by Brad Thor
As he had done at the end of Trang’s interrogation, Harvath asked the team to wait for him outside.
He conversed with Weber for a few more minutes, told him a little about Carl Pedersen, and then, marching him back to the walk-in cooler, made him answer for what he had done.
En route to the Nice Côte d’Azur airport, Harvath called Nicholas and shared with him the next name on their list—Gaston Leveque. A concierge at the famous Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Leveque’s considerably more lucrative job was as a fixer for wealthy Russians. Drugs, murder, children for sex, the more horrific it was, the deeper he trafficked in it. One of Harvath’s deepest regrets was that he hadn’t killed the man years ago when he’d had the chance. At the time, though, letting Leveque live was the only thing that had gotten Harvath out of the situation alive.
Upon hearing the man’s name, Nicholas had gone ballistic—just like he had with the Contessa. They went back and forth for several minutes before ending their call. Nicholas let it be known that he trusted Harvath to do the right thing.
Though Leveque was a fixer for lots of wealthy Russians, there was one Harvath was particularly interested in—Nikolai Nekrasov, the billionaire owner of the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc. Harvath had a history with him too.
When he had originally come for Leveque, he had done so at the hotel not knowing that all of the rooms were wired with microphones and hidden cameras. He had only begun to interrogate Leveque when an armed security team had entered and Harvath had been forced to shoot several of them, though none fatally.
On the way out of the hotel, by necessity he had to temporarily take a woman hostage. That woman had been Nekrasov’s wife, Eva—and two things had immediately become apparent. One, she seriously disliked her husband, and two, she found Harvath very attractive.
She had certainly not resisted during the fifteen-minute kidnapping as they raced into Cannes in a stolen $400,000 sports car, and she had actively assisted him in escaping her husband and his band of men who were in hot pursuit. It was the most fun and excitement, she admitted, that she had had in years.
Yet winging a few security guards and taking a quick joyride with the man’s wife hardly seemed worthy of a one-hundred-million-dollar bounty. Which was why getting to Leveque was so critical. Only he could reveal who had hired him, and hopefully why.
* * *
On the west side of Antibes was the commune of Vallauris—best known for being home to Picasso from the late 1940s to the mid-1950s.
In its seaside town of Golfe-Juan, Gaston Leveque had a beautiful little bungalow. When he returned home from his shift at the Cap-Eden-Roc, Harvath was sitting on his patio, a glass of wine on the table, and his best, most-expensive Chablis in the ice bucket next to him.
“Bonsoir, Gaston,” he said.
The man panicked and tried to run back into the house, but Haney and Staelin were waiting for him. Dragging him over to the table, they sat him down and flex-cuffed him to the chair.
After complimenting him on the wine, Harvath gave him a brief rundown on what had taken place, and then began asking questions. He was reticent at first, but Gage—who was eager to contribute to the information-gathering portion of their mission—was very persuasive.
Harvath thought he had seen it all, but what the man could do with off-the-shelf items, like a nasal spray bottle and lighter fluid, was quite inspired.
It wasn’t something any of them reveled in. Leveque was a very, very bad man. Not just by way of all the murders he had facilitated, but just as equally all the sexual exploitation of women and children. The discomfort the man was feeling now paled in comparison to the physical, emotional, and psychological trauma he had caused countless others. He had racked up a huge bill and now karma, in the form of Harvath, had come to collect.
When Harvath left, his questions answered and the team out warming the car in the driveway, Harvath lingered only long enough to take a picture for Nicholas and grab the bottle of wine from the ice bucket. Not only was it one of the best he had ever tasted, he was going to be up late doing some serious thinking. There was one more move he needed to make, and he wanted to execute it perfectly.
CHAPTER 54
CENTRE ANTOINE LACASSAGNE
NICE
THE NEXT MORNING
As soon as Nekrasov’s driver, Valery, had put his boss into the elevator and the doors had closed, Staelin popped out from behind a parked car and hit him with the Taser.
“Coming up,” he said over his earbud, as the big Russian fell to the floor of the garage.
“Good copy,” Harvath replied.
Seconds later, on the building’s third floor, the elevator chimed, its doors opened and Nekrasov stepped out.
He was in a foul mood. He didn’t like being dragged back for a second opinion on whether his wife’s implants should be removed. The only thing that made it worthwhile was that the facility had exceptionally attractive nurses. With what a headache Eva had been, he was tilting now, more than ever, toward taking a mistress. Maybe he would find one here.
Even though he was late, again, he spent a few minutes chatting up the nurses at the front desk before being directed back to his wife’s room, where she was awaiting her exam.
When he entered the room, without knocking, a new doctor was already chatting with her. He stood in the doorway for a second, feeling the doctor was somehow familiar.
“Please close the door,” the man in the white lab coat said, without fully turning around to face him.
Nekrasov did as he was asked.
Once he had closed the door, Harvath turned and pointed a suppressed Glock 43 pistol at him—just like the one the assassin sent to Key West had confronted him with.
“Hello, Nikolai,” said Harvath. “Take a seat. We’re going to have a chat.”
