Shadow of Doubt, page 24
The key to the perfect paella was the quality of the ingredients, especially the rice and saffron. There was a specialty butcher in McLean who not only could source excellent rabbit for when Maggie made the less well-known Paella Valencia, but also offered an outstanding selection of fresh seafood.
Knowing that she would need to keep the chicken, mussels, clams, shrimp, and any fish she purchased cold for the ride home, she had attached extra-large panniers to her bike, so that one of them could be filled with ice.
For dessert, Paul loved her crème brûlée. But instead of doing it in the traditional manner, this time she wanted to do it with a twist. Maybe cardamom and coconut or rosewater and pistachio. She’d have to see what ingredients the nearby grocery store had.
Then there was the wine. Maybe a rosé from Castilla La Mancha or a Cava from Catalonia. It would depend on what the wine store had in stock. She hoped they had something good. Paul would be happy with either of those. A nice Godello or a Verdejo would also be a terrific pick.
She was so busy contemplating her options, she failed to notice a silver minivan lurch out of its driveway, until it was too late.
Breaking hard, Maggie attempted to swerve, but slammed into the right rear quarter panel.
The impact echoed down the street as she tumbled to the pavement unconscious.
CHAPTER 47
PARIS
Brunelle arrived just as the tactical team was getting ready to make entry. A plainclothes agent had quietly awakened the building’s concierge and gotten the key for Amir’s apartment. There would be no need for battering rams or blowing doors off hinges—although the team was prepared for such eventualities if they became necessary.
Falling in at the rear of the stack, Brunelle followed the team up the stairs. They paused just outside Amir’s door.
Because this was a dynamic entry, speed, surprise, and domination were the goals.
When the team leader gave the signal, the breacher slipped the key into the lock and twisted it slowly to the left. When the lock released, he pushed the door open and stood aside, at which point the team flooded into the apartment.
They found Amir in the second of the two bedrooms, sitting in his underwear and a T-shirt at his computer. The tactical team yelled at him to get down on the floor.
Once they had him secured with flex cuffs, they slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth, yanked a hood down over his head, and began bagging up all of his computer equipment.
Brunelle helped with the search of the apartment, making certain that the officers had also retrieved Amir’s phone. From start to finish, the entire operation had taken less than six minutes.
As they prepared to leave the apartment, a call came over the radio from the plainclothes agent outside. Gibert had arrived. Brunelle told the agent that she’d be right down.
After issuing a handful of instructions to the team, she exited the building and found Gibert standing near his car.
“Plainclothes lookout,” he said, nodding toward the agent. “Another in an unmarked tactical van double-parked down the street. Obviously, you’re here for a party. The only question—is it about to start, or is it already over?”
“A little bit of both,” Brunelle admitted as she looked at her watch. “Listen, I need a favor and I don’t have a lot of time.”
Gibert laughed. “Of course you do. Why else would you call me up in the middle of the night and tell me you needed to see me right away. What’s the favor?”
Wanting to get out of earshot of the plainclothes agent, she asked, “Can we walk?”
The cop agreed. As they walked, he pulled a pack of cigarettes out and offered her one. She accepted. He lit hers and then his own.
Brunelle took a deep drag.
Satisfied that the plainclothes agent was far enough away, she exhaled and said, “I know why Jadot was murdered.”
Gibert was stunned. “Why?”
“Powell was right.”
“The CIA station chief?”
Brunelle nodded. “Remember when he said that Jadot was worried the Russians might have burrowed deep into the French government? He was spot-on. It’s bad.”
“How bad?”
“The Russians have spies inside the ministries of Interior, Armed Forces, Justice, Foreign Affairs, and Finance. Jadot uncovered evidence that even the DGSI and the DGSE have been compromised.”
“My God,” the cop exclaimed. “That is bad. Very bad.”
“It gets worse. Jadot also implicated one of the president’s closest advisors, the minister of foreign affairs. It’s a shitstorm and there’s not going to be an umbrella big enough to protect any of these people. Jadot found all the receipts—bank statements, money transfers, all of it.”
“And this was what he was bringing to Powell? This is why he had asked for the breakfast? The one he never showed up for?”
Once again, Brunelle nodded. “Somehow, someone figured out that he was onto it and had him killed.”
“With an ice axe,” said Gibert. “Just like Trotsky.”
“Sends a message, doesn’t it? When you cross Russia, you do so at your peril.”
“A hell of a message,” the cop agreed. Taking his cigarette out of his mouth, he picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue. “Where’d all this information come from?”
Brunelle held up the key-fob flash drive she had taken from Jadot’s apartment. “From this.”
“What’s that?”
Taking it apart she showed him. “I removed it from Jadot’s key ring.”
“After lecturing me on professionalism? After I told you not to touch anything at the crime scene? Jesus, you really are a piece of work. When were you going to tell me?”
“As soon as I knew whether it had any value, which is why you’re standing here right now.”
“And what exactly is going on here?” he asked.
