Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(101)

She was even more chatty than she had been at lunch. Harvath wondered if maybe she had stopped for a drink with her other clients before arriving here.

There was a benefit to it, though. She seemed more comfortable around them and, without coaxing, she brought up Aubertin.

It was brief. She didn’t know much about him. He spoke with an Irish accent and while polite, was exceedingly professional. So much so, that he wasn’t known to socialize with any of the other guides. In fact, the only social situations Dominique had ever seen him in were when he was at a restaurant or a café with clients.

He was considered an excellent guide and had sent her some wonderful referrals over the years. “Present company very much included,” she added.

She didn’t know anything about his personal life and believed that he lived somewhere along the coast.

And as quickly as the subject had come up, she moved on to discussing something else.

If nothing else, the fact that he spoke with an Irish accent confirmed Nicholas’s information. Aubertin was their assassin.

The piece about him living somewhere along the coast was interesting and might be helpful in their hunt for him.

After waiting a few minutes, Harvath stood up and excused himself from the table, telling the ladies that he would be back momentarily.

He walked back to the men’s room, but it was occupied and so he stepped outside to compose a text to Nicholas.

Standing there, thumbing out the message, he shuddered. It was unlike any feeling he had ever experienced before. Immediately, he looked up, half expecting to see a tiger charging at him, or a meteor falling out of the sky. The best way he could have described the feeling was with a saying his grandmother used to use. It was as if someone had walked across his grave.

But, of course, as he looked around there was no tiger, no meteor. There were only tourists, a group of whom had just entered a shop across the lane.

Shaking it off, he finished his text, hit Send, and returned inside.





CHAPTER 49


When the ladies had finished their drinks and Harvath his espresso, they left the Auberge Saint-Pierre and headed off for evensong, or as it was referred to at Mont-Saint-Michel, vespers.

As with every Point A to Point B excursion on the island, there were inclines and stone steps—lots and lots of steps.

Dominique had assured them that she knew a shortcut and was shaving considerable difficulty off their walk. Harvath watched with interest as they passed a young couple, baby and stroller in tormented tow, arguing. Someone in that family—husband or wife—needed to get much better at pre-vacation reconnaissance. This was not a destination to which you brought babies or small children. It was physically strenuous, even for adults.

Its inaccessibility, though, was what had made it such a formidable stronghold for well over a thousand years. The more time Harvath spent walking its streets and ramparts, the more he grew to appreciate it. It spoke to the warrior in him.

True to her word, Dominique had indeed found them a shortcut to the abbey, and was able to get them in through a side door. She had already purchased entrance tickets, which she handed over to a church official standing just inside.

As she did, she directed Harvath’s attention to an offering box bolted to a thick stone column and intimated that he might want to make an additional donation.

Seeing as how they had been allowed to use God’s VIP entrance, the least they could do was to show their appreciation.

Harvath didn’t have a problem with it at all. Even if they had been forced to queue up at the main entrance, he still would have donated a little extra.

Wherever he traveled, he loved seeing older houses of worship. They were always works of art, with incredible attention to detail. Helping keep such beauty alive was an honor.

Directed to a special set of pews, they took their seats. After a few minutes of requisite history from Dominique, the service began. And it was amazing.

Six monks and six nuns, shrouded in white, stood at the front of the ancient church with its soaring ceiling. As they sang, their hallowed voices reverberated off the centuries-old walls, and was one of the most beautiful things Harvath had ever heard.

It didn’t even seem real. It sounded like a movie soundtrack. But considering the movie-set-like beauty of Mont-Saint-Michel, it was fitting. Sometimes, if you stopped to appreciate it, real life was often more beautiful than fantasy.

At the tree line of civilization, though, evil was always poised, ready to rush in.

Maybe that was why he felt such a special kinship with houses of worship. If there was one thing religion understood, it was evil. The fact that some officiants referred to their faithful as their “flock,” also had a special resonance with him. The whole sheep/sheepdog, wolf/wolf hunter thing seemed to be especially clear when he was sitting in a church.

It was also a sanctuary, the one place he should be able to let his guard down and reflect—to think about who he was, what his place was in this world, and if what he was doing was a noble, virtuous, even moral thing.

As he allowed himself to slip into a contemplative frame of mind, dropping his guard just a fraction, lulled by the music, the shudder swept over him again.

Like someone had walked across his grave. And just as it had outside the Auberge Saint-Pierre, it shook him.

Moving his hand to his concealed pistol, he turned his head and swept as much of the church as he could with his eyes. All he could see were tourists, though. Nothing but tourists.