Standing. “Drink,” he said. “Red wine speeds up the process.”

  He hesitantly accepted the glass as if he was suddenly beginning to grasp that maybe he was being lied to.

  “Drink,” Harvath repeated. “All of it.”

  As the man tilted it back, rivulets of wine ran down his chin and dripped into the water.

  When the billionaire had drained the glass, Harvath refilled it. The man didn’t need to have the order repeated. He knew he was supposed to drink.

  He had consumed about half of the second glass when Harvath told him to stop. He could see the man’s eyes were starting to have trouble focusing. He needed to say what he was going to say now, before the man could no longer grasp what was happening.

  Harvath sat down on the edge of the tub and leaned in so James Standing could hear everything he was about to say.

  “Listen to me very closely, you son of a bitch. Those weren’t laxatives. Right now, your heart is rapidly slowing down, unable to pump blood through your body. In about a minute, you’re going to find your lungs suddenly can’t seem to get enough air and you’re going to gasp for breaths that just won’t come.

  “Before you die, I want you to know that everything you have spent your entire life working for has been completely undone. Every organization, every company, every foundation you have ever created, all of it. You’re going to be known the world over for the monster you are. Your name will forever be synonymous with evil.”

  Standing tried to speak, to say something in response, but he couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come.

  “Every family who lost someone in the attacks you financed will sue your estate and they will drain it of every last single penny. People who once held you in high esteem will mock your memory or recoil in horror at the mention of your name.

  “All the money in the world can’t prevent what’s about to happen to you. On behalf of every one of your victims, I hope you rot in hell.”

 
Standing up, Harvath took the wineglass from Standing and set it on the side of the tub along with the half-empty bottle. He took the billionaire’s weakening fingers and pressed them against a straight razor, which he dropped into the water along with the towel.

  After mopping up the floor with a shammy he’d brought in his pack, Harvath gathered up his belongings and exited the bathroom.

  Passing through the bedroom, he stopped at a large flat-screen TV. Ejecting the tray of the DVD player beneath, he inserted the disc Nicholas had given him and turned everything on.

  Back in the kitchen, the gas had dissipated. Closing the window, he gave the security monitors one last check before leaving the apartment and the building the same way he had come in.

  He could see the sun just beginning to come up as he crossed Central Park. Removing his cell phone, he plugged in his earbuds, and called Carlton.

  When the Old Man answered, he simply said, “It’s done.”

  “Good,” Carlton replied. “Come home.”

  CHAPTER 69

  ONE WEEK LATER

  The story of James Standing’s “suicide” made headlines around the world. The question from Hong Kong to Hartford, though, was Why? Why would a man who had everything end his own life?

  That question was answered days later when the New York Post ran a front-page story about documents and photos that had been sent to one of its Page Six gossip editors. The story, presumed to have been leaked by an NYPD detective or forensics investigator, detailed how Standing had consumed a combination of wine and sleeping pills and climbed into his bathtub to slit his wrists. Before he could do so, he succumbed to the overdose. The razor was found after the tub had been drained.

  The motivation for his death was said to be a DVD the police found in his bedroom. It was a rough cut of a documentary entitled Well Endowed. The film detailed how Standing had funneled profits from several of his hedge fund clients into a grand plan designed to collapse the U.S. government called Project Green Ramp. The film also included interrogation footage of two men, both of whom had had their faces blurred. One of the men, whom the Post claimed spoke English with a heavy Russian accent, could be seen admitting to having been hired to kill the film’s creative team, executive producer Larry Salomon, director Chip Marcus, and associate producer Jeremy Andrews. The mere suggestion that James Standing might be connected to the multiple homicides in Los Angeles set the media on fire.

  The real bombshell in the Post story came from the interrogation of the second subject, a British man, who claimed that James Standing had financed and planned the devastating wave of terrorist attacks that had killed so many innocent Americans.

  Within hours of the New York Post story, the Department of Justice launched a formal investigation.

  Based on information provided by Robert Ashford and corroborated by Mansoor Aleem in Iceland, a detailed list of U.S. cells within the unrestricted warfare terror network was developed and delivered to the FBI, which, in conjunction with the U.S. Marshals Service and local law enforcement agencies, orchestrated an amazing nationwide roundup of all of the terrorist suspects.

  Sean Chase and Pat Murphy flew from Iceland back to Sweden and found Mustafa Karami and Sabah right where Ashford told them they would, in a small apartment in Stockholm’s red-light district. Chase was forced to use his left hand but dispatched Karami with exceptional precision. Pat Murphy, on behalf of his teammates, made Sabah suffer. He shot him in the knees and worked his way slowly upward until he decided to end it and put his last round in the giant’s forehead and the man’s lifeless corpse slumped to the ground.

  Back in Los Angeles, Martin Sevan accompanied Larry Salomon and Luke Ralston to a quiet meeting with LAPD detectives and the Los Angeles County district attorney. They were no longer active suspects in the murders that had taken place at Larry Salomon’s home.

