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The Old Man then turned Yaroslav Yatsko over to the CIA. Though they might very well kick him out of the country and turn him loose, the Carlton Group needed to purchase a modicum of goodwill with the Agency. Harvath wanted to see the man tried for setting up the murders of the filmmakers and the attempted murder of Larry Salomon, but the Old Man had his mind made up. He did, though, make sure the CIA intervened with the L.A. County authorities on behalf of Ralston and Salomon, and for that, Harvath was grateful.
Stepping out of the bar, he turned up the collar of his coat. It was a chilly night, but Harvath decided to walk anyway and headed north.
Unlike Venice, Paris was a city that could be romantic and still not make you feel self-conscious about walking its streets alone.
As he walked, he remembered the last time he had been in Paris. He had been sitting in a cafe, ready to propose to a woman with whom he thought he could spend the rest of his life and leave his career behind, when his career had reappeared and sucked him back in.
It hadn’t been that long ago, but it seemed like a lifetime. So much had happened since. So much had changed.
Couples passed by on the sidewalk. They seemed oblivious to his presence, too wrapped up in each other to even notice him. Harvath shook his head and moved on.
He wondered where he was going and why the Old Man had transmitted the address through the Israeli.
Entering the Sixth Arrondissement, he conducted another round of SDRs. Finally, he arrived at the address.
He stood outside looking up at the limestone facade of the building with its black, wrought-iron balconettes. The ground floor consisted of a patisserie and a wine shop separated by a security door that likely provided entrance to the dwellings above.
Harvath studied the note again. There wasn’t any name, just the address.
As he removed his cell phone to call the Old Man, it vibrated with a text message. Harvath clicked on it. It was from Carlton. All it said was Ring #7.
Harvath approached the buzzers. Number 7 was listed under the name Bonduelle. He pressed the button.
Moments later the door clicked open.
Harvath stepped into the eighteenth-century lobby. A gilded, cage-style elevator was surrounded by a stained marble staircase.
Not a fan of tiny elevators, Harvath opted for the stairs and began climbing.
Stepping onto the landing, he found the light switch timer and depressed it to give him enough light to navigate the hallway.
As he walked past the old, scarred doors, he wondered what his next assignment would be.
The sounds of French programming could be heard from each apartment he passed until he reached number 7. From behind the large, wooden door, he could hear music playing. It sounded like Pavarotti.
Reaching out, he twisted the brass handle, which rang the bell inside, and then he waited.
The music turned down. There was the sound of footfalls approaching the door and then a pause as someone gazed out the peephole.
The metal clacking of an old lock sounded and the old door creaked as it was slowly pulled open.
Inside stood a woman in jeans and a white button-down shirt. Her reddish-brown hair fell past her shoulders. Even in the half-light of the hall, her blue eyes shone. Harvath was taken completely by surprise.
Her lips spread into a smile. “Hello, Scot,” she said softly.
He was about to lean forward and kiss her, when he noticed movement at the stairs.
“Gun!” he yelled, and knocked Riley Turner back into the apartment just as a hail of bullets splintered the door frame.
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