by Brad Thor
Walking to the windows near the front door, he peered out from behind the curtains and was not happy with what he saw. The tiny driveway in front of the Carré de l’Ours was crammed with provincial police cars. Apparently, Broussard had entered the hotel with the first officers on the scene, the motorcycle cops, and had told the rest of the police to remain outside. From an investigative standpoint it was a smart move. The less people tramping through the hotel, the less chance of evidence being damaged. But from an escapee’s standpoint, Harvath and Jillian were screwed—doubly so, as he noticed teams of officers moving around to secure the back of the property.
“Shit,” said Harvath as he pulled his head back in from the window.
“What’s going on?” asked Jillian.
“It’s crawling with police outside.”
Jillian came up and looked out the window for herself. “What are we going to do?”
“As far as the authorities are concerned, you and I have been on a three-day killing spree. They’re not about to let us just walk out of here, and I’m not about to draw them into any sort of fight.”
“So what do you suggest?”
After thinking for several moments, Harvath looked out the window again and focused on something at the end of the driveway. “Do you know how to ride a motorcycle?”
“No, why?”
“Because I only have one idea on how to get us out of here, and we’ve probably only got a million-to-one shot at making it work.”
Five minutes later, wearing the visored helmets and uniforms of the two unconscious motorcycle cops from the kitchen, Harvath and Jillian exited the hotel and began quickly walking past the officers waiting outside.
When the gendarmes began asking what had happened inside, Harvath held up a plastic evidence bag containing Khalid Alomari’s tactical machine pistol and continued walking. The officers seemed to understand. They knew a murder had been committed, and the presence of such an exotic weapon confirmed what they all secretly believed—that the scene inside was particularly gruesome. Obviously, the captain had dispatched the two motorcycle officers on some important assignment involving the weapon, and they had no time to talk. That was fine with most of them. Hopefully, they would soon be allowed inside and would be able to see the crime scene for themselves. There wasn’t a man among them who had ever had the opportunity to see a murder scene before.
They went back to talking among themselves, but when Jillian climbed onto one of the motorcycles at the bottom of the driveway behind Harvath, and with a backpack no less, several of the gendarmes began to suspect something might be going on.
Please let it start on the first try, thought Harvath. It did, and they were half a block away before the first of the cops had run inside the hotel, discovered his colleagues in the kitchen, and come back outside to send the other officers to apprehend the wayward police motorcycle and its two fugitive riders.
Instantly, sirens started echoing off the stone structures of the small village. As Harvath drove the high-powered motorbike up both streets and sidewalks, he was thankful it was evening and most people were inside.
While he drove, Alcott stuck to her part of the plan. With their rented Mercedes surrounded by police cars in the Carré de l’Ours’s driveway, their only hoping of getting away was in whatever car Khalid Alomari had left behind. All they had to do was find it.
Harvath knew that Alomari was professional enough not to have parked right in front of a murder scene, but needing immediate access to the only route to the Col de la Traversette, he wouldn’t have parked too far away either.
As they drove up and down each of the village’s narrow streets, Alcott repeatedly pressed the remote panic feature on the car key Harvath had found in Alomari’s pocket.
The police were less than two blocks behind when Alcott finally got a hit, and the headlights, taillights, and horn of a black BMW 7-series sedan started going crazy. Immediately, Alcott pushed the panic button again and shut down the alarm.
Having seen the proficient way she drove her MG, Harvath had little doubt Jillian could handle the big BMW. Skidding to a halt beside it, he helped her slide off the motorbike and then told her to meet him on the other side of the bridge outside the village
Once she was in the car with her head down, Harvath took off, the police just turning the corner behind him.
Having been through most of the streets in Ristolas already, he had a pretty good idea of where and how he could shake the gendarmes from his trail.
Racing into the heart of the village, he did two circles around the communal fountain, giving the police plenty of time to at least gain sight of the taillight on the much faster motorbike he was driving, before shooting down one of Ristolas’s most crooked thoroughfares.
Revving the high-performance bike into the red zone, Harvath released the clutch and rocketed ahead, putting as much distance between him and the police as possible.
Approaching the deadly ninety-degree turn Harvath remembered from his first pass, he locked up the brakes and laid a skidding trail right up to a low stone wall overlooking an Alpine meadow far below.
The large bike took forever to stop, and for a split second, Harvath thought he was going to be thrown right over the wall along with it. As the front tire slammed into the stones, narrowly missing the iron bench overlooking the valley, Harvath jumped off, flipped open the gas cap, and muscled the bike the rest of the way over. As it fell to the ground far below and burst into flames, he removed his helmet and tossed it as close as he could to the burning wreckage.
He then took off the provincial police parka, stuffed it in a nearby trash can, and ran to meet Alcott at their agreed-upon rendezvous point.