“When I figured out that the fob was a flash drive, I set MoMo loose on cracking it. When he couldn’t crack it, he overstepped and, without permission, brought it to someone who could. That someone is about to be escorted out of the building with a bag over his head.”
“You’re taking him into custody?”
“These are exigent circumstances,” she replied. “He needs to be kept someplace quiet. Someplace safe. At least until we can figure all of this out.”
“Even for you, Karine, this is really pushing the outer edge.”
“I’m just trying to do my job. But I can’t do this part alone. Will you help me?”
The cop feigned ignorance. “Help you with what?”
“You’re going to make me say it?”
“No,” said Gibert, fishing for his phone, “I’m going to record you saying it. Just to cover my ass. I’m not losing my career over this.”
“Can we please take two seconds and not make this about you?”
“About me? You’re the one who’s asking for a piece of crime scene evidence to be logged as if it never went astray.”
“Not just logged,” she replied, acutely aware that she was pushing her luck. “I’m also going to need it backdated and cataloged as having been signed out to me for analysis.”
“Is that all?” Gibert dryly asked.
“Vincent, if Jadot is correct, this isn’t just a colossal breach of national security, it’s one of the biggest scandals in French history. If we can’t use what’s on that drive, then the Russians will have won.”
The cop remained quiet and took another pull on his cigarette.
After several moments of uncomfortable silence, she gave in. “Okay,” she said, “you’re right. I shouldn’t have removed the drive from the crime scene. I’m sorry. Happy?”
“No,” he replied. “I’m not happy about any of this. But I am going to help you. There’s just one small thing I want in return.”
Brunelle didn’t like the sound of that. She had little choice in the matter, however. Without Gibert’s cooperation, she was dead in the water.
“Fine,” she replied, as the DGSI’s unmarked van rolled up and double-parked in front of the building. They were about to bring out Amir. She needed to get going. “What do you want in return?”
“It doesn’t matter now,” the cop replied. “When all of this is over, I’ll tell you what it is. Until then, I expect you to honor your word. You keep me in the loop. Understand? The moment you track down the Russians’ getaway car, or you learn anything else about Jadot’s killer, I want to know about it. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” Brunelle replied.
With that behind her, she turned and moved quickly back to the tactical team. What lay ahead at the DGSI command center would be some of the most difficult and important work she had ever done. The implications of taking down so many members of the French government were practically unfathomable.
On top of that, they still needed to locate the getaway car and apprehend Jadot’s killer.
As the team loaded Amir into the van, Brunelle climbed in behind him, praying that nothing came along to screw any of it up.
CHAPTER 48
EZE
WEDNESDAY
The fastest high-speed train from Nice to Paris made the journey in about five and a half hours. A private jet could do it in forty-four minutes. Harvath had chosen the jet.
After some additional back-and-forth with Grechko, he had gotten Holidae Hayes on a secure call and gave her the rundown of everything he wanted. This wasn’t going to be a CIA op. It wasn’t, technically, even going to be a Carlton Group operation. This was a personal undertaking, but he couldn’t do it without the quiet help of both organizations.
Once Hayes had confirmed his list of requests, he disconnected the call, dragged himself up to his room, and fell into bed with Sølvi.
The next morning, after checking his emails, he came downstairs to find Nicholas and Preisler cooking breakfast. Someone must have made a run to the village because there were all sorts of fresh baked goods. With a notebook tucked under his arm and a pencil behind his ear, Harvath said good morning to everyone, grabbed a cup of coffee, and stepped out onto the terrace.
Haney and Staelin, their own coffee cups in hand, were sitting at the glass table and he joined them.
“You should have stuck around last night,” said Staelin. “Once we got back, we opened several more bottles of champagne.”
“I appreciate you guys driving the Ukrainians back to the airport,” he replied. “Sorry I didn’t stay up to celebrate.”
“You missed out,” Haney added. “Did you know there’s a tabac down in the village that sells Cubans? Johnson bought two boxes.”
“You deserve it. The op was very well done.” Then, changing the subject, he asked, “What’s the latest from Ashby and Palmer? How are things down in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat?”
“They sat on Tsybulsky’s estate until just before dawn. After the news broke about the boat being blown up, security was increased on the house, a couple more guys were added at the gate, but that was it.”
“And this morning?”
“Gage and Morrison went down to relieve them. Doesn’t look like anything has changed. According to Nicholas, the private jet back to Russia hasn’t been canceled.”
That didn’t surprise Harvath. Tsybulsky’s security guys were likely in serious disarray. With their client missing and presumed dead, next steps would be difficult to manage. Unless they had reliable law enforcement sources within Monaco, which they probably didn’t, the only information flowing their direction was what they could pull from the internet. Hopefully, Inessa had done as Grechko had instructed and had dug in her heels and was refusing to even consider leaving France under the circumstances.
Pulling out his phone, Harvath sent Eva a text, asking her to update him with any information regarding Inessa. Then he turned his attention back to his teammates.
“As long as Inessa plays her cards right, she’ll be fine.”