“You,” the Russian grumbled angrily. “You have the nerve to accost me in front of my wife. You have no—”
“Shut up,” Eva interrupted her husband. “Do what he says. Sit down.”
Nekrasov complied.
Harvath pulled out his phone, activated a banking app, and held it an inch away from the man’s face. “Don’t blink,” he commanded. “Don’t even fucking move.”
There was a click and Harvath then swiped to another screen. Placing the suppressor against Nekrasov’s forehead, he extended the phone again, this time saying, “Right thumbprint, in the red box. Do it now.”
Nekrasov did as Harvath demanded, stating, “That boy you killed wasn’t just President Peshkov’s son; Misha was my godson.”
“He was also a fucking psychopath,” said Harvath. “You should have stayed out of it.”
“I bet one hundred million dollars against you.”
“And you lost.”
“I never lose,” said the Russian.
A moment later, Eva’s phone chimed.
Harvath looked at her. “Everything good?”
She nodded.
“Are we happy?”
“Very,” she replied.
Turning his attention back to Nekrasov, he stated, “You have no idea how lucky you are. Every single day when you wake up, you had better thank God for your wife and for your children. The day you stop thanking Him, is the day I’ll be back.”
With that, he turned and disappeared.
* * *
On their way back to the airport, Haney, who was riding shotgun, turned around to face Harvath. Holding out his phone, he showed him a website and asked, “That place in Lithuania, where you wanted me to send the wooden crosses, is the total still five?”
“No,” Harvath replied. “For right now, it’s only going to be four. But bookmark that page, just in case we ever have to come back.”
CHAPTER 55
ROOFTOP RESTAURANT, THE THIEF HOTEL
OSLO, NORWAY
Holidae Hayes lifted her glass of champagne and said, “To the new Deputy Director of the NIS’s Strategy Section.”
Sølvi looked around to make sure no one was listening an
d then clinked glasses. It wasn’t something they should be discussing out in public. “Thank you,” she said as they both took a sip.
“And,” Hayes continued, “I hear that Landsbergis is going to be promoted from acting head to official Director of VSD in Lithuania.”
“We’re hearing the same thing. I need to send him a thank-you note.”
“Why? For helping you and Harvath?”
“I can’t go too far into it, but a couple of years ago I was in Lithuania and needed medical attention. Diplomatically speaking, it was a sensitive situation. Carl reached out to him and Landsbergis provided a doctor, no questions asked.”
“It sounds to me like we’ve got the right man in Vilnius.”
Sølvi agreed and they clinked glasses again.
Hayes’s phone chimed and she looked down. “You’re going to hate me, but I’ve got to get going.”
“What are you talking about? Landsbergis may get a thank-you note, but you get an entire thank-you lunch.”
“I wish I could stay, I’m really sorry, but we’ve got a huge VIP in town. You wouldn’t believe the list of things I have to tackle.”
Sølvi wasn’t happy. “Holidae, we just opened a wonderful bottle of champagne and the oysters haven’t even arrived yet. You can’t leave.”
“You’ll be fine,” her friend assured her, standing up and giving her kisses on both cheeks. “Let’s get together next week. Okay?”
The Norwegian smiled at her CIA counterpart and nodded. “I’d like that. Good luck with your VIP.”
“Thank you,” Hayes replied as she gathered her things and began walking away. “I’m going to need it.”
Rearranging the cushions behind her, Sølvi turned to look out over the fjord. Kicking off her shoes, she put her feet on the bench and pulled her knees in close. She watched as the beautiful boats crossed back and forth. Taking a sip of champagne, she wished that she were on one.
Taking another sip of champagne, she wished that she was out there with Scot. He was the first man, since her divorce, and outside of Carl, whom she trusted.
Leaving him in France had been remarkably hard and it had freaked the hell out of her. She had worked with plenty of male agents, within Norway and elsewhere. Never had she ended an op feeling what she could only describe as being “heartsick.” Who the hell was this American to have such a hold on her?
In all fairness, she had been scared by how she felt, and as soon as Harvath’s team had arrived, she had run from France and Mont-Saint-Michel as fast as she could.
Now, she was back in her happy place—up on the roof of The Thief, wishing she was out on the water and trying not to think too hard about what the future might hold.
That was when someone stepped into the sunlight and cast a shadow across her table. She had always thought they should teach servers to avoid that.
But looking up, she saw that it wasn’t a server.
Harvath was standing there in front of her with an empty champagne glass.
“May I join you?” he asked.
Sølvi smiled. “You two planned this, didn’t you?”
Harvath smiled back and sat down. “All I know is that when a VIP like me comes to town, everything has got to be perfect.”
“You know life isn’t perfect, right?”
“For the moment,” he said, “let’s just pretend it is.”
God, she was so gorgeous, he thought, as he helped himself to some champagne. She was wearing a simple sundress and she looked so beautiful.
Sølvi hated to ruin the moment. Nevertheless, she had to ask, “I’m assuming you got to the bottom of who took out the contract on you. Was it the Russians?”
“It was a Russian.”
“President Peshkov?”