FIFTY
W ASHINGTON P LAZA H OTEL
W ASHINGTON , DC
B rian Turner had spent enough time with the CIA to know that continuing to meet Senator Carmichael at his apartment was probably not a very good idea. The smart thing to do was to no longer hold any of their meetings in the same place twice. He also had to make sure he picked a hotel where the senator could come up to his room straight from the parking garage and not be seen in the lobby. The chic yet affordable Washington Plaza was the perfect choice. If Carmichael decided she felt amorous after their meeting, they could spend the evening together and order room service, and she could still sneak out via the garage later on with no one the wiser. If she didn’t feel like staying, Turner could still take advantage of the magnificent room he had overlooking one of the best outdoor hotel pools in DC and troll the Plaza’s very funky bar, known as one of the hottest young pickup spots in town.
Having arrived well in advance of the senator, Turner decided to kill a little time downstairs in that self-same bar. Ordering his favorite drink, a double-dirty Absolut martini with extra olives, he settled back and listened as one of his all-time favorite albums, Mothership Connection by Parliament, played overhead. God, he hated DC, but moments like this, when he found a slice of culture in the vapid city, almost made it worth living there.
Halfway through his third martini, Turner looked at his watch and realized he’d lost track of time. Throwing a fifty-dollar bill down on the table, he zipped out of the bar and hopped an elevator up to his room.
As the doors opened, he prayed to God he wouldn’t see Carmichael in the hallway waiting for him, and thankfully, he didn’t. Opening the door to his room, Turner had just enough time to take a leak and rinse his mouth out with one of the complimentary bottles of Listerine before he heard the senator’s familiar rap on the door.
“Good evening, Helen, “He said with a smile as he showed Carmichael into the room.
“What the fuck’s going on, Brian?” she replied as he closed the door. “I thought we were only going to communicate via e-mail from now on.”
Feeling no pain, Turner’s smile never wavered as he replied, “For normal communications, that would make sense, but tonight I have something special to show you.”
Carmichael ignored th
e seat her young lover offered her and instead chose to remain standing in the center of the room. “So what is it?”
“I don’t even get a kiss?” asked Turner as he held out his arms, the liquor getting the better of him. “I’m going to start thinking that you don’t care about me anymore.”
“Are you drunk?” demanded the senator. “I can’t fucking believe this. I came all the way down here and you’re shit-faced.”
“Helen, please,” said Turner, bobbing his head a little too much as he accentuated his words.
“Please what?” she asked. “Why am I here, Brian?”
Turner smiled again and did a little dance. “Because I have discovered something that will be the final nail in Scot Harvath’s coffin. The coup de grace, if you will.”
Close to heading for the door, Carmichael decided to slow down and hear the young CIA man out. Sitting on the edge of the room’s king-size bed and crossing her legs, she replied, “So what do you have for me?”
Turner held up his finger, as if to say, I’ll be right back, and disappeared into the suite’s dressing area, where the closet and room safe were. A moment later he reappeared waving a thin folder in the air. “I told you the proof was out there somewhere.”
“Proof of what?”
“That the president really has been using elements of the intelligence community for his own personal hit squad.”
Carmichael couldn’t believe her ears. “What did you find?”
“After-action reports, “He said proudly as he handed her the dossier. “After-action reports for off-the-books, black ops assignments that supposedly never existed.”
“How’d you get your hands on these?” asked the senator as she flipped through the pages. “Nobody just leaves intelligence like this lying around.”
“It was hardly lying around,” said Turner, feeling cocky. He was doing exactly what he needed to do to seal a position in her cabinet. He was proving himself indispensable. “Basically, it all comes down to having the right access and the correct knowledge. I’ve been at the agency long enough to develop both.”
The senator tried to mask how excited she was to get her hands on such valuable information. As she continued reading, she asked, “And Scot Harvath played a role in these off-the-books assignments?”
“They allude to someone who I definitely believe is Harvath,” replied Turner.
“How about the president? Can we tie him to any of these operations?”
“Not yet,” said the CIA man, “but once I can put Harvath in the picture, I think we’ll have the president as well.”
“How much longer?”
“If things continue to pan out, I think we’re only talking a matter of days. Possibly by the end of the week.”
The senator thought about the press cycle, her hearings, and the announcement she was going to make that both the president and his chief of staff had been served. This additional information was exactly what she had been counting on. “Whatever it takes,” she said, “do it. And do it fast.”
FIFTY-ONE
I TALY
W ith the French police hopefully searching the valley beneath Ristolas for their bodies, Harvath pulled a map from the glove box and plotted the shortest possible route into Italy.
As France and Italy were both EU member countries, the only thing stopped at their respective border these days was the occasional truck. Even so, Harvath still wanted to be careful and chose a narrow, low-profile route that wound its way through the Alps and eventually deposited them in the Piemonte region’s Po River Valley—not far from where Hannibal’s army engaged the first Roman legions.
Soon, they neared Turin, and though he and Jillian were both tired, they agreed the wisest choice was to push on to Milan and put as much distance between them and the French authorities as possible.
