Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(94)

Harvath watched as the photo appeared on his phone.

“His financial transactions were super murky and very convoluted,” the little man admitted. “But the IRS program loves those kinds of challenges. Eats them for breakfast. As soon as we fed it the information we got from the Contessa, it began to unspool every transaction.

“He was good. Really good. He used a combination of anonymous bank and cryptocurrency accounts, particularly bitcoin, to move money around and make payments. But deep in his banking history, he set up an account with a one-time transfer from another, rather interesting account.”

“What made it so interesting?” Harvath asked.

“The account received a pension payment from the French Foreign Legion before the payment was directed somewhere else.”

That wasn’t something Harvath had seen coming. First, Irish mobsters in Boston and now the French Foreign Legion? What the hell was going on?

“That’s how you sourced the name Paul Aubertin?”

“Correct,” Nicholas replied. “I may have accessed a certain French military database, which is where I got the photo. But that’s just the start. When I searched for a facial match to any photos online, I discovered a private, password-protected Foreign Legion website. In a group photo, you can see Aubertin. But three people to his left is someone else I think you might recognize. I’m sending it now.”

Harvath waited for it to come through and when it did, he said, “The assassin who tried to kill me in Key West.”

“His name is Didier Defraigne. He’s Belgian. He and Aubertin served in the Foreign Legion at the same time.”

“Is Aubertin also Belgian?” Harvath asked, backing up.

“No. Are you ready for this? He’s actually Irish—at least that was what his passport said when he joined the Foreign Legion. He was injured in Kosovo and per French law, he was able to apply for and receive French citizenship.”

“What do the Irish say about him?”

“According to Ireland’s Directorate of Military Intelligence, there was a passport issued in that name at the end of 1999, but they have no record of any citizen named Paul Vincent Aubertin.”

Harvath walked over to the coffeemaker and fired it up. He liked where all of this was going. “The attackers in Boston allegedly had ties to the local Irish mob. Three were Americans, but the fourth was believed to have actually been from Ireland. Did you run his name through?”

“We did,” said Nicholas. “Desmond Oliver Cullen’s Republic of Ireland passport was issued just a little bit after Aubertin’s—early 2000. It turns out, Cullen is a ghost as well.”

“Why was Ireland churning out ghosts in late 1999, early 2000?”

“It could be that with the Troubles winding down, someone was running an underground railroad for the IRA.”

“But weren’t there amnesties?” Harvath asked, putting coffee in the machine. “Wasn’t that part of the peace process?”

“Lots of convicted criminals were given early release, but if you were an un-convicted criminal, meaning you hadn’t yet been prosecuted, there was no amnesty. You were out of luck. Even worse, the British government was as determined as ever to go after the most violent in the IRA.”

“So we think these guys may be ex–guerrilla fighters?”

“At best.”

“And at worst?” Harvath asked.

“Ex–IRA hitters. Hard-core assassins with mountains of experience taking out political, military, civilian, and law enforcement targets. Not too far-fetched if you think about it.

“A truce has been signed, the walls were closing in, and there’s nothing left for them in Northern Ireland. Someone in Dublin, a sympathizer, can get them clean passports, which will allow them to start over somewhere else. Cullen jumps at the chance and goes to Boston, where he puts his skills to work for the Irish mob. Aubertin goes to France and ends up with the Foreign Legion. Like I said, not too far-fetched.”

It wasn’t too far-fetched at all, thought Harvath. “Do we know where Paul Aubertin lives?”

“That, I’m still working on. He is, though, registered as a Licensed Guide of France and promoted by the Federation of Guides of Normandy.”

“Wait. Our assassin is a fucking tour guide?”

“Unless he uses it as cover for something else, it would appear that way. His ratings are pretty solid. Four stars or above. Consistently.”

“How do we find him?” Harvath asked, knocking on the shared door between their rooms to wake S?lvi up.

“NormandyGuides.com has a profile on him. Unfortunately, he’s one of a handful of guides who never uploaded a personal photo.”

Harvath wasn’t surprised.

“There is, though, a contact feature. It looks like you can fill out a request and they’ll forward it to him.”

“Let’s do that. Make it look like it’s coming from anyplace other than the United States or Norway. Present it as a couple looking for a guide in the next day or two. Pick the tourism site he gets the best reviews for.”

“His specialty appears to be the D-Day beaches of Normandy, particularly Omaha and Utah, or the abbey of Mont-Saint-Michel.”

“Go with the D-Day beaches,” said Harvath, partial to America’s World War II connection to France. “Hopefully, he’ll take the bait, we can hire him as a guide, and set up a time and a place to meet.”