by Brad Thor
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” replied Sølvi, shaking hands.
“Madame Loiseau,” said Harvath, taking her hand next. “Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice.”
Her English was excellent. “It is my honor,” she stated. “And please, Madame Loiseau was my grandmother. Call me Dominique.”
She was a charmer, which was why Harvath instantly liked her. Charmers were some of the easiest people to build rapport with.
“Okay,” she energetically continued. “Have either of you ever been to Mont-Saint-Michel before?”
Harvath and Sølvi shook their heads.
“How about Normandy?”
Again, they shook their heads.
“France?”
This time, both nodded.
“Okay,” said Dominique, as she motioned for her clients to follow. “Why don’t we start walking, I’ll tell you a little bit about the region, and then we can begin to learn how Mont-Saint-Michel came to be.”
Dominique Loiseau was an absolute pro. Having confirmed that her clients were indeed hungry, their tour ended two and a half hours later, on the dot, at Mont-Saint-Michel’s La Mère Poulard hotel and restaurant.
As they entered the dining room, the manager was already standing at the door and whisked them off to one of the best tables in the house. It was so well choreographed that Harvath had to subtly tip his hat. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of a kickback she received for bringing in high-end patrons.
There was a pleasant back-and-forth between Dominique and the manager in French, before he handed Harvath the wine list and said, “Something to drink?”
“I’m driving, but what about you, darling?” he said to Sølvi.
Sølvi looked at Dominique. “You won’t make me drink alone, will you?”
The Frenchwoman smiled. “My next tour starts here, so luckily, I’m not driving. Yes, I’ll join you.”
“Red or white?” asked Sølvi, as Harvath handed her the wine list.
“C’est à vous. It’s your decision.”
“Champagne then,” she said, showing the manager which vintage she wanted before surrendering the wine list and watching him scurry off to fetch the bottle.
“It’s good to be on holiday,” said Dominique. “I like your style.”
Sølvi smiled. “I’m a lucky woman. Thanks to my husband, we have a very rich uncle.”
Harvath couldn’t wait to get the bill for this operation from the Norwegians. It was going to be off the charts. And Lawlor was going to wring his neck.
But by using Sølvi’s alias and her credit cards, she was helping to further insulate him from the one-hundred-million-dollar bounty on his head.
When the manager returned, he walked right up to Sølvi, bowed deeply, and presented a bottle with his apologies. “We are out of the 2011, but I would like to offer you a bottle of the 2009 for the same price. It is an exceptional vintage.”
She looked at Harvath, mouthed the word upgrade, then turned back to the manager and replied, “That is so kind of you. Thank you. We’ll take it.”
“Our uncle will be so happy that you’re happy,” said Harvath.
Sølvi winked at him and then turned her attention to Dominique.
Despite how loquacious the guide had been, she hadn’t wanted to talk about Aubertin at all. No matter how subtly Harvath and Sølvi had tried to bring him up, she had changed the subject. She wasn’t just a charmer, she was also a hell of a saleswoman—and she wanted to keep these clients all to herself.
The consummate intelligence officer, Sølvi plied her with the expensive champagne, making sure her glass remained full. She also asked a bunch of personal questions, including requests to see pictures of the woman’s grandchildren, her dog, and her last vacation.
Each time she did, she caught Harvath’s attention and signaled with her eyes for him to pay attention as the woman entered the passcode into her iPhone.
At first, he didn’t understand what Sølvi was asking him to do, but finally—feeling like an idiot—he got it. But what good was a passcode without the phone?
He was about to find out.
After having downed a couple of glasses of champagne, Sølvi suggested that she and Dominique visit the ladies’ room. The lovely Frenchwoman agreed.
As they got up and slung their purses over their shoulders, Sølvi feigned having trouble with her balance, but Dominique saved her from an embarrassing tumble.
Thanking her, Sølvi remarked, “Apparently, the 2009 goes right to your legs.”
“If only the 2009 could give me legs like yours,” said the Frenchwoman, “I’d buy it by the vineyard.”
Sølvi smiled. “My husband is going to give you a great tip. You know that, right?”
Dominique smiled back.
“Speaking of which,” Sølvi added, as she came around the table and planted a kiss on Harvath. “Don’t go falling in love with anyone else while I’m gone.”
“Never,” he said, a bit shocked. “Not unless the Norwegian women’s volleyball team walks in.”
“Norwegian girls,” she replied, putting her arm around the Frenchwoman and walking toward the ladies’ room. “He’s obsessed. Sometimes, it seems that’s all he ever talks about.”
As they walked away, he looked down at what Sølvi had pressed into his hand while giving him that kiss. The Norwegian ninja had struck again. It was the cell phone she had lifted from Dominique’s purse.
CHAPTER 47
By the time the ladies had returned to the table, a little man halfway around the world had been set loose on one of the most important missions of his life.
Ever the gentleman, Harvath stood up to pull out each of the women’s chairs. As he helped the Frenchwoman to be seated, he asked, “Dominique, is that yours?”
Following his eyes, she saw her phone lying on the floor, under the table. Before she could pick it up, he had already bent down and retrieved it.
