Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(95)
“And if he doesn’t take the bait?” Nicholas asked.
“We’ll need another way to find him, preferably a home address or a cell phone number. Get inside the NormandyGuides.com system and see what you can find.”
“Consider it done. In the meantime, what are you going to do?”
Harvath looked at the time and decided he had a wake-up call of his own to deliver. “We’ve got a flight to catch.”
CHAPTER 44
CHTEAU DE CHANTORE
BACILLY, FRANCE
WEDNESDAY
Paul Aubertin sipped his café au lait and tried to control his anger. The story had now been picked up by the French newspapers.
As he scanned the article in Le Figaro, it was apparent there wasn’t any new information.
The “Boston Massacre,” as Monday’s gunfight was being called, was being blamed on warring organized crime factions. It had taken place in broad daylight and four men were dead, including the driver of the “getaway car,” which had collided with another, unrelated vehicle. Police were continuing their investigation. No further details had been released.
It was the same reporting he had seen all over the internet yesterday. The Boston Globe, local neighborhood “crime watch” sites, Boston police scanner blogs… no matter where he tried to dig up more background on what had happened, he couldn’t find a damn thing.
The fact that the name Desmond Oliver Cullen hadn’t yet appeared in the press was no consolation. Didier Defraigne’s name hadn’t appeared either. In the Belgian’s case, he had simply vanished.
How the hell had Harvath done it? How was he one step ahead every single time?
It was becoming exceedingly apparent why such an enormous bounty had been placed on him. He was nearly impossible to take down, directly or indirectly.
That said, the man was still mortal, which meant two things: he needed to sleep, and he was capable of making mistakes.
My God, thought Aubertin. Is that what this had come to? Counting on Harvath to make a mistake? Was that the only way he was going to be able to get to him?
Aubertin refused to believe that a man of his experience, of his skill, would have to pin his hopes of success on a target screwing up. If that’s what things had come down to, then he needed to get out of the business.
Except, he wasn’t ready to get out of the business. Not by a long shot. At least not without a massive payday—and half of one hundred million dollars was as massive as anyone had ever seen. If it took waiting for Harvath to screw up, or even killing him in his sleep, then that was just the way it was going to have to be.
To take advantage of Harvath letting his guard down, he needed to be able to pinpoint him. That’s why Key West had been so perfect. He had served up the job to Didier on a silver platter. But somehow Harvath had managed to escape—unless he and the Belgian had fallen into a mangrove swamp and had been eaten by alligators.
Aubertin doubted it. Harvath was still definitely alive. The foiled kidnapping of his stepson in Boston was enough proof. He was still out there, somewhere. And Aubertin was right back to where he was before. He either needed to reacquire Harvath’s location, or find a new way to flush him out into the open.
How to accomplish either of those was the question. He had been wracking his brain, but still had yet to come up with an answer.
One would come, it always did, but if he pushed too hard his mind would keep it at bay.
As was often the case, some of his best answers came when he stopped thinking about the question—which was why he was sitting in the salon of the Chateau de Chantore, having a morning coffee, and waiting for a New Zealander family from Wellington to come downstairs.
They were return clients, who had not only been delightful to work with last year, but had also tipped very well.
Until the contract on Harvath was closed out—and provided Trang didn’t come up with some sort of plan to screw him—he still had bills to pay. The time to make hay was while the sun shined.
And if focusing on the history of Normandy helped him unlock what to do about Harvath, then all the better. His day with the Kiwis would be even sweeter.
He was about to take another sip of his café au lait when his phone chimed. Looking down, he saw a request from NormandyGuides.com.
High season was kicking into gear.
CHAPTER 45
SAINT-MALO, FRANCE
The jet that touched down at Aviano to fly them to France was a variant of a Gulfstream IV, known in U.S. Air Force parlance as a C-20H. It was part of the 86th Airlift Wing, but for all intents and purposes—from crew uniforms to the aircraft’s registration—it appeared to be a private civilian aircraft.
Harvath and S?lvi had had just enough time to grab a shower and scrounge something to eat before it was time to leave. Over microwaved breakfast burritos and coffee in Styrofoam to-go cups, he explained everything he had learned about their assassin. He also explained his decision not to involve French authorities.
He had multiple connections to get any help he needed. The American and French presidents had an excellent relationship. CIA Director McGee worked very well with the head of French Intelligence. Even Gary Lawlor had extremely solid connections throughout French law enforcement. In the end, though, Harvath had thought it best to operate under the radar.
There was no telling what kind of tripwires Aubertin had in place, nor whom he might have paid off and in what area of the government. One word that the Americans were looking for him and he would vanish. For the first time, Harvath felt like he had the advantage. He didn’t intend to waste it.