by Brad Thor
When he reached the ground floor, he moved away from the fogger and soaked the kitchen towel in milk. After wiping his face and hair as well as he could to mitigate the effects of the OC, he tossed the towel and put the baseball cap on.
He then removed the battery, as well as the memory and SIM cards from his phone, and slid them into one of his coat pockets. He did the same with the suppressor, after unscrewing it from his weapon. He tucked the Glock into one of the jacket’s larger pockets on his right side, where he could hold it in his hand and shoot through the fabric if necessary. That done, it was time to step outside.
The apartment building chosen for the group’s safe house was part of a cluster of buildings that formed a rough oval and shared a communal courtyard. Exiting his building and walking across the courtyard, Harvath gained access to the service corridor of another building facing an entirely different street. There was only one way of knowing if the hit team had every exit covered.
Using his left hand, he turned up the collar of his coat and stepped out.
He quickly scanned up and down the street. The kind of men he was looking for wouldn’t be hard to spot—they had a certain build, a certain bearing. There were a handful of people about, but none of them even noticed him. Turning north, he began walking.
He needed to get out of Paris fast. He needed to get someplace safe where he could let Reed Carlton, the head of the Carlton Group and his boss, know that Riley had been killed and that their safe house had been “burned.”
The sounds of police cars were now practically right on top of him and seemed to be coming from every direction. Soon the neighborhood would be locked down and cordoned off. Harvath picked up his pace.
He knew they would eventually get around to checking security camera footage. Paris, like London and Chicago, was a very dangerous city to operate in. It contained innumerable security cameras, which the authorities had networked and which recorded everyone and everything that happened. Keeping his head down and his chin tucked in, he tried to avoid being photographed.
He ran options through his mind as he moved. He could steal a car, but that would only increase the odds of getting caught. His only course of action was to get out of Paris, and then France, as quickly as possible without being noticed. The best way for that to happen was by train.
There were seven major stations in Paris that served a combination of domestic and international destinations. All Harvath had to do was decide where he was going.
He knew he needed to remain inside the EU for the time being. Though he carried a fake Italian passport, crossing into a non-EU country would subject him to a potential customs inspection. Considering what he was carrying in Riley Turner’s backpack, that wasn’t something he wanted to risk.
He needed to pick a destination where he had someone who could help him. And until he knew what was going on, whomever he turned to for help should be as far removed from his professional life as possible. The greater the degree of separation, the more difficult it would be for someone to make any connection and track him down.
He raced through a list of people he believed he could trust as he skirted the Montparnasse cemetery. The Gare Montparnasse was the closest train station to him, and it served western and southwestern France. From there, he could make his way into Spain and the Basque country, where he knew someone who could help. But would there be any trains running from Montparnasse this late at night?
He decided that the Gare d’Austerlitz would be a better bet. Among its many destinations, it ran trains directly into Spain.
Near rue Boissonade, Harvath found a taxi and told the driver to take him to the Gare de Lyon, on the other side of the river from the Gare d’Austerlitz. There he purchased a first-class ticket on the high-speed TGV for Lyon in his name and presented his American passport to the cashier when she asked for ID. He had no intention of going to Lyon, but the more red herrings he dragged across his path, the better.
Slipping out of the Gare de Lyon, he executed a surveillance detection route, or SDR, to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Finally, he crossed back over the Seine and entered the Gare d’Austerlitz.
On the schedule, there was an overnight train leaving for Hendaye, a town in the French Basque country along the Spanish border. It was the fastest and most direct route available, so he purchased a second-class ticket in cash. He was ready with his Italian passport just in case, but the cashier didn’t ask to see it.
With his ticket in hand, all he could do was keep as low a profile as possible until it was time to leave.
At 11:06 p.m., five minutes before the train was scheduled to depart, he boarded.
It wasn’t until the train had gotten beyond the outskirts of Paris that he closed his eyes. But even then he was only pretending to sleep. Too much had happened. Too much didn’t make sense. His mind was struggling to put together the pieces and figure out what to do next.
He was anxious to contact his boss, but he knew he had to follow protocol. The rules were clear—in a situation like this, there couldn’t be any communication until he had gotten away to someplace safe. Even then, he would have to be very careful about everything he did.
In the meantime, he kept replaying the scene from the Paris safe house. He couldn’t believe that Riley, whom he had slowly been getting to know beyond their professional relationship, was dead. He was crushed.
How the hell had it happened? No one outside of their group should have known about that safe house. It was only the beginning of the many questions he had. Carlton had sent him to Paris on an errand. Once it was complete, he had been instructed to go to the safe house. He had no idea Riley was going to be there, but when she answered the door, he had been thrilled to see her. Then the shooting had started and she had been killed.
What was she doing there? What was Carlton planning for them? Had someone sold them out? Someone in the organization? He had made a vow as he had left the apartment building and he reaffirmed it to himself now. If it took the very last drop of blood in his body, he was going to find whoever was responsible for this attack and make them pay with their life.