  Martin Sevan wanted the entire thing put to bed. Both of his clients wanted to get on with their lives. With all of the buzz Well Endowed had received in the press, Larry Salomon was eager to complete the film’s postproduction.

  At first, he’d had no idea how James Standing had gotten hold of a rough cut of the film. But when he heard it included interrogation footage and that one of the men being interrogated was a Russian, he realized Scot Harvath must have been behind it.

  Though he wasn’t officially asked to keep quiet about Harvath’s involvement, he knew it was the right thing to do. Thanks to him, everyone was clamoring to see Well Endowed. Several prestigious film festivals even offered to host, sight unseen, the premiere.

  Salomon, though, had a different idea. If the communities would have him, he wanted to screen the film in the cities and towns whose movie theaters had been attacked. His plan was to show the film in outdoor venues. It seemed only right that those who had been attacked get the first look at the documentary.

  All the cities and towns had to say was yes. Salomon didn’t want anything else from them. He would cover all the screening costs. He wanted to be part of helping people to heal.

  And in a way, maybe it would help him heal. After the screening tour, Salomon planned to travel to Israel. He needed to make peace. He needed to make peace with himself and with what had happened to Rachael. He no longer wanted to be the man he was. He wanted to go back to being the man he had been before Rachael’s death. To do that, he needed to let go of a lot of things. He hoped the screenings and time away would allow him to do that.

  Under Martin Sevan’s counsel, they went through the formality of answering a final round of questions for the authorities and were then allowed to leave.

  When Luke Ralston stepped outside, he saw Ali Sevan waiting for him. He exchanged a few words with Larry and Martin, who walked off to their cars as he walked over to talk with Ali.

  “Case closed?” she asked.

  “Case closed,” he replied. He was surprised to see her and also surprised that her father hadn’t even batted an eye when he saw her outside waiting for all of them. “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought maybe we could have lunch.”

  “Lunch?”

  “There are some things we should talk about.”

  Ralston was unsure what to make of her offer. “Does Brent know you’re here?” he asked, referring to her husband.

  “That’s one of the things I want to talk about,” she replied, holding up her left hand.

  He must have missed it on the beach, but she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  Reading the look on his face, she said, “We’ve been divorced for about six months.”

  “When I asked you about him, you said he was fine.”

  Ali smiled. “I was telling you the truth. As a lawyer, I’m professionally forbidden to lie.”

  Ralston smiled back. “We’ll have to take your car,” he said. “Mine’s going to be in the shop for a long time.”

  While the rest of the loose ends were being tied up, the Old Man had sent Harvath to Paris for a meeting. Reed Carlton had always had a good relationship with Israeli intelligence. Harvath’s assignment was to see that it continued.

  He carried with him a file that detailed how James Standing had intended to turn his sights on bringing down Israel, one of the world’s few other true democracies, once the United States had been collapsed.

  The billionaire had planned to draw Israel into a war with its neighbors. But on top of that, he had developed a means to ensure that America would not come to her aid.

  When Israel most needed America, Standing planned to release documents that would make it appear that Israel had created the Aleem terror network, a ruse to make Americans believe that the Israelis had ordered the terrorist attacks on the United States in order to manipulate public opinion and national policy. The documents would allege that Israel had dreamed up the elaborate plot in order to con America into rushing to Israel’s aid because the same common enemy was attacking both nations.

  The Israeli intelligence officer Harvath met with was grateful fo
r the information.

  As their meeting ended at the La Closerie des Lilas bar in Montparnasse, the Israeli slid an envelope across the small table.

  Harvath was confused. “What’s this?” he asked as the man stood up to leave.

  “I was told to give it to you when we were finished.”

  As the man walked out of the bar, Harvath opened the small envelope. Inside was a piece of paper with an address in the Sixth Arrondissement. It was written in the Old Man’s hand.

  Carlton had told him there was something else he wanted him to do in Paris, but he hadn’t elaborated. Most likely, the address was for the Carlton Group’s new Parisian safe house and there’d be further instructions waiting for him there.

  Carlton could often be cryptic like that. He compartmentalized everything, revealing only as much as he felt you needed to know. Robert Ashford could have had no clue about the nature of the new life and identity the Old Man had promised him in exchange for his cooperation. The Brit had made the mistake of referring to James Standing as the “world’s deadliest catch,” and that cemented his fate.

  Ashford was quite distraught once he learned that he was being relocated to Alaska. Harvath could only imagine the look on the MI5 man’s face once he discovered that his new career was nowhere near as pedestrian as recycling boxes at the Fairbanks Wal-Mart.

  Rawhide was a ninety-two-foot crab-fishing boat out of the Aleutian Islands port of Dutch Harbor in Unalaska. Robert Ashford was her newest deckhand.

  The Old Man had kept his word, but he had simultaneously sentenced Ashford to a life of hard labor. Carlton had made it very clear that, if Ashford tried to run, there was an open kill order for him and Harvath would fill it personally.