Shadow of Doubt, page 28
Pulling out the large, glossy photos, she splayed them in front of herself. “I’ll be damned,” she said, looking at each one. “Hello, Balthazar, you beautiful, flaxen-haired bastard.”
“Pleased?” the analyst asked.
“Beyond pleased. Where were these taken and how did you get them?”
“We’ve been watching Peshkov’s mistress, Valentina Usova—monitoring her phone and email traffic. Turns out she’s been communicating with a woman fifteen kilometers up the coast from Pushkin’s palace, in a town called Dzhankhot. And what would you guess this woman does for a living?”
“Something with horses,” said Maggie.
The analyst smiled. “Yep. Boards them. Trains them. Teaches people to ride them. Soup to nuts, she’s the go-to person in the area for all things horsey.”
“How’d you get the photos?”
We have an asset in St. Petersburg with a cousin farther up the Black Sea coast in Gelendzhik. Our guy made a call to his cousin, we Cash App’d some Bitcoin their way, and voila—several hours later, we’ve got calendar-quality portraits of Valentina’s pride and joy, as well as his very expensive trailer, which the cousin found parked behind the barn.”
“Well done,” Maggie stated. “Very well done. Has Conroy seen these?”
“Not yet,” the analyst replied.
“Well, you’re going to brief him when he gets here and he’ll make the call on whether or not these go to the DNI and on to the president. In the meantime, I want you to write up a full report. Do you have a laptop with you?”
The analyst patted her bag and nodded.
“We’re using the first lady’s suite for our overflow offices. Head over there and tell them I sent you. And once again, you did a great job.”
Smiling, the analyst exited the conference room.
As soon as the young woman had left, Maggie began tapping the nearest photo with her index finger. “What’s your game, Peshkov?” she asked aloud. “Are you really going to start World War Three, or do you have something else up your sleeve?”
Opening up her encrypted email system, she banged out a quick message for Holidae Hayes at the Oslo station. There was a question she needed answered.
Something had been bothering her and the more she thought about it, the more nervous she became.
CHAPTER 58
PARIS
Getting behind the wheel of the SUV, Harvath selected the fastest route out of the Bois de Boulogne and stepped on the gas.
From the back seat, Staelin relayed updates on both Haney, who had taken a round straight through his right arm, and Johnson, who had taken a bullet in the back, somewhere above his left hip, and which had not exited.
Staelin was alarmed not only by Haney’s blood loss, but by Johnson’s possible internal bleeding and organ damage. They didn’t want some guy with a staple gun and Crazy Glue, they needed an actual surgeon with proper tools and medicines. And they needed that person to work with them off the books. Showing up at a regular hospital with gunshot wounds was out of the question. It was the fastest way, short of dialing 1-1-2, the European version of 9-1-1, to summon the police.
Crossing the Seine via the Pont de Suresnes, Harvath wove through traffic, merged onto the Quai Léon Blum, and, flipping a mental coin, elected to head south. He had no idea yet where they were going. All he knew was that they needed to put as much distance between themselves and the shoot-out as possible. Soon enough the French cops would be erecting barricades and casting a dragnet over the city.
Being outside the city limits proper would be a good initial means to avoid police, but it wouldn’t make any difference if he couldn’t get Haney and Johnson the medical attention they needed.
As he swung around a slow-moving car in front of him, Harvath’s phone vibrated with a call. Pulling it out, he answered it and put it on speaker.
“What have you got?”
“La Clinique Saint-Raphael,” Nicholas replied. “It’s a six-bed, short-stay surgical center. Facelifts, tummy tucks, and rhinoplasty are their bread and butter. The surgeon who runs the place, a guy named René Jourdain, used to do covert, off-the-books medicine for the CIA until he got PNG’d for selling prescription meds to embassy employees. He’s a bit of a wild card, but he’s the best I can do on short notice.”
That was all Harvath needed to hear. “Text me the address and make sure he has Haney’s and Johnson’s blood types ready to go. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”
Harvath’s mental coin flip and decision to go south had paid off. Jourdain’s clinic was located at the southern edge of Paris, in the 13th arrondissement. He wasn’t crazy about having to cross back into the city, but he had no choice. All he cared about at this moment was getting there in time.
He drove as fast and as aggressively as he dared. It was an extremely difficult needle to thread. The last thing they needed was to get pulled over.
When they arrived at the small clinic, Jourdain and his two most-trusted nurses were waiting for them. The facility was currently empty with no new patients expected for the next two days. Haney and Johnson were taken directly to separate surgical suites. There was no exchange of names, no paperwork.
Staelin scrubbed in, ready to assist with either patient, or both if need be. Preisler left to dispose of the SUV, as well as the BRI raid vests. Harvath familiarized himself with the building, including possible evacuation routes in case the team had to leave in a hurry. If it came to that, which he prayed it wouldn’t, they were going to be well and totally screwed. Neither Haney nor Johnson could be safely moved at this point.
It had been hours since Harvath had had any pain meds and, finding a water cooler, he poured himself a cup and swallowed the last two from his pocket. He made a note to get a few more from Jourdain before they left. With the little bit Nicholas had revealed, he had a feeling the doctor would let him have anything he wanted.
