by Brad Thor
He had never heard any reference, though, to the children of Chernobyl. “I assume these were children somehow adversely affected by the disaster?”
Peio took another drag on his cigarette. “Sixty percent of the fallout landed upon Belarus. You can imagine the consequences. One of the most disturbing has been the increase in birth defects. Parents in the affected areas are usually poor, scared, and lacking in hope. If they have children born with mental or physical impairments, they often abandon them at state orphanages. It is such a common occurrence that a word for them has entered the lexicon, Podkidysh: one who is left at the door.
“Early in my priesthood, I did missionary work at one of the orphanages in Belarus. That’s where I met Nicholas.”
Harvath knew that when Nicholas stopped growing because of his dwarfism, his Russian parents hadn’t even bothered to try to find a suitable home for him. Nor did they even have the kindness to place him in an orphanage. Instead, they had sold him to a brothel near the Black Sea. That troubling aspect of his past, and the man’s obvious love for his dogs, had been two of the biggest reasons Harvath could not completely harden his heart toward Nicholas. Knowing his history made it easy to understand why he might be involved with an orphanage dedicated to the children of Chernobyl.
“He was very generous to the orphanage, as well as the children, with both his time and his money,” said Peio. “In exchange, he was accepted. I would even say loved by many of the people there.”
“What happened?”
“As Nicholas put it, the only way one can outrun his past is to keep running.”
“But his past caught up with him in Belarus, at the orphanage?”
“We never knew,” replied the priest. “One day, he just disappeared.”
“How did he end up here?”
“We remained in touch. I told him that when the day came that he got tired of running, he could come here.”
“And when exactly did he arrive?”
Either Peio hadn’t heard him or he had chosen not to respond. He quietly turned off onto a smaller road bordered by high rock walls. Three hundred meters later, a locked livestock gate prevented them from going any further.
The priest flashed his brights—long, long, short, short, short—and from behind a large boulder off to the side of the road a man appeared. He reminded Harvath of the two Basque from the Peugeot. He was about the same size and was cradling a similar sawed-off shotgun. He peered into the Land Cruiser and, after acknowledging Peio, unwound the chain from around the gate and swung it open for the vehicle to pass.
As they drove through, Harvath saw three more men through the open door of a wooden guardhouse that had been obscured by the large boulder. They sat around a propane heater, but instead of sawed-off shotguns, were armed with high-end tactical rifles and night vision optics.
“Where are we?” asked Harvath.
“Someplace safe.”
CHAPTER 14
Harvath was given four hours to rest in a small apartment above the stables. Judging by the heavily armed guards and all of the other security precautions he had seen on their drive in, they were at some sort of fortified ranch compound that probably belonged to ETA.
In the apartment, a single place had been set at a wooden table in the kitchen. Next to it was a chipped glass and a half bottle of wine. On the stove was a traditional dish of Basque beans flavored with ham and Basque chorizo.
After eating, Harvath slept fitfully with his hand wrapped around his Glock.
Just before sunrise, Padre Peio knocked at the door. “Good morning,” he said, handing Harvath a thermos of hot coffee. Gone was the soutane. In its place, the priest was wearing blue jeans, boots, and a dark green fleece. He had a small bag slung over one shoulder. “Were you able to sleep?”
“A little,” replied Harvath.
“Good. You’ll need your strength. It’s a tough journey. Ready to go?”
Harvath put on his jacket and grabbed his pack. “Will we be coming back?”
“No. And just so we understand each other, we were never here.”
“Understood,” replied Harvath as he followed the man into the hall and down a flight of wooden stairs.
When they stepped outside, two horses were saddled and waiting for them. It was cold and their breath rose into the air.
Peio offered him a pair of leather gloves. “I assume you are comfortable around horses.”
Harvath walked up to one of the animals and patted it on the neck. “I like all animals, Padre. It’s people I usually have problems with.”
“Is Nicholas one of those people?”
“Nicholas is a thief.”
“And yet you have come halfway around the world to help him.”
“I’ve come for answers.”
“We’re all searching for answers.”
“I think you and I have different questions, Father.”
“You’d be surprised, Mr. Harvath.”
After a cup of coffee, Harvath tucked the thermos into his pack, swung into the saddle, and fell in behind the priest as he led the way further up into the mountains.
The trail was narrow and didn’t allow for them to ride abreast, so they rode in single file. It made conversation difficult, which was fine by Harvath. There was still something about the priest that didn’t fit. Until he had him better figured out, he preferred not to get too chummy with him.
Harvath’s mount followed the horse in front and didn’t need much guidance. Either the animal was used to following the priest’s, or it had made this journey before. He suspected both answers were probably correct.