CHAPTER 4
RIO GRANDE VALLEY
TEXAS
A swath of green at the southernmost tip of Texas, the Lower Rio Grande Valley rests upon the northern bank of the Rio Grande, which separates the United States from Mexico.
Referred to by locals simply as “the Valley,” or “El Valle” depending on your choice of language, the area stretches over four counties and has a population of about 1.1 million people. Its two biggest cities are Brownsville and McAllen, its two biggest “legal” industries agriculture and tourism. Its two biggest illegal industries are also of the agriculture and tourism variety; drugs and human smugglers passing through daily on their way north.
The Valley was a popular destination for wealthy Mexican families looking to escape the violence on the other side of the border, and many had second homes there. It was also a magnet for wealthy Texans, who had established stunning private ranches complete with every luxury imaginable, even private airfields.
It was upon one such private airfield that a Citation X had just landed.
The jet taxied to the end of the runway, where a white Ford F-150 was waiting. Emblazoned on the side of the truck were the words Three Peaks Ranch. Beneath the words appeared the ranch’s brand, a row of three triangles that looked like jagged mountain peaks.
Coming to a stop near the truck, the plane’s engines were shut down as the crew opened the forward door and lowered the air stairs.
The Valley’s subtropical climate meant that May through September could be oppressively hot, with humid daytime highs in the hundreds and evening lows remaining in the seventies. In October and November, though, the Valley was a completely different place. At this time of year, upper seventies to mid-eighties were the usual highs, with evenings in the fifties or sixties.
It was exactly sixty-seven degrees when the private jet discharged its pass
engers—a dwarf followed by two enormous white dogs.
Known to Western intelligence agencies only as the Troll, the little man had made an extremely lucrative career for himself in the sale and purchase of classified and highly sensitive information. He was a hacker par excellence and had also distinguished himself by engineering highly sophisticated trading algorithms and secretly selling them to some of the world’s largest banks.
Following him down the air stairs, his dogs, Argos and Draco, were equally unique.
Standing over forty-one inches tall at the shoulder and weighing more than two hundred pounds each, the giant animals, known as Russian Ovcharkas or Caucasian Sheepdogs, had been the canines of choice for the Russian military and the former East German border patrol. They were exceedingly fast, intensely loyal, and could be absolutely vicious when the situation called for it. They made the perfect guardians for a man suffering from primordial dwarfism, who stood just under three feet tall and had some of the most powerful enemies on the planet.
On the tarmac with their noses in the air and their ears forward, the dogs took in the scents and sounds of this new environment. So too did their master. He could just make out the scent of honey carried, no doubt, on the wind from the many honey mesquite trees this part of Texas was known for. It was a part of America he had never been to before, and it was quite different from where he had been raised.
As a boy, his Soviet parents had abandoned him, selling him to a brothel on the outskirts of the Black Sea resort of Sochi. There he had been starved, beaten, and made to participate in unutterable acts that no child should ever be witness to, much less engage in.
It was there, though, that he learned the real value of information. Pillow talk from the alcohol-loosened lips of the brothel’s influential clients proved to be a gold mine, once he knew what to listen for and how to turn it to his advantage.
Much like him, many of the women who worked in the brothel were society’s castoffs, and they took pity on him. They were the first human beings to ever treat him with respect. They became the only family he had ever known, and he repaid their kindness one day by securing their freedom. And for their inhuman cruelty and the years he had spent suffering at their hands, he also had the madam who ran the brothel and her husband appropriately dispatched.
Despite having put significant physical distance between himself and the horrors of his youth, doing the same thing mentally hadn’t been as easy. He carried with him a tremendous burden of shame that had shaped his character and had been his excuse for the many unsavory things he had done after leaving the brothel in Sochi.
But even in the dark, black pit inside himself that he thought was devoid of any soul, there actually was some light. Not all of the things he had done were bad. With the vast amounts of money he had accrued over the years he had actually done some good things, things that even bordered on noble.
He was a study in contradiction, but it would be a fatal mistake to assume that any contradictions in his character hinted at a hidden weakness. Human beings are the most successful of animals because of their capacity to learn, and an abused animal learns very quickly how to defend itself. It also learns very quickly to trust very few people—if any.
The handful of people the little man had allowed himself to get close to knew him as Nicholas. It wasn’t his given name, but seemed to him just as good a name as any. It was an odd choice, though, for someone who had been forsaken as a child to choose the patron saint of children as his namesake. Again, a study in contradiction.
The man was also a study in deception, one of the primary talents necessary for survival in his field of endeavor. While his coterie of friends might know him as Nicholas, to the rest of the world he was an ephemeral string of aliases and assumed identities. He wove lie after lie after lie and had an amazing ability to keep the entire Web straight. It also made him exceedingly adept at ferreting out other people’s lies. At this moment, though, certainty eluded him. He couldn’t tell if he was being lied to or not.