With its street crime, prostitutes, and drug dealers, Milan was second only to Naples as the seediest city in Italy. While Harvath had always given the fashion industry’s tacky capital the widest berth possible, he was happy to find a mid-grade, chain business hotel near the city center. The desk clerk, who suspected Harvath was on a jaunt with his attractive mistress, was more than happy to ignore protocol and accept two nights’ lodging in cash along with a hefty tip, in lieu of the presentation of any formal identification.
As he soaked under a steaming hot shower, Jillian went across the street to an all-night café for sandwiches and coffee. When she returned, she found Harvath on the edge of the bed, going through the bag Khalid Alomari had left in the trunk of his car. “Anything interesting?” she asked as she handed Harvath a sandwich.
“You’ll love this, “He replied. “Along with a prayer mat and a copy of the Koran, he had extra ammo, several very nasty-looking knives, and a garrote wire.”
Jillian shuddered. “Death and religion, what a juxtaposition.”
“That’s the way these people operate. Not all Muslims are terrorists, but without fail all terrorists are Muslims. There’s a war raging within their religion. The moderate Muslim faith is under siege by the Wahhabi extremists of Saudi Arabia. That’s what gave birth to bin Laden and al-Qaeda. They want to take over the world and they’ll do whatever is necessary to make their goal a reality.”
Despite the glass of wine she had downed at the café across the street, Jillian was still numb from killing Khalid Alomari. But the more she heard about what a monster he and his kind were, the better she began to feel about what she had done.
“We need to establish our priorities,” said Harvath as he reached for one of the coffees.
“That’s easy,” replied Jillian. “The tissue samples. We’ve got to get them to the Whitcombs as soon as possible.”
“I agree, but I also want the people working on this in my government to get a look at them. “Glancing up at Jillian, he added,” Vanessa and Alan are good people, and I don’t want to see anything happen to them.”
“Neither do I.”
“Good. I’d like to arrange for them to get away from Durham for a little bit. Even though we’ve taken care of Alomari, there’s no knowing who he might have talked with and if the Whitcombs are in any danger.”
Jillian had not considered that possibility and was obviously concerned. “What do you have in mind?”
“I’d like to have them moved to a special military base where they can continue their work on this case and where they’ll be completely safe.”
“An American military base?”
“Yes. Fort Detrick, Maryland.”
“USAMRIID. The U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases,” said Jillian.
“You’re familiar with it?”
“Of course.”
Harvath hesitated a moment and then said, “I’d like you to go with them.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Because you’ve been through enough already. This is only going to get more dangerous, and I don’t think it’s right to ask you to stay with me.”
“First of all,” said Jillian as she glared at Harvath, “I’ll be the judge of what’s right for me, and secondly, you need me.”
Harvath knew he could move a lot faster without her, but felt he owed it to her to hear her out. “How do you figure?”
“We don’t know what the tissue samples we gathered will yield. They might yield nothing at all. Either way, you’re not going to sit around here waiting to find out. You’re going after Rayburn. You need to find Emir Tokay. At this point, he’s the only one who can shed any light on all of this. If, as we said before, he’s even still alive.”
She had him pegged. That was exactly what Harvath had planned, but he still saw no reason to save the seat next to him for the trip. “I still don’t understand why I need you for any of that.”
“Emir contacted me because he had pieces of a puzzle he couldn’t put together. If he’s still alive, he might still need my expertise to sort this all out.”
“And if he’s not?”
“If he’s
not and you manage to locate Rayburn, I’m guessing Rayburn will be sitting on all of Dr. Ellyson’s papers. That includes the Silenus manuscript and heaven knows what else. You’re going to need somebody who can sort through all of that and decipher the most relevant documents as quickly as possible. You can’t do this without me, Scot, and you know it.”
Not only did Harvath know it, but he hated it. Though she had proven herself quite capable, she wasn’t an operator, and the assignment was about to get a lot more dangerous. It was shades of Meg Cassidy all over again, except this time the civilian that fate was forcing him to bring with him into battle didn’t have the luxury of several weeks’ training with the best the intelligence community had to offer. All Jillian Alcott had was him.
“If I can arrange for Vanessa and Alan to be taken to USAMRIID,” said Harvath, “will you back me up on it and encourage them to go?”
Jillian thought about it a moment and replied, “If that’s the only way they can be completely secure, then yes, I’ll back you up on it.”
Harvath glanced at his Kobold Phantom Chronograph and calculated the time difference between Italy and Washington, DC. “I’ll need to make a couple of calls to get the ball rolling.”
“Does this mean we’re sticking together?”
“How can I say no? After all, I owe you my life.”
Jillian smiled. “I want to call Vanessa and Alan and talk to them before you do anything.”
“Okay,” replied Harvath as he lifted the phone off the nightstand and handed it to her. “The sooner we get this moving, the better off we’re all going to be.”
FIFTY-TWO
Y es, he’s right here,” said Jillian as she motioned for Harvath to pick up the telephone over on the desk. “I’ll have him pick up the other extension.”
Once Harvath was on, Alan Whitcomb asked, “How much danger are we really in?”