The trail was covered in scree and large rocks that had tumbled down from above. They passed precipitous drop-offs where he had serious concerns about the narrowness of the eroded trail combined with the weight of his horse. Twice, the animal lost its footing and scrambled nervously.
Two hours into their journey, the trail widened and they emerged from a high mountain pass. Beneath them was a lush valley bisected by a wide stream. Near the stream was a burned-out stone farmhouse.
“That was where Nicholas was staying when he was attacked,” said Peio as Harvath drew alongside him.
“Was the fire set on purpose?”
“I don’t think so. His bedroom had apparently been filled with candles. In the struggle, one fell over and ignited the draperies.”
Perched upon a steep cliff across the valley was a small hermitage or priory of some sort. “And that?”
“That is where Nicholas is now,” said the priest. “The monastery of Saint Francis Xavier.”
They descended into the valley and rode past the charred farmhouse. Harvath noticed the remnants of a diesel generator as well as multiple solar panel fragments. There were also cables coming from the stream and he assumed that they led to some sort of hydro-electric turbine.
They crossed the stream and rode to the other side of the valley where they were met by one of the monks, who saw to their horses. Peio then led Harvath up a lengthy switchback on foot to the monastery itself.
Though the architecture was simple, Harvath marveled at the amount of work it must have taken to construct this refuge in this hidden valley deep in the Pyrenees. All of the materials looked as if they probably came from the valley itself.
The interior had a solidity and a solemnity to it. It was like being inside a vault. The only sound came from their footfalls. The air of the little monastery smelled of wood smoke and spices.
At the end of a short hallway, Peio came to a closed door and softly knocked. When dogs began growling on the other side, Harvath knew he had arrived at their destination.
The door was opened by a young monk, whom the priest conversed with briefly in Basque and then excused. After the monk exited the room, Peio stood back and held the door open so Harvath could step inside.
The two enormous dogs immediately got to their feet and came to Peio. They then recognized Harvath and came to him. He scratched both of the Caucasia
n sheepdogs behind their ears and crossed the threshold.
The little man was lying in bed beneath an old wool blanket and looked like he had run face-first into an airplane propeller. Someone had sewn him up, but the stitches were thick and uneven.
“Cut yourself shaving?” asked Harvath as he drew a chair alongside the bed.
Nicholas looked up at his visitor and smiled. “I assume I won’t be winning any beauty pageants.”
“No, but you weren’t exactly a stunner to begin with now, were you?”
“Too true,” said the little man with a laugh. “Thank you for coming.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank the United States government. Which reminds me. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an—”
“Are you actually Mirandizing me?”
Harvath shrugged. “It’s a service we provide everyone now.”
“Even suspected terrorists?”
“You’ve been living in the mountains too long, my friend. We declared defeat in the war on terror about two years ago. We don’t even use the word terror anymore. There’s only ‘man-made disasters’ caused by disenfranchised groups who are really just ‘misunderstood.’
“In fact, I’ve undergone intense training so that I can better relate to your feelings. If, and I’m not promising we’ll get there, but if you can assure me you will repent of your evil ways, I’ll be able to let you go with only a warning.”
Nicholas studied him. “You don’t believe I had anything to do with the bombing in Rome, do you?”
“Hell, no,” said Harvath, who turned and apologized. “I’m sorry, Father.”
“Don’t worry. He’s heard much worse than that. Haven’t you?”
The priest bowed his head slightly and backed out of the doorway. “I think I’ll give you two some time to catch up. If you need anything, please let me or one of the brothers know.”
“Thank you,” replied Harvath.
“How about some more bandwidth?” said the Troll as he tapped the laptop lying on the bed next to him.
“Patience, Nicholas. The brothers are doing the best they can with what they were able to salvage from the farmhouse.”
The little man threw his hands in the air as the priest left the room. They were covered in bandages and wrapped with gauze. “We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere and I’m all but cut off. Before the fire, I had a halfway decent uplink. Now I’m lucky to have any signal at all. Secretly, I think they prefer me cut off. I think they’re worried that if I connect back with the outside world something else might happen to me.”
“So what did happen to you?”
“A woman tried to kill me.”
“You do have an unusual proficiency for pissing people off.”
Nicholas’s face was like stone. “She was not just some woman, she was a professional. She knew exactly what she was doing.”
“She couldn’t have been that professional. You’re still alive.”
“Call it a higher power, but at the very last minute I sensed something and moved as she swung at my throat. But the real credit goes to the dogs. If they hadn’t broken through the door, I’d be dead. They’re the ones who stopped her and dragged me outside, away from the fire.”
Harvath examined the wounds a bit closer. “What did she use? A knife?”
“Straight razor.”
“Why would you let anyone near you with a straight razor?”
“I thought I could trust her. I was wrong.”
“So who was she?” asked Harvath as he pulled the thermos from his pack and offered Nicholas a cup of coffee.