After taking his meds, he checked back in on his injured teammates. Johnson’s situation had been deemed the most urgent, so Jourdain had taken him right into surgery. Haney was stabilized, given three units of blood, and now was being prepped as the next up.
When Harvath stuck his head into his room, Haney reminded him, “This is the second time you’ve gotten me shot.”
The first time was in North Africa. It was hard to believe that it had only been a couple of years ago. So much had happened since then.
“Well,” Harvath replied. “Third time’s always the charm.”
Haney gave him the finger and turned his attention back to the nurse who was helping to get him ready.
With Johnson in surgery and Haney soon to follow, there wasn’t much Harvath could do. Walking down the hall to Jourdain’s office, he made himself comfortable.
In a small cabinet, he found that the doctor had a well-curated liquor collection. He must have known someone in the business because he not only had a bottle of Blanton’s, but also a bottle of Colonel Taylor. They were both excellent bourbons. Harvath poured himself two fingers of the Colonel Taylor and sat down on Jourdain’s couch.
Pulling out the Russian diplomatic passports, he photographed each one and sent them to Nicholas. He didn’t know if they would be helpful or not. That wasn’t his department. Shortly after sending them, his phone rang.
“How are the guys doing?” Nicholas asked.
“Johnson’s in surgery. Haney’s up next, but they think they can do him under local anesthetic.”
“You know this is the second time you’ve gotten him shot.”
“It’s like a frickin’ conspiracy with you guys,” said Harvath. “For the record, Mike got shot by terrorists in North Africa and Russians in France. Neither was my fault. He’s a bullet magnet.”
“Speaking of fault,” the little man replied, changing the subject. “Are you sure you want to go after Powell?”
“He set us up. He got two of my guys shot. I’m more than sure.”
“Okay. I’m going to text you the address of his apartment. Anything that happens after that is up to you.”
“Understood,” said Harvath.
“You’re still going after Elovik, though, right?”
“Absolutely. But first Powell. We can’t trust anything he’s told us thus far. I want to apply some pressure and make sure we’re getting the truth.”
“How much pressure?” asked Nicholas.
“That’ll be up to Powell. If he cooperates, it’ll go quickly.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“If he doesn’t…” Harvath said, pausing. “It’s going to be very long, very painful, and he’ll spend every second wishing it was over.”
CHAPTER 59
The evening light slanted through the apartment windows and splayed across the floor, pushing back against the deepening shadows. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Like something out of a Michel Setboun photograph.
Ray Powell hated the idea of losing the apartment. But unless Harvath was found, and found soon, he would have no other choice. He would have to go on the run.
That was the only reason he had returned to his residence on the Rue des Écoles. His cash, his fake passports, his Beretta pistol… all of it was kept in a safe under a false floor in his bedroom closet.
He had learned early on in his career that you never cached anything personal at the office—at least not anything you weren’t prepared to walk away from. Tides could turn quite quickly, especially in the intelligence game. When they did, it paid to be prepared.
There were a half-dozen places he could flee to, none of which the CIA would ever suspect him of having contacts in—Argentina, Namibia, Angola, Oman, Vietnam, or Kyrgyzstan. Of course, the Russians would also take him, but it would come at a cost. He’d have to sing for his supper every day for the rest of his life.
After milking him dry of everything he knew, they would put him on a propaganda tour, weaponizing him back against the United States. All the while, he’d be living in state-run housing on an inconsistent, quasi-survivable stipend. No thanks.
Besides, he wasn’t in this for the politics. He was in it for the money. He was at the pinnacle of his career. As station chief, he was the law in these parts. While he reported to CIA headquarters back in Langley, there was no one physically overseeing him. Simply put, things weren’t going to get any better than they were right here, right now. This was the time to feather his nest.
That’s why he had said yes to the Russians. He understood them. He understood not only what they wanted from him, but also what they needed. The Chinese, on the other hand, were too dull, the North Koreans too obnoxious, and the Iranians too fanatical. The Russians you could deal with —bang out all the details, get rip-roaring drunk together, and then be back to business again the next morning. They were nuts, but there tended to be a method to their madness.
Madness. It was a good word for what he was experiencing right now. He hadn’t signed up to be operationally involved with the Russians. His job was to be on the lookout for intelligence that the Kremlin might find valuable and to pass said intelligence to them via his handler. That was it. End of story.
Now he had not only sent a covert American tactical team into an enemy ambush but was also about to help mount a secret enemy manhunt for the survivors.
It was insane, Wild West stuff—except that in this scenario, he was the rogue Indian helping the U.S. Cavalry hunt down members of his own tribe.
But true to his nature, Powell had made sure that he was being paid. Handsomely.
As soon as he learned American operatives were coming for Elovik, he had sold that information to the Russians at triple his usual rate.
Luring Harvath and his teammates into the ambush had brought another payday. But the Russians had drawn the line at forking over any further cash until the manhunt was successful.
