Shadow of Doubt, page 16
One of the Old Man’s favorite stories had been “The Purloined Letter,” by Edgar Allan Poe. Though a mystery about a letter stolen from the French queen’s boudoir, in Carlton’s mind it embodied the essence of tradecraft. An unscrupulous minister switches a letter with a fake and uses information from the original to blackmail the queen. And no matter how many times the police tear apart the minister’s home, they cannot find the letter.
Eventually, it’s the prefect of police who figures out that the minister is such an adept student of human psychology that he has hidden the letter in plain sight. Despite the cops searching all the places they would have hidden such a valuable item, it had actually been sitting right out in the open.
The idea of doing something similar with Inessa was tempting. The more he had thought about it, the more it had grown on him. He knew it was incredibly dangerous, which was why he would work to shield her from as much of the fallout as possible. The only thing missing from his operation was a contingency plan.
Harvath knew from bitter experience that all too often Murphy, of the eponymous law, liked to show up and scatter a game’s pieces, if not completely flip the board over. There was no guarantee as to whether he’d show up for this operation, but they had to be prepared.
What bothered Harvath the most was that Inessa was being left exposed. He’d gamed out the situation a thousand different ways, but it always ended the same. There was no way to fully protect her. To do that they would need a person on the inside, and that kind of infiltration took weeks, if not months. There was no way they’d be able to accomplish it in a matter of hours. Unless he was struck by a bolt of genius, it would just be part of the operation that they would have to accept.
Which brought him to Grechko. He planned on telling the Russian as little as possible. The man was not entitled to a say in how things were going to go down. He had made his number one priority clear—if Inessa said yes, he wanted to fix it so that neither Tsybulsky nor anyone else ever came looking for her. That was all Harvath owed him, and it was all he was prepared to do for him.
As he watered down what he planned to say to the defector, his phone chimed. It was a text from Eva.
Inessa had agreed to meet.
CHAPTER 27
With the news that Inessa had accepted Eva’s invitation, the operation kicked into the next gear.
Before speaking with Grechko, Harvath had wanted to run everything by Sølvi. The Russian was her defector, after all.
But when he tried to grab her, she was already late for her call with Oslo. Nicholas had established an encrypted video link from the makeshift debriefing room in the basement. It had been lined with soundproof blankets. In addition, Nicholas had added a loop of white noise to help mask her audio. Until she was ready to tell her superiors where she was, she didn’t want to reveal any information about their location. Once the NIS had uncovered the mole, then they could begin discussing her return to Norway with Grechko.
This left Harvath with only one option. Rounding up Ashby and Palmer, they hopped into the Range Rover and headed in to Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. He needed to get the lay of the land for himself.
Only two and a half kilometers in size, the tiny peninsula looked like a slightly misshapen version of Italy. It was home to sixteen hundred people and some of the most expensive real estate in the world. Winston Churchill, two American presidents, artists like Matisse, Chagall, and Picasso, countless royalty, business tycoons, and a myriad of actors, actresses, and authors had all vacationed there. The coolest visitors in Harvath’s opinion, however, were the Rolling Stones.
They arrived in the summer of 1971, looking to escape a ton of personal and financial problems back home, including a relentless press that hounded them day and night. At a sixteen-room mansion named Villa Nellcote, overlooking the ocean, they installed a mobile recording studio and began laying down songs for their 1972 album, Exile on Main Street, which would go on to be considered one of the best albums of all time.
Harvath asked Ashby to pull it up on her phone and play it through the Range Rover’s speakers. Just because they were on the job, that didn’t mean they couldn’t have a little background music.
It started off with one of Harvath’s favorites, “Rocks Off,” and a few songs later slid into another, “Tumbling Dice.” Next to funk music, there was nothing Harvath liked more than classic rock and roll. And the more the artists pushed the limits of their genre, like Parliament-Funkadelic and the Rolling Stones, the more he liked them.
The Stones put Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat on the map as a star-studded, celebrity sanctuary. And as more luminaries flocked to this part of the French Riviera, the real estate prices only continued to soar.
Most of the homes were hidden behind stone walls, wrought-iron fences, and massive hedgerows. Harvath had Palmer drive them past Tsybulsky’s, which was out at the end of the Pointe du Colombier, along the Chemin de Saint-Hospice.
All you could see of it was the front gate and glimpses of a few rooftops. Had Palmer and Ashby not been out earlier on the Promenade des Fossettes with the drone, all they would have had were a few satellite images of the estate to go on.
Having crossed Tsybulsky’s house off his list, Harvath now wanted to go back to the port and check out the restaurant where Eva and Inessa would be getting together.
He asked Palmer to drop him off a couple of blocks away, as it was best they not all be seen together. There was also another reason why Harvath wanted to head to Muse on foot: it would allow him to take a look at Tsybulsky’s boat.
The great thing about the small Port of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat was that, unlike many marinas in the United States, none of its docks were off-limits to the public. There were no gates that required an access code. You could walk down any and every pier, admiring the watercraft, and no one could tell you to get lost.
