Foreign Influence_A Thriller

by Brad Thor

  At that moment, he got an idea. Pulling out his notebook, he turned to a fresh page and clicked his pen. He removed his cell phone and dialed the main number for the CPD. When the operator answered, he asked to be connected to the Public Vehicles Division.

  “Public Vehicles. Officer Brennan,” said the voice who answered.

  “Good morning, Officer Brennan. This is Sergeant John Vaughan from Organized Crime.”

  “It was all my wife and mother-in-law’s idea. I had nothing to do with it. Put me in the witness protection program and I’d be happy to testify.”

  Vaughan loved working with cops. No matter what, they all had a pretty good sense of humor. “I’ll send someone down to take your statement, officer. In the meantime, I’m wondering if you could help me out with something I’m working on.”

  “For the sergeant who’s going to relocate me to Florida or Arizona, you name it.”

  “Part of your responsibility is keeping an eye on the cab companies, right? You make sure the licensing and the medallions are all in line, follow up on criminal complaints involving drivers; that sort of stuff, correct?”

  “That’s us. Miami Vice without Miami or the vice.”

  “I’m looking into a hit-and-run that involved a Chicago Yellow Cab.”

  “Do you have a number?”

  “Case number or cab number?”

  “I’ll take whatever you’ve got,” said the officer.

  Vaughan read off the case number. “That’s all we have. We are trying to track down the cab.”

  There was the sound of keys clicking as Brennan pulled up the report on his computer. “It looks like Yellow Cab was contacted by our division, but we were unable to get any further information. Yellow claims it doesn’t have any knowledge of any of its drivers being involved in hitting a pedestrian on the evening in question.”

  “What about damage to a vehicle consistent with a hit-and-run on the night in question?”

  Once again, the keys clicked away. As the officer searched, Vaughan added, “Or maybe there was a driver who failed to return his vehicle.”

  Finally, Brennan said, “Sorry, Sergeant. It doesn’t look like we’ve got anything here that can help you. This doesn’t mean you’re going to back out of your promise to get me into the witness relocation program, does it?”

  Vaughan chuckled and then was all business. “If your wife was struck by a cab and the driver fled the scene,” he began and then corrected himself. “Strike that. If your mother was struck by a cab and the driver fled the scene, who in your division would you want on the case?”

  “Paul Davidson. No question.”

  The officer hadn’t even hesitated. “He’s that good?” said Vaughan.

  “You asked me who I’d want. I’d want Paul Davidson. Now, if the guy had struck my mother-in-law, that would be completely different.”

  “I’m sure it would. Can you pass me over to Officer Davidson, please?”

  “He’s up in Wisconsin, fishing.”

  “Can you give me his cell number?”

  Vaughan absorbed a couple more jokes about the man’s wife and mother-in-law, and after getting his promise to put in the word for him with the witness relocation program, Brennan gave him the number.

  Thirty seconds later, a cell tower had located Paul Davidson on Wisconsin’s Lake Geneva. “You have reached the cell phone of vacationing Chicago police officer Paul Davidson,” said the forty-five-year-old cop pretending to be his own outgoing message. “If this is an emergency please hang up and dial 911. For all other matters, hang up and call me when I’m back in my office two days from now.”

  Someone in the background then happily yelled, “Hey! Look at that! Hurry, get the net!”

  Vaughan was getting the distinct impression that the Department of Public Vehicles didn’t hire people unless they were certified wiseasses. There was the sound of line being pulled from a reel as he said, “Officer Davidson, this is Sergeant John Vaughan from the Organized Crime Division.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it. It was my wife and mother-in-law’s idea.”

  “Brennan already used that one.”

  “What a thief. I leave the office for three days and he steals all my material.”

  “Is this a bad time, officer?”

  “Let me see,” said Davidson as he took stock of his surroundings. “Six-packs, sandwiches, Chamber of Commerce weather, and the last day of my vacation. No, now’s perfect.”

  “I can call back.”

  “If you let that line snap again,” he said over his shoulder to his fishing companion, “I swear to God I’ll drown you right here.”

  “Got your mother-in-law with you?” asked Vaughan.

  “No, my priest. Now, what can I spend the last day of my vacation doing for you, Sergeant?”

  “I’m working on a hit-and-run. Not a lot of leads. A Yellow Cab hit a young woman about two weeks ago. We know where it happened and approximately what time it happened, but that’s all.”

  “Do you have a description of the driver?”

  “The two witnesses we have are friends of the victim and were intoxicated at the time.”

  “Is the victim still alive?”

  “Yes, but she’s got serious trauma and some bad brain damage.”

  “I’ve never heard of good brain damage,” said Davidson.

  “Touché.”

  “So were the witnesses too drunk to give you a description of the driver?”

  “They think he was Middle Eastern,” replied Vaughan.

  “Okay. Iranian? Iraqi? Jordanian? Palestinian?”

  “I have no idea. All I know is that Officer Brennan said that if his mother had been the victim of a hit-and-run like this, you’re the one he’d want on the case.”

  “First of all, Brennan doesn’t even have a mother. He was a foundling and there’s lots of times I think he should have stayed lost. But setting aside his penchant for Irish bullshit, he does occasionally get some things right.”

  “Then you can help?”

  “What’s the Organized Crime angle here?”

  “I’m also an attorney. In this case, I’m representing the family, trying to help track down the driver.”

  “So you’re getting paid for this?”

  “Yes,” said Vaughan. “But when I find the guy, then my lawyer hat comes off and I’m going to arrest him myself.”

  “Seeing as how you’re supposed to pursue this as a lawyer and not a cop, I assume you’ve got a licensed private investigator working with you?”

  Vaughan hadn’t gotten that far. In fact, he really hadn’t thought about it until now. Normally, he worked his cases alone. “Actually, I don’t have one.”

  “You do now. I charge two hundred bucks an hour plus expenses, nonnegotiable.”

  “Two hundred dollars an hour? That’s more than what I’m charging as the attorney.”

  “The difference between you and me, though, is that it’ll only take two hours of my time to get this guy. And, unlike a lawyer, I don’t charge for simply thinking about cases. I only charge when I am working on them.”

  This guy has been drinking in the sun too long, thought Vaughan. “If you can find this guy in two hours, you’ve got a deal.”

  “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 me, 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 watc
hed 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.