They weren’t stupid. The Kremlin and the Russian president himself had been after Harvath for years. Every time they thought they had him, he had slipped their grasp. Until his head was delivered to Moscow in a cooler, the Russians wouldn’t part with another ruble.
What’s more, Elovik and his superiors figured Powell had an even greater incentive than money to find Harvath—the preservation of his own skin.
Since the Russians had a healthy, professional respect for Harvath, the moment they heard their operatives had been slain in the failed Bois de Boulogne ambush, they knew that it was only a matter of time before Harvath realized who had betrayed him. It was in Powell’s best interest to get to Harvath before Harvath could get to him. But time was running out.
Pulling his weekender bag from under his bed, he unzipped it and began packing enough to get him through the next several days—shirts, trousers… the works.
In the bathroom, he hurriedly stuffed his razor, toothbrush, and other assorted items into his dopp kit and then tossed it into his weekender.
After adding a heavy sweater, a sport coat, and an extra pair of shoes, he was ready to go. Zipping up the bag, he set it in the hall near the front door and returned to his closet.
Kneeling, he hooked his index fingers behind the false floor panel and popped it out, revealing a small, biometric safe underneath.
He placed his thumb over the sensor, the light went from red to green, and there was a click as the lock released and the lid opened.
There would be no time to sort through the contents. He would be taking all of it, right down to the gold coins and preloaded debit cards.
As he lifted the lid and reached for his pistol, his heart seized in his chest. The safe was empty.
But then he heard the hammer of his Beretta being cocked and things went from bad to much, much worse.
“Don’t move,” a voice said from behind. “Don’t even fucking twitch.”
Scot Harvath had gotten to him first.
CHAPTER 60
“I want you to know that it wasn’t personal,” said Powell, still on his knees and not moving a muscle.
“Of course not,” Harvath responded, masking the rage he was feeling. “It was just business.”
“Exactly.”
“Out of curiosity, what did the Russians pay you? What was my life and the lives of my teammates worth to them?”
“I’ll split it with you,” Powell offered, attempting to bargain his way out. “Better yet, you can keep it. All of it. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“From one hundred million to one hundred and fifty thousand. I’m beginning to think the Russians are losing interest.”
“They’re not. Believe me. It was fifty thousand for the information. One hundred thousand more to lure you to the Bois de Boulogne. All of which, like I said, is yours.”
Harvath now realized what had so bothered him on first meeting Powell. It wasn’t that the chief of station was too tweedy, it was that he was too smarmy. Just beneath the surface, there was a casual unprofessionalism about him that Harvath had allowed himself to ignore as the CIA man lulled him into a false sense of security with his well-thought-out planning, a halfway-decent safehouse, and his ability to source police-like vehicles and accoutrements. It was a mistake Harvath wouldn’t make again. Ever.
“Forget the money,” said Powell, still negotiating. “Or don’t. What I mean is, I know what you really want.”
“What’s that?”
“Elovik. Unit 29155. He’s the key; the only way you can get to them.”
Skeptical, Harvath replied, “And you’re going to help me get to Elovik.”
“I think, all things considered, that would only be fair.”
“Why do I need you? You’ve already told me where he lives. Suresnes.”
Powell, his back still to Harvath, shook his head. “That’s an FSB safehouse. It was also a trap. If you showed up there, it was going to be another ambush.”
“So where is he?”
“I can show you.”
Harvath laughed. “Nice try, asshole. Not interested.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. You’re going to have to do better.”
“May I turn around?” Powell asked.
“Slowly,” Harvath replied. “Hands behind your head.”
The station chief obeyed his orders. Keeping his hands behind his head, he turned very slowly around.
“If you were going to shoot me, you would have done it already. So, why don’t you tell me exactly what you want, and we can figure out some sort of arrangement.”
“A, I still may shoot you,” said Harvath. “And B, you know what I want. Where do I find Elovik?”
Powell was still in a mood to negotiate. “What assurances do I get that if I tell you, you’ll let me live?”
“Nothing in life is guaranteed, Ray. The only way you can help yourself is by helping me. This is the last time I’m going to ask. Where’s Elovik?”
The station chief needed to buy himself some more time. He knew the only way to do that was to cooperate. And cooperation meant telling the truth.
“There’s a small command center at the Russian Embassy. He’s there. Monitoring the situation and dealing with the fallout from Moscow.”
“I’m not interested in storming a hardened diplomatic facility guarded by local law enforcement. Where does he live?”
“In the Eighteenth. Near Montmartre,” said Powell, shaking his head. “But he won’t be there. Until he knows you’ve been neutralized, he’s going to remain at the embassy. It’s SOP for them.”
A plan started to form in Harvath’s mind. “And once he believes I’ve been neutralized?”
“Then things will be safe enough for him to come out. Why? What are you thinking?”
“I assume you gave Elovik the location of our safehouse?”
Powell dropped his gaze and nodded.
“So, there’s been surveillance on it, likely still is, and the Russians will be aware that none of us have returned.”
“I would assume so,” the CIA man responded. “But I still don’t under—”
Harvath cut him off. “Where’s your car?”