Even better was the fact that Tsybulsky had the hottest vessel in the harbor. As a result, everybody wanted to see it up close. There was a constant stream of pedestrians stopping to take photographs. The boat was a floating piece of art and Harvath was immediately drawn to it.
Dubbed the Tecnomar for Lamborghini 63, it was 63 feet long, could reach 63 knots, there were only 63 of them made, and the number 63 was meant to commemorate the founding of Lamborghini by Ferruccio Lamborghini in 1963.
The word sleek didn’t begin to do the stunning craft justice. It looked like it had been plucked from a hundred years in the future and dropped into the azure blue waters of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. With its razor-sharp lines and stealthy, high-tech aesthetic, it was a yacht designed to turn heads and break necks.
Both because of its appearance and its V-12 engines, it reminded Harvath of what a Lamborghini Sián FKP 37 would look like if it were turned into a high-performance, luxury speedboat. As much of a dirtbag as Tsybulsky was, his yacht was first-class.
Harvath hung back and took in the scene from a respectable distance. He didn’t need to end up in anyone’s social media photos. From where he stood, he could see everything he wanted, including Tsybulsky’s crew. Ashby’s description of them had been spot-on. Dressed in white polos and blue shorts that appeared two sizes too tight, they all looked like they were on steroids or human growth hormone—popular drugs of choice for ex–Russian Special Forces soldiers now in the private security market. For these guys, and their employers, bigger was always better.
Carrying a to-go cup with a camera hidden inside, Ashby had been able to record her entire visit to the boat. Within minutes of being handed the cup’s SD card, Nicholas had identified the crew members and had accessed their military records. As Eva had warned, these were not good men. All were ex-Spetsnaz, and all had been involved in unprovoked violence and unlawful killings from Syria and Ukraine to the Central African Republic.
Having seen enough, Harvath headed back down the dock and continued toward his ultimate destination.
When he arrived at Muse, he approached it from the side, skirting the outdoor terrace, which even at this time of the afternoon was still three-quarters full.
Inside, he found an empty seat at the bar and sat down. The décor throughout was nautical chic—lots of bright white and navy blue, with stainless-steel accents here and there. Even the mahogany bar had been designed to resemble the deck of a classic wooden boat.
Hung upon the walls were enormous black-and-white photographs of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat over the decades, from small fishing boats to gangs of glamorous models on matching Vespas.
A sliding glass wall overlooking the water had been retracted and a light breeze blew through the restaurant.
Harvath ordered a local craft beer. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Palmer and Ashby at a table, studying menus.
The idea was that they would spend about twenty minutes getting to know the place. Harvath would leave first and then Palmer and Ashby would come pick him up where they had dropped him off.
The barman brought Harvath’s beer along with a glass of water and a small dish of marinated olives, before moving on to take care of another customer.
He could see why this was Inessa’s favorite spot. The location was perfect and the views really were amazing. If they hadn’t been here for such sensitive work, this would have been exactly the kind of place he’d love to bring Sølvi to.
Not counting the glass of wine outside the cottage back in Norway, they hadn’t had anything resembling a relaxed, unguarded moment since he’d returned. They needed one. They were long overdue.
She knew that his desire to not let one of his deceased wife’s killers go unpunished had nothing to do with his love for her. She also knew that regardless of what Grechko was dangling, he was here to make sure she was successful. He also wanted to keep her safe.
There was no doubt in his mind that she understood all these things, but he also knew better than to take it for granted. They needed a long, uninterrupted discussion and he needed to hear it from her.
He also needed to discuss the $50 million sitting in a Swiss bank account that the CIA had tried to blackmail him with. When it came to the money, there was an ethical line there and it was important that she understand on which side he stood. Perhaps Eva’s involvement, if they were able to successfully pull this thing off, might better help Sølvi appreciate his position.
Dinner at a place like this, followed by a walk along the port, would be a nice way to begin a discussion like that. If they were to spend the rest of their lives together, it was a critical conversation to have.
After a few more minutes of studying the restaurant, Harvath polished off his beer and paid his check.
He walked back and checked out the men’s room, marking the location of the kitchen and the ladies’ room as he passed.
When he was done, he popped upstairs for a quick look at that dining room and then exited the restaurant via a different door than he had entered.
Pretending to be following a map on his phone, he did a loop around the building, taking several subtle photographs, before walking back down to the harbor and to the pickup point where he met Ashby and Palmer.
“All good?” he asked, hopping into the back seat of the Range Rover.
“I’m a little bit worried about line-of-sight issues,” Ashby responded. “What if Inessa’s security detail sees Grechko get up and follow her?”
“We’re going to have him move first. Eva won’t tip Inessa off until she gets the text from me,” Harvath replied.
“What do we know about Inessa’s detail?” Palmer asked as he pointed their vehicle toward Eze.
“According to Eva, she normally travels with a four-man team,” said Harvath. “Two guys come inside with her and sit at a nearby table. One remains outside with the car. The fourth is a floater. All ex-Spetsnaz.”
“So, the floater could be anywhere.”
“We’ll need to stay on our toes.”
“How many people total are we bringing?” Ashby asked.
“Were you and Palmer able to get a reservation?”