“My goodness,” she said, as he handed it to her. “Thank you. I didn’t even know I had dropped it. Perhaps, I’ve had too much champagne.”
“You can never have too much champagne,” Sølvi confided.
“You can if it’s a workday,” Dominique replied pleasantly, waving the manager over. “Shall we order some lunch?”
La Mère Poulard was known for making the most famous omelet in the world. The eggs were whipped in large, copper mixing bowls—the kitchen staff beating out a hypnotic rhythm with their whisks. They were then cooked over a wood fire. The recipe and method of cooking hadn’t changed in more than 130 years.
The history of the establishment over that time was amazing. Guests included Teddy Roosevelt, Édith Piaf, Claude Monet, Picasso, Hemingway, Patton, Margaret Thatcher, Marlene Dietrich, emperors, kings, queens, princes, and princesses. The list went on and on. Each had been asked to leave something special, a memento, behind. The walls were covered with framed autographs, photographs, drawings, and sketches. It was like being in a museum dedicated to over a century of power and celebrity.
They made small talk as they ate, with Sølvi deftly handling an innocent, yet potentially troublesome question that popped up at one point. Dominique was interested in why neither of them were wearing wedding rings.
Harvath’s mind raced for an answer, but before he could come up with one, Sølvi stepped up. Without missing a beat, she explained that after France, they were flying to Thailand and had decided not to bring any jewelry on this trip. It was a terrific response and he was in awe of how quickly she had arrived at it and how effortlessly it had been delivered—even after a couple of glasses of champagne. She really was talented.
At the end of the meal, the manager came over to see how their lunch had been. They complimented him on the food and then he leaned in and said something to Dominique in French.
Smiling, she then relayed the offer to her clients. “Where are you staying tonight?”
Sølvi looked at Harvath and then back at their guide. “We a
ctually hadn’t gotten that far. We were just going to drive around Normandy until we found something.”
Dominique’s smile broadened. “Well, now you don’t have to worry. They just had a cancellation here, upstairs. It’s only for one night, but it’s yours if you want it.”
Harvath hadn’t planned that far ahead yet. Once Nicholas had pinpointed Aubertin, he wanted to be ready to roll. With that said, there was no telling how long it could take. In fact, Nicholas had warned him not to expect a quick fix. It could be hours, or it could be days.
The idea of getting back in the Land Rover just to go to another hotel didn’t make much sense—not when they were already here.
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience,” the guide continued. “Unbelievably romantic. More than half the tourists will be gone by five o’clock. I can meet you for another drink, we’ll go listen to vespers in the abbey at six-thirty, then you two can have dinner and walk the ramparts together. After a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast, we’ll meet at Utah Beach. How does that sound?”
“It does sound appealing,” Harvath admitted. “I’m still a little jet-lagged.”
He was also holding out hope that spending more time with the woman might result in getting a little more information out of her.
At the moment, and until they had something solid from Nicholas, they had nothing to lose.
“I guess we’ll do it,” he announced, sealing their decision.
“Wonderful. You can check in and take a power nap, while Mrs. Owen does a little shopping?”
“Or,” said Sølvi, “I can take the Passeur back to our car to grab our overnight bags.”
“And when you get back, then you’ll do some shopping.”
Sølvi smiled, raised her champagne, and the two women clinked glasses.
Calling the manager back over, Dominique told him that they would take the room. She then looked at her watch and apologized, explaining that she was going to have to get going if she was to meet her next clients on time.
Harvath settled up with her, added a nice tip—as Sølvi had promised—and they made a rendezvous for drinks that evening.
After she had gone and they had paid for lunch, the manager accompanied them to the front desk, where he handed them off to a young desk clerk, before disappearing back into the restaurant.
Though they had been introduced as Mr. and Mrs. Owen, the clerk didn’t bat an eye when they filled out the registration card with the names on their fake passports. Had the clerk questioned the discrepancy, a hint that they were both married to other people would have been all that was necessary. This was France after all. It wouldn’t have been the first time paramours had tried to keep their identities secret while checking into a hotel.
Accepting two key cards, they went upstairs and checked out the room.
Dominique hadn’t been kidding. It was romantic. Incredibly so.
The room maintained the overall La Mère Poulard color palette evident on the façade of the building, as well as throughout the restaurant. The draperies were gold, the chairs and carpet red, and the soft bed linens a crisp white.
None of it compared to the views over the water through the large, open French windows. For a moment, Harvath was almost able to forget that this was an assignment.
“Is this going to be okay?” Sølvi asked.
“It’s great,” he replied, still looking out.
“Hey,” she chastised him, “I’m not talking about the view. I’m talking about this.”
Harvath turned to see her pointing at the queen-sized bed. Unlike their room in Sirmione, here there was no couch.
“Setting aside for the moment that a true Norwegian girl would have gotten us upgraded to a suite, I guess I’ll just have to trust you to respect me.”
“Me?” she replied. “To respect you?”
“Yes. My modesty and my virtue.”
She shook her head. “We’re going to need to light a lot of candles at the abbey tonight.”