As he descended from the jet, he reflected on the woman he had come here to see.
For many reasons, most notably his size, Nicholas was a committed recluse. The Internet had been a boon not only to his business but also to his social life. In the digital world, he could be a king—a god among men. There he was judged not by his physical stature but by the power of his mind.
Many of the people he met in those early days of the Internet saw the world in much the same way as he did. They were misfits like him, people who felt more comfortable in front of a keyboard than at a cocktail party.
So enjoyable were the friendships he had struck up there and so strong were the bonds he had formed, that after years of saying no, one day he agreed to meet his digital comrades in person at one of the annual hacking conferences.
It was a long time ago now, and the event had been held at a large hotel in a major American city. It was the most excited Nicholas could remember having been in ages.
He had arrived two days early to help get over his jet lag and didn’t leave his room. He didn’t want anyone to see him, not yet.
Attendees started arriving late Friday afternoon, and his circle of cyberfriends had arranged to meet in the hotel bar before attending the welcome reception.
Nicholas was so concerned about what kind of impression he was going to make that he changed clothes five times before settling on what to wear. Once dressed, he sat on the edge of his bed and waited until it was time to go downstairs.
When the moment finally arrived, he straightened his clothes one last time in the mirror and then turned and left the room. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as the elevator opened and he stepped inside and pressed the button for the lobby. Two floors later, the car stopped and a group of young men, who had already been drinking, got on. Judging from their matching attire, they were part of a large contingent staying in the hotel for a highly anticipated college football matchup.
As the elevator descended, there were a handful of snickers, but Nicholas ignored them and faced forward. It was just as the car arrived at the lobby that one of the drunks asked, “Hey buddy, where are you from?” but by then the elevator doors had begun to open and Nicholas could pretend he hadn’t heard the question. Nodding politely once more, he stepped out of the elevator and headed toward the bar, where he found his online friends all waiting for him.
They were a collection of every “hacker” stereotype one could imagine. Some were younger, some were older, and some fell right in the middle. They ran the gamut from obese to dangerously underweight. There was a mix from post-punk-geek-chic with plenty of piercings and hair dye, all the way to a guy with a black cowboy hat and Buddy Holly–style glasses.
He had never shared his photo with the group, so no one knew what to expect until Nicholas showed up. When he arrived at the table, the conversations immediately stopped.
Nicholas’s heart caught in his throat as he introduced himself. For a moment, he was frozen with the notion that he had made the mistake of his life coming to the conference. Then someone broke the ice. “You’re actually a lot taller than I thought you’d be,” said the man in the Buddy Holly glasses. The group laughed and made room for Nicholas to sit down.
They shared stories and bonded over drinks until it was time for the reception.
It was a crowded event in an adjacent ballroom. The group managed to find a table and Nicholas was put in charge while the others broke into teams to get more drinks and bring back food from the buffet.
Despite the impolite stares he inevitably received, Nicholas was having a wonderful evening. As much as he disliked going out in public, there was no substitute for real, human companionship.
When nature finally called, he asked if anyone else at the table needed to visit the facilities. For the moment, everyone else was content to remain at the reception, so he excused himself, slid off his chair, and stepped away.
Buoyed by alcohol and his overwhelmingly good mood, Nich
olas paused at the ballroom door, and with an exaggerated bow, stood back to allow an attractive woman with short, dark hair and leather pants to exit before him.
Instead of staring at him, as most people did, the woman smiled genuinely and said, “Thank you.”
How Nicholas could enjoy himself any more was beyond him. The evening was just about perfect. All he needed to do now was find the men’s room.
At the first set of restrooms, there was a line out the ladies’ room door, but he was able to walk right into the men’s room. The only problem was that the urinals were too high, and the lone handicap-accessible stall was taken. He waited as long as he could, but the pressure on his bladder eventually became too great and he set off in search of another washroom.
Close to another cluster of ballrooms, he found one. It was completely empty. At least it was until he finished his business and was exiting the handicap stall.
“Well, look at this,” said one of the drunks who had ridden with him on the elevator. One of his colleagues stood swaying next to him, trying to aim into the urinal.
Nicholas smiled and nodded politely, but as he passed, the man stepped back and blocked his way.
“Where are you going, little buddy?” the man asked.
Nicholas didn’t answer. He had found that if he remained quiet, people often lost interest in him. Engaging them only seemed to act as encouragement.
“I said, where are you going?” the man repeated adamantly.
Nicholas attempted to step around him, but the man quickly moved to block his path.
“What’s your problem?” the drunk demanded. “Do you have a bridge to get back under, or something, you rude little fuck?”
“He doesn’t seem to like you much, Stu,” said the other man.
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“Probably afraid you’ll make him turn over his pot of gold.”
“Is that what you are?” slurred the drunk. “A leprechaun?”