“No,” Harvath replied, “but someone very close to him. A friend from childhood, Nikolai Nekrasov.”
Her eyes widened. “The Russian mobster?”
“Billionaire Russian mobster,” he clarified. “He was also the godfather of Peshkov’s son.”
“So this was about revenge.”
“And now it’s over.”
Sølvi had a thousand more questions that she wanted to ask, but it was obvious he didn’t want to discuss it. That was okay. Like he had said, it was over. And she was so glad to see him.
After a few moments, she noticed that his face had changed. It was softer somehow. “You’re thinking about something,” she said. “What is it?”
He decided not to beat around the bush.
“I like you,” he replied. “And I’ve felt incredibly guilty about that. I didn’t want to stop liking you, though. So, I asked Lara for a sign. It’s crazy and I know it. I didn’t remember right away that today was the anniversary of my first date with her. Then, in the flight lounge in France, waiting for the plane to get fueled to come up here, I saw a magazine. Its headline was about how Norway is the future. Under that, was an article about the immutable wisdom of Jean-Paul Sartre.
“I ended up reading the entire thing from cover to cover. But, as there was nothing about ninjas, I can’t really say if it was a definitive sign.”
Sølvi turned the dazzle up to 11 and smiled once more. “Stop talking,” she said, as the waiter arrived. “We have oysters to eat.”
They were wonderful and she explained that they were from the south of Norway where she was from.
When they placed the order for their main course, Harvath asked the waiter to please prepare it to go—and also to bring another bottle of champagne.
“What’s going on?” Sølvi asked. “What are you up to?”
“You’ll see.”
Once everything was boxed up and placed in shopping bags, Harvath nodded toward the elevators and for Sølvi to lead the way.
After exiting on the lobby level, and pushing through The Thief’s giant revolving doors and out into the motor court, Sølvi turned to Harvath. “Now what?”
Harvath had her follow him over to the railing that looked down onto a narrow channel where two boats were berthed.
“How about we go out on the water for a picnic?” he asked.
Looking at the little sailboat she was overjoyed. “I don’t know how much wind there is today, but yes. I’d love to sail with you.”
Harvath looked at the tiny sailboat she was looking at and smiled. Pulling a set of keys from his pocket, he pointed toward the splendid silver Riva she had talked about when they were on Lake Garda and said, “Someone heard I was going to take a cruise with a beautiful Norwegian girl. Naturally, they gave me an upgrade.”
Sølvi could barely contain herself as they made their way down the steps. She had walked by this boat so many times, imagining the glamorous people who sailed on her. Now, she was one of those people.
“How were you able to afford this?” she asked. “The Carlton Group must have a hell of a per diem.”
“A friend and I in the South of France just came into a little money. Call it a rich uncle. Welcome aboard.”
After stowing their food and wine, she helped cast off and they cruised into the fjord.
Out on the open water, she looked back toward The Thief. The view from this perspective was every bit as good as she had always imagined it would be. She wanted to hug Harvath for giving her such a wonderful experience, but she also suspected that’s exactly what he wanted her to do and so she held back.
They kept sailing, north from Oslo, as Harvath continued to consult the GPS system on his phone.
“Do we have a destination?” she asked.
“There are some houses I want to look at from the water,” he replied.
“I see. Back to your dream from Mont-Saint-Michel. A house and a boat.”
“Actually,” said Harvath, “there’s a little more to life than just a house and a boat. I was thinking Norway might be a nice place to spend the summer with Marco. What do you think?”
Sølvi smiled and wrapped her arms around him. Giving him a kiss, she said, “I think if you’re serious about get
ting to know Norway, you’re going to need a very special Norwegian ninja to keep an eye on both of you.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to begin by thanking the most important people in the entire process— you, the magnificent readers.
This is my twentieth thriller and, whether you’ve read them all, or are just getting started, I want you to know how much I appreciate and value you.
Every year, I strive to set the bar higher for myself as a writer and to improve at my craft. I do it not only because it keeps my job interesting and challenging, but also because I owe it to you. I want to be the author you can always depend on for a thrilling escape.
If I meet that goal, then I have honored the faith you put in me. As I tell anyone who will listen, the readers are the people I work for—and you are the best bosses anyone could ever hope to have. When you recommend my books to friends, family, and coworkers, as well as when you leave great reviews online, I am humbled and filled with pride that my hard work all year has paid off. Thank you.
Here’s to all of the fabulous booksellers who have introduced so many of their customers to my novels. Thank you for stocking, selling, and talking up my books over the (almost) past two decades. Booksellers are the on-ramp to adventure. You play a vital role in our society. Thank you for ALL that you do.
The very kind and generous Holidae H. Hayes made a lovely donation to a special charitable organization near and dear to my heart. I thank you for your generosity and hope you enjoy the character named in your honor.
With each thriller I write, I lean heavily upon the expertise of some incredible military, intelligence, and law enforcement personnel. This space is always reserved to thank them together, because for their own security, I cannot thank them individually. To you ladies and gentlemen, please know how grateful I am. Thank you for what you have done for me, but more important, what you do every day for our country.