“That’s okay, I saw an ATM outside.”
“Very funny. How did it go with her phone?”
“Perfect,” said Harvath. “Remind me to start putting my wallet in my front pocket when you’re around.”
Sølvi smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is, and you should.”
“How long until your people have something?”
Harvath checked his phone to see if he had any messages from Nicholas. So far, there was nothing. “Tech is always unpredictable,” he said. “Sometimes the hardest jobs are the easiest, and the jobs you think will be the easiest are the hardest.”
“Well, you get your beauty sleep. I’m going to go get our bags.”
“I’m happy to come along and help.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “You want me to grab your black one, right?”
“They’re all black.”
“I know. It was a joke.”
Harvath smiled. “Just bring the one with the toothbrush, not the rifle.”
“I’m going to try really hard to remember that, but,” she said, pointing at her head, “you know, blond.”
Harvath smiled again. “Something tells me that even if you bring the wrong bag back, you’ll still find a way to get it past security.”
Batting her eyelashes, she flashed him another smile and left the room.
As soon as she did, Harvath—who had been holding himself up tall and straight—allowed himself to slump. Pulling out the drawer of the nightstand near the window, he began dumping all the gear he was carrying.
Then, sitting on the edge of the bed, he untied his boots and kicked them off. It wasn’t bad enough that he was operating on practically no sleep, but he had been on a two-and-a-half-hour walking tour, followed by a long, French lunch. He couldn’t wait to put his head back and close his eyes.
Giving his phone one last check, he then set it on the nightstand and lay down on the bed.
When sleep came, it came like a speeding train, drawn to a passenger who had just stepped off the platform. It hit him. And he was out.
CHAPTER 48
She could have slammed the door, kicked the edge of the bed, or done any number of things to wake him up. They were both ex-military. The obnoxious possibilities were endless.
Instead, she had chosen to be kind. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she had gently drawn him from his slumber. Placing a soft hand on his shoulder, she had woken him up.
“Time to go to work,” she said, as he opened his eyes.
“How long was I out?”
“Long enough. I made you a coffee and there’s a change of clothes hanging in the bathroom.”
“How much time do we have?” he asked, sitting up.
“We meet Dominique for drinks in half an hour.”
Harvath rubbed the sleep from his eyes and picked up his phone. There had been no updates from Nicholas.
“I had a dream about you,” he said.
Sølvi laughed. “You were out so hard, you’re lucky to have even gotten oxygen to your brain.”
“Seriously,” Harvath teased, a faint smile on his lips. “I saw a nice house in Norway. On the water. And a boat.”
“Hmmm,” Sølvi replied, indulging him. “A house and a boat. You nailed it. That’s the whole package. Every Norwegian girl’s dream.”
He knew she was being facetious, but he was concerned that he had offended her. “Did I miss something?”
“There’s a lot more to life than just a house and a boat,” she said, turning toward the open windows and looking out over the water.
He was certain that he had touched a nerve. What it was, though, he didn’t know, nor could he get to the bottom of it right now. Picking up his coffee, he headed into the bathroom.
There, he saw that Sølvi had not only brought his personal items back from the Land Rover, but had also set them out on the counter.
For as cold-blooded as she had proven herself to be, there was also a
thoughtful kindness to her.
Harvath didn’t need a shower, but he took one anyway. After rinsing off, he threw the temperature selector to cold and, as he had done countless times before, stood for as long as he could before turning off the water.
Toweling off, he got dressed, and joined Sølvi in the bedroom.
“You look like a new man,” she said.
“Thank you,” he replied, wondering if she was still upset.
“Gun up. I’ll be waiting in the lobby.”
And there, again, was her cold professionalism.
He thought he understood Nordic culture, or at the very least Scandinavian women, but she vexed the hell out of him.
All he had wanted to do was to mourn Lara, drink himself into oblivion, and let everything else just melt away.
Then, the girl with the Sartre tattoo had shown up and it had all been turned upside down.
Now, every time he looked at her, he felt guilty. It wasn’t her fault. It was his. He felt like he was betraying Lara, and it hurt like hell.
Pulling himself together, he brushed his teeth, and tried to push all of it from his mind.
* * *
Walking downstairs, he found her. She was standing in silhouette, lit by the fading light from outside. He could have stood there watching her for hours.
They didn’t have hours, but he did indulge himself in a few seconds. The spot Dominique had chosen for drinks wasn’t that far of a walk.
Sølvi must have sensed him. Turning her head, she looked over her shoulder and smiled. He wished he’d had his phone out. It would have been a great photo.
At least she didn’t seem upset with him. Crossing the lobby, he opened the door and held it for her.
When they stepped onto the narrow cobblestone street, it was like they were salmon swimming up a packed stream. The throng of departing tourists was massive. Dominique hadn’t been kidding about Mont-Saint-Michel starting to empty out at five o’clock.
Despite the exodus, it hadn’t turned into a medieval ghost town. There were still people around.
They met their guide at the Auberge Saint-Pierre, where she had secured an outdoor table in the tiny, courtyard garden.