Ashby shook her head. “We asked on the way out, but they’re booked solid. We’re on the waiting list. They told us to grab a seat on the terrace if we find one, or something in the bar.”
“That’s going to be my strategy as well,” said Harvath. “I’ll be with Grechko. You two will be wherever you can find a spot. And I’m going to have Staelin and Haney nearby in the G-Wagon.”
“So, we’re five, plus Grechko,” said Palmer.
Harvath met his gaze in the rearview mirror and nodded. “That’s the plan. If everything goes right, we’ll be back home, sipping champagne by eleven o’clock.”
CHAPTER 28
They returned to the safehouse just as Barton and Preisler were on their way out. The CIA’s yacht broker had come through. A boat, fully fueled, was waiting for them in Nice.
Seeing Harvath arrive, Barton paused in the driveway and waited for him to get out of the Range Rover.
Once he did, he walked over to him, held up his phone, and showed Harvath what the broker had been able to secure. “Only you could arrange something like this,” he said.
“Like it?” Harvath asked.
“Are you kidding me?” Barton replied. “We’ll have no problem keeping up with Tsybulsky.”
“Good.”
“And, as I’ve seen the seven-figure price tag, I promise to do my best not to scratch it or run it aground.”
Harvath smiled. “Not my problem. The CIA’s picking up the tab. Just complete your part of the mission. That’s all I care about.”
“Roger that,” said Barton as he and Preisler threw bags into the trunk of their vehicle and headed out.
Now that he was back at the villa, the first person Harvath wanted to see was Sølvi. He found her sitting on the veranda, cup of coffee in hand, staring out toward the small slice of the Mediterranean that was visible from their location.
“Everything okay?” he asked, stepping out to join her. “How’d your call go with Oslo?”
“Not well,” she replied. “But I suppose that was to be expected.”
Harvath pulled up a chair and sat down next to her.
“They gave me twenty-four hours to surrender myself,” she continued, “along with Grechko.”
“And what did you tell them?”
“I told them that until they caught their mole, Grechko and I were safer where we were.”
“At which point they assured you that they could keep both of you safe, right?”
Sølvi nodded. “ ‘Just tell us where you are,’ they said, ‘and we’ll come get you. We’ll put you anywhere in Norway you want. No one will be able to touch either of you.’ ”
“Then what happened?”
“Then it got nasty,” she replied, exhaling. “If I don’t comply, they’ll consider it an act of treason, my career will be over, they’ll revoke all my military benefits, as well as everything I’ve accrued at the NIS, et cetera.”
“Could be worse,” Harvath said, trying to make her smile. “In the U.S. they also would have threatened to take your parking space.”
Sølvi chuckled. “It’s already gone. They also deactivated my security badge and have flagged my Norwegian passport.”
“They’re playing hardball.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Harvath nodded. “I’ve been in a similar situation. All I can say is, you just have to do the right thing—even if it’s in opposition to what your government is asking you to do. In the end, it’ll all work out. Trust me.”
“I do,” Sølvi said, reaching out and taking his hand. “But I don’t want to think about Oslo. Let’s talk about something else. How’s everything coming together on your end?”
“You want the short version, or the truth?”
Sølvi chuckled again. No matter how rough things were, he could always make her laugh. “Split the difference for me.”
“Inessa has agreed to meet Eva for dinner, and we’ve found the perfect spot. Plenty of ingress and egress points. The conversation is going to have to be quick, but it should be enough time for Grechko to make his case.”
“And if she agrees?”
“If she agrees, we make sure no one, including Tsybulsky, ever comes looking for her. That’s what Grechko wants, right?”
“Why does that sound like a loaded question?”
Harvath, still holding her hand, leaned back in his chair and stared out toward the ocean. “Just want to make sure we’re both on the same page.”
Sølvi looked at him. “You’re up to something,” she said. “I can tell. What is it?”
“How much do you know about Arkady Tsybulsky?”
“Billionaire oligarch. Makes his money from mining. Close friend and confidant of the Russian president.”
“Correct,” Harvath replied. “In fact, Russia’s war effort in Ukraine is heavily dependent upon the raw materials that Tsybulsky supplies. His aluminum, titanium, nickel, and iron ore are critical to Moscow. Without them, you can’t build airplanes, helicopters, armored vehicles, missiles, and a whole host of other weapons and weapons systems.”
“You’re certainly knowledgeable when it comes to Tsybulsky.”
“The file Holidae gave me to read before we left was quite detailed. Suffice it to say that Tsybulsky was incredibly rich before Russia invaded Ukraine. Since the invasion, his wealth has exploded. Not only that, but according to the CIA, he was one of the people who had strongly encouraged Peshkov to launch the war.”
“The Ukrainians must hate him with a passion,” she said.
“You have no idea,” Harvath replied.
“What’s your plan?”
“I’ve decided we’re not going to make Inessa disappear.”
“You’re not?” Sølvi replied, drawing her hand back, somewhat surprised.
“No. Instead, we’re going to make her problem disappear.”
“You’re going to kill Tsybulsky?”
Harvath, who had turned to look at her, turned back to look at the ocean. “I’m not going to kill him.”
