Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

N ICE , F RANCE

T UESDAY

Nice C?te d'Azur was the third-busiest airport in France, handling almost three million passengers a year. Even its glitzy VIP terminal experienced a constant churn of arriving and departing flights. It was the perfect place to go overlooked, which was exactly what Harvath wanted.

Grechko had put him in an untenable position. Dangling one of the people responsible for his wife's murder, but refusing to give up that person until Harvath did something for him, left him with few options.

He also had S?lvi to consider. For her to be successful, she needed Grechko to be cooperative. And for him to be cooperative, he wanted Inessa to be "rescued." The larger question, however, was whether that was what Inessa wanted. Harvath had his doubts.

Inessa Surkova was, to use the most charitable word available, a courtesan. She traded sex for money—and had done so on several occasions with Grechko. For his part, Grechko had not only willingly given her money, he had also fallen in love with her. He said she felt the same about him, which in Harvath's experience was what most men who fell for hookers or strippers said. The fact that Grechko's feelings might be unrequited wasn't his problem.

His problem was putting the two of them together long enough for Grechko to make his case and then, if Inessa agreed, helping her disappear. A task that was going to be much easier said than done.

On top of all of this was Holidae Hayes, the CIA, and their threat to both freeze him out of his off-the-books bank account and to come after him for taxes and penalties.

If he walked away from the account and never touched it again, there was zero chance they could ever tie him to it. But he had no intention of walking away from it. That money was his. He had more than earned it.

The irony that the money had come from a Russian oligarch in Antibes, only twenty kilometers down the coast from where they had just landed, was not lost on him. Nor was the fact that Inessa was being "kept" by a different Russian oligarch a mere twenty kilometers up the coast from where they now were, in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat.

In a different time and under different circumstances, it might have made interesting grist for a comedic opera, but neither Nikolai Nekrasov, who had previously put the largest bounty in history on Harvath's head for killing his godson, nor mining oligarch Arkady Tsybulsky, who had installed Inessa as his mistress, were men to be trifled with.

Both were close friends of President Peshkov, exceedingly dangerous, and absolutely ruthless. They owed their fortunes and their positions in life to cold-blooded, cutthroat acumen and were driven by a thirst for power, lust, and greed.

Capable of incredible cruelty, they took pleasure in the suffering and misfortune of others. Harvath had no problem helping karma catch up with either of them. And, if he was able to help magnify their pain in the process, he was more than happy to do it.

After a brief discussion at the cottage in Norway, both he and S?lvi had agreed on what needed to be done. Once they had worked out the details, Harvath had contacted Holidae Hayes, who arrived an hour and a half later in a blacked-out Mercedes sprinter van with a small, heavily armed security team she had handpicked herself.

By 10 p.m., they were all tucked safely away inside the U.S. Embassy compound back in Oslo, the framework of their deal having been hammered out on their drive up.

S?lvi would remain in control of Grechko's debriefing. Harvath and the Carlton Group would be in charge of security. The CIA would provide logistical support, including helping smuggle Grechko out of Norway, a safehouse in the South of France, clean passports, and any other items that might prove necessary. In exchange, the CIA would be allowed to remotely observe Grechko's debriefing and ask questions via S?lvi.

While not perfect, it was the arrangement that offered the best possible outcomes for all involved.

As part of his mission planning, Harvath had asked Hayes to provide him with everything the Agency had on Arkady Tsybulsky, as well as satellite imagery of his estate on the tiny peninsula of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. He also asked for anything they could dig up on Inessa Surkova.

Overnight, Hayes set them up in a part of the compound where they wouldn't be seen by any staff. One of the security team went out for Chinese food.

When it was time to turn in, Harvath and S?lvi were given an office together and Grechko got one across the hall. The rollaway beds Hayes had scared up weren't the most comfortable in the world, but they were definitely better than army cots. Not that anyone much cared. They were all exhausted and fell asleep almost instantly.

The next morning, Hayes and her team accompanied the trio to the Oslo airport, where Chief Inspector Borger, the police officer who had previously escorted Harvath off his flight from Poland, was waiting for them in his car outside the private jet terminal.

Hayes exited the van and walked over to him. When he rolled down his window, she handed him three freshly minted U.S. passports. Rolling his window back up, he drove off to get everything processed. He hadn't asked the passport holders to present themselves.

Once Borger had gone, Hayes texted the pilots of the jet that the CIA had coordinated. When the pilots texted back that they were ready for boarding, Hayes and her team escorted Harvath, S?lvi, and Grechko out to the plane.

Hayes waited on the tarmac for Borger to return with the passports. As soon as she had them in hand, she thanked the cop, headed up the airstairs, and delivered them to their new owners.

There wasn't any prolonged goodbye. With their friendship having iced over, there wasn't much to say. It was a business transaction and this current phase was complete. Hayes wished them good luck and, along with the security team, deplaned. They were on their own.

The flight from Oslo to Nice took just under three hours. The trio cleared customs and passport control in a private lounge at the Nice C?te d'Azur VIP terminal, much the same way as Harvath had when he first arrived in Norway. And as he had done then, he helped himself to a strong cup of coffee, some snacks, and all the packs of pain medication that were in the sundries drawer.

When he received a text that their ride was waiting out front, he gathered everybody up and they headed outside.

There, standing next to a black Audi S8, was one of his Carlton Group teammates, Mike Haney.

Like everybody else on the team, Haney was usually a wiseass—gallows humor being a prerequisite for their line of work. As ex–Special Forces operatives, the compulsion to make fun of each other, as well as the dangerous situations they found themselves in, had been developed early in their military careers and honed to perfection going forward.

But when the situation called for seriousness and professionalism, as it did now, every member of the team could be counted on to deliver.

This wasn't a game. They were on the clock. Grechko was a Russian defector with information that was expected to be of great value to Norway, NATO, and the United States. The Carlton Group was here to keep him safe, to support S?lvi in debriefing him, and to carry out whatever assignments Harvath deemed necessary.

Haney wore a black suit, a wired earpiece, and a pair of Oakley Contrail sunglasses. The six-foot-tall former Force Recon Marine looked every inch the executive protection specialist.

Idling behind the Audi was a Black Mercedes G-Wagon filled with four more of Harvath's teammates—ex–10th Forces Group soldier Kenneth Johnson; ex–5th Special Forces Group soldier Jack Gage; ex–Navy SEAL Tim Barton; and another former Force Recon Marine, Matt Morrison. Harvath nodded subtly in their direction and the men in the vehicle nodded back.

"Good to see you, Mike," said Harvath as he approached.

"You too, Scot," Haney replied, head on a swivel, scanning for threats.

As Grechko was their protectee, they loaded him in first. S?lvi then walked around to the other side and got in back next to him. The moment Haney climbed behind the wheel and put the car in drive, Harvath hopped into the forward passenger seat and gave him the thumbs-up.

After confirming with the men in the G-Wagon that they were ready to roll, Haney radioed the command to move out.

"I brought you a little something," Haney said as the green security gate retracted and he exited the VIP parking lot.

Harvath raised the armrest to find a very sexy, highly concealable personal defense weapon. Built on a SIG Sauer P320, the Flux Raider X replaced the weapon's frame and turned it into a pistol-style carbine complete with a spare magazine well, picatinny rails, and a lightning-fast, