Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(104)
“Hold on,” Nicholas said, interrupting him. “We just lost the signal.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. It was there and then it wasn’t. It’s completely gone.”
Harvath could see the tide coming in. “He ditched the phone.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s what I would have done.”
“I’ll pull S?lvi then and have her back you up.”
“Negative,” Harvath replied. “I want her to remain at the causeway. This could be a ruse.”
“Okay,” said Nicholas. “Good copy. Be careful.”
* * *
The tide at Mont-Saint-Michel swept in so quickly, it was said to arrive as fast as a galloping horse.
Already, it was lapping up the deserted beach and splashing against the rocky promontory upon which the tiny stone Chapel of Saint-Aubert had been built.
Harvath moved rapidly, hugging the boulder-strewn hillside, hoping that if a gunfight did break out, there was enough cover to protect him.
Up ahead, a narrow set of steps had been carved out of the natural granite of the promontory and led up to the chapel. With high walls on both sides, it was a death chute. Anyone standing above could fire down and he wouldn’t have a chance. Stepping into the rising water, he approached the structure from behind.
The sheer face of the promontory was slick with moisture, making it hard to get any purchase. But once he found a fissure he could wedge the toe of his boot into, he made quick work of it.
Halfway up, there was an old metal ladder bolted to the stone. Carefully, he tested his weight on it. Confident that it would hold, he used it to speed the rest of his climb.
The rear of the chapel, where the building faced the sea, had no windows whatsoever. On its east and west sides, beneath the slate-covered roof, the windows were too high to peer into and the stones too smooth to scale. Even if he could make it up that high, he didn’t know how good his view through the leaded glass would be. Perhaps he could have detected a human form of some sort inside, but if Aubertin was sitting completely motionless it would have been tough. His only choice was going to be the lone entrance.
Creeping around the chapel, he climbed over its low wall, and arrived at a weathered gray door and an arrow-slit-style window. Drawing his pistol, he made sure not to cast a shadow.
He stood for several moments, watching for movement, and didn’t see any. Approaching the old wooden door with its rusted iron rivets, he strained for any sound coming from inside. All he could hear was the wind and the rush of the tide. Making ready, he reached for the door handle.
CHAPTER 52
The door was locked. Whether it had been locked from the outside because Mont-Saint-Michel didn’t want anyone in there at night, or whether the assassin had done it from within, he only had one way of knowing. Standing back, he raised his boot and slammed it home.
The wood splintered and the door flew open as Harvath spun and pressed himself up against the stone exterior outside. Standing in the doorway, he would have made an easy target.
As it was, no shots were fired. He risked a quick look inside. The chapel was empty. That left only one place Aubertin could be.
The beach was now gone, consumed by the rising tide. The shoreline that remained was nothing but jagged, sharply edged boulders, stretching from the chapel to the Fontaine Saint-Aubert. Soon, they’d be under water too.
Trying to climb across them was out of the question. He’d have to scramble through the trees and underbrush along the steep hillside instead. At least he’d be concealed.
It was about a hundred meters, but it was tough terrain. Not only did the vegetation snag his boots, but the angle was such that if you didn’t place each step with precision, you could end up slipping and crashing headfirst down into the water and onto the rocks.
He also had to take care to be quiet. The wind and the tide could only mask so much. A snapped branch could give away his approach and bring a hail of gunfire down on top of him.
The assassin, if he was there, was cornered. He had his back to the sea. There was no escape. He’d be ruthless—and every option would be on the table. Not so for Harvath.
He needed him alive. He had come too far to have it all abruptly end with the assassin’s death.
Aubertin had information that was critical. And until Harvath was in possession of that information, he was going to have to do everything he could to keep him breathing. Which, as black-and-white as that sounded, did leave a little bit of gray.
Arriving within sight of the ruins, he stopped and crouched down. The view, unfortunately, wasn’t good.
The Fontaine Saint-Aubert dated from the eighth century. Supposedly, on that site, fresh water had sprung from a stone and supplied the monastery for the next seven hundred years.
With weeds and grasses growing from its pointed roof, it looked like a decrepit mausoleum. Carved from local stone, there were no windows—only a small opening, several feet off the ground. Iron stanchions and a rusted chain encircled the structure’s base, meant to keep out the curious.
Even more than the drone, Harvath wished he still had a flashbang left. Dropping one through the opening would have rendered Aubertin an absolute wreck. Reaching in and snatching him would have been a piece of cake. But, as he didn’t have a flashbang, he was going to have to come up with another plan. Something, hopefully, that would smoke the assassin out.