Staelin took a sip of his coffee and asked, “What about Sølvi? Any clue when she and Grechko are going to be able to go back to Norway?”
Harvath shook his head. “NIS gave her an ultimatum. They want her back ASAP. She’s not ready to do that, though. Not until they’ve nailed the mole inside her organization. For now, she’s going to remain off the radar.”
“That seems like a smart move,” stated Haney. “Does that mean we’re staying? Because I can think of worse places to have to be a babysitter.”
“It’s up to you,” Harvath replied, flipping open his notebook and taking the pencil from behind his ear. “I’ve got one more job. The CIA’s station chief up in Paris is offering me some of his guys, but I don’t want his guys. I want my guys.”
“What’s the job?” asked Staelin.
“One of the Russians responsible for Lara’s death managed to get away and—”
“I’m in,” the man said, not even waiting for Harvath to finish his sentence.
“Me too,” said Haney.
This was one of the biggest reasons why Harvath did what he did. The loyalty of his teammates meant the world to him. All they needed to know was that he was going after one of his wife’s killers. That was it. They didn’t need to know where, or how many of the enemy would be there when they arrived. Harvath was going and so would they.
Stepping out of the villa carrying plates of food, Preisler and Johnson walked over to the table and set them down.
“What are we talking about?” asked Preisler.
“Harvath’s got a lead on an additional person involved in Lara’s murder,” said Haney.
Johnson looked at him. “When do we leave?”
“I’m with Johnson,” Preisler stated. “I’ll meet you all in the driveway. I just need to grab my gear.”
“Thank you,” Harvath said as a sea of painful, bittersweet, and vengeful emotions churned inside him. “For the record, that was the right answer.”
His teammates smiled. A couple laughed. They knew him well. Without a sense of humor, they’d all be lost.
As they ate their breakfast, Harvath jotted down a few notes. Taking these four with him to Paris, he’d be leaving five more behind to help guard the villa—Gage, Barton, Morrison, Ashby, and Palmer. Nicholas and the dogs would also stay behind, as would Sølvi and Grechko.
He didn’t like cutting the team in half. If anything happened to any one of them, he wouldn’t forgive himself. And if anything happened to Sølvi, he knew that would be a pain he’d be unable to bear.
But while all that was true, he also knew that he couldn’t allow anyone involved in Lara’s murder to go unpunished. His joke about sending Johnson had been just that—a joke. There was only one person who could, and rightfully should, settle this score.
After finishing breakfast, he gathered his things together and went to say goodbye to Sølvi.
Grateful for all that had been done, Grechko had agreed to start their debrief early, which was why she had been out of bed before Harvath. He was loath to interrupt, but she had left him a note asking him to come find her before he left.
He knocked on the debriefing room door and waited in the basement hallway for her to step out.
“Hey,” she said, closing the door behind her and wrapping her arms around him. “You were out cold when I woke up. How did you sleep?”
“I slept well, but not nearly long enough,” he replied, giving her a kiss.
“Getting ready to leave?”
“The guys are packing up now. We’re going to take two of the cars. Barton and Gage are driving and will bring them back.”
“Who’s going up to Paris with you?” she asked.
Harvath rattled off the names.
Sølvi smiled. “You’re taking the A-team with you.”
“All ten of us are the A-team and I’m leaving you with five. You’re in good hands. Don’t worry.”
“Listen, I’ve been thinking about something.”
There was something about her tone that suggested maybe he didn’t want to hear this. “Do we need to talk about it now, or can it wait?”
“I want to cancel the wedding.”
“What?”
“After this is all over, I want as little drama as possible. Let’s just elope. Bali. Barbados. Buenos Aires. I don’t care. You pick the spot. How does that sound?”
To be honest, it sounded fantastic, but it wasn’t a decision he wanted to make under duress. “I am one hundred percent open to the idea,” he replied. “Let’s talk about it when I get back.”
“You promise?”
“That I’m coming back,” he teased, “or that we’ll talk about it?”
“Both.”
He gave her another kiss. “I promise.”
They stood in the hallway for a few more moments, holding each other. Finally, they broke off their hug.
“Do what you need to do,” she said. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
Giving her one last kiss, Harvath went back upstairs, picked up his bag, and rallied his teammates.
He wanted this operation done with as soon as possible. It was a chapter from his life that needed to be welded shut. Once it was, he would be able to move on.
As much as he wasn’t looking forward to it, however, there was one consolation: he intended to fully vent his rage. He wasn’t going to stop until he had purged every last ounce of anger from his body. Consider it highly kinetic therapy.
Harvath was going to make this as painful for the Russians as possible.
CHAPTER 49
PARIS
It was late morning when they landed at the Paris Le Bourget Airport. A storm had just moved through and the wet tarmac looked like it had been slicked down for a movie scene.
They taxied for a few minutes before pulling into a large, private hangar. Waiting for them, alongside a convoy of three vehicles, was Ray Powell, the local CIA station chief.
“Welcome to Paris,” the man said, extending his hand as Harvath descended the jet’s airstairs.