“She was a courtesan,” he said, declining the coffee.
“You mean a prostitute.”
“We’re splitting hairs here. Call it what you want. She was a very expensive woman for hire, an escort.”
“How did you find her?”
“Through an agency.”
“What’s the name of this agency?” asked Harvath as he took a sip of coffee.
“I don’t know what it says on their bank statements, but to its clients it’s known as the Academy.”
“And how does it work?”
“They have an online password-protected catalog. When you see something you’re interested in, you send them a query. The director speaks with the courtesan in question and if she agrees, you set up a Skype visit as a sort of get-to-know-you session, then the price is set and the details are worked out.”
“And you’re convinced she was a professional, not just some whack job?”
The Troll shook his head. “No, she was definitely a professional.”
“What does this have to do with the bus bombing in Rome?”
“You’ve been shown the evidence of my supposed involvement?”
“I have,” said Harvath. “What can you tell me about it?”
“Someone obviously wanted to frame me. They chartered a private jet to Sicily and sent a little person with two dogs and a suitcase into a hangar. Ten minutes later, he comes out and the plane takes off. The pilots never see the meeting, but plenty of grist has been thrown into the rumor mill and a scenario starts to emerge. Add to that some Muslim men who make contact with the Cosa Nostra looking to buy explosives and why wouldn’t the authorities believe what they’re being told? The only thing is, I’m not in the arms business. I didn’t sell any explosives to some Muslim terror cell. That’s cheap and beneath me.”
It was the same thing Harvath had told the Old Man. “So the idea was to frame you and then kill you to make the frame job stick?”
“Dead or alive, as long as they could convincingly pin it on me, I assume that it meant nobody would be looking for them.”
Harvath raised his eyebrows. “And who are they?”
“I don’t know. What I do know is that whoever this person is, they began building their attempt to frame me for the bus bombing before it even happened. That means they had advance knowledge of it.”
“I agree,” said Harvath. “Did you buy or purchase any information leading up to the bombing that could be connected?”
“As far as I can tell, no. There was nothing I was involved with that indicated this attack was coming. I don’t like when children are targeted. I never would have gone along with something like this.
“I might have taken money from animals who wanted to target children, but I would have found a way to either sell them incomplete intelligence, or leak their plans to the authorities so that I didn’t get implicated but the attack would have been stopped.”
Harvath was good at telling when he was being lied to. Right now, he wasn’t. “So you believe the woman who tried to kill you was placed at the Academy as bait?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Who knows that you’re a client?”
Nicholas thought for a moment. “It’s not something I advertise. There’s the women themselves and the director. Other than that, nobody.”
Harvath knew the list had to be longer than that. He was also certain Nicholas knew it as well. In the sex trade, everything was for sale, even the identity of valued customers. It all came down to how much someone was willing to pay.
“Whoever placed the woman there knew enough to build a profile that I would find irresistible. I should have known better.”
“You should have, but right now that’s not my problem. When Padre Peio called me, he said you believed there would be more attacks. I want to know when and where.”
The Troll began to shrug but abandoned the gesture due to the pain. “I’m only picking up bits and pieces. There has been chatter. The handful of sources I have communicated with are talking about attacks in multiple European cities against Americans.”
“Like the one in Rome or something different?”
“I don’t know.”
“C’mon, Nicholas,” said Harvath. “If we’re going to stop these attacks, I have to know more.”
“Nothing
would make me happier than to give you more information, but everything has gone quiet. You know what that means.”
Harvath did know what that meant. Terror networks often went dark before a big attack.
“Our best hope for stopping these people is for you to uncover who placed my attacker at the Academy.”
He was right.
“The director’s name is Dominique Fournier. She’s based in Provence. Nothing happens at the Academy without her knowledge. She’s an absolute bitch, and I promise that she will not willingly cooperate with you.”
“We’ll see,” said Harvath. “What kind of security does she have?”
“Better than most. I’ve already discussed my plan with Peio.”
“He isn’t a priest, is he?”
Nicholas smiled. “Father Peio is definitely a priest, but it’s what he did before his calling that makes him so interesting.”
“I’m going to assume he didn’t run a petting zoo.”
“No,” said Nicholas with a laugh. “He didn’t run a petting zoo.”
“He was an ETA operative, wasn’t he? What happened? He got tired of planting bombs and found religion?”
“You’ve got Peio completely wrong. He wasn’t a terrorist. He was actually an intelligence agent.”
“Peio was a spook?”
Nicholas nodded. “With the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia.”
Harvath was familiar with Spain’s official intelligence agency, also known as the CNI. “How did he end up making that kind of career change?”
“You can ask him on the way.”
“On the way where?”
“France. He’s offered to make sure you get across the border. I just hope you can get to Fournier in time.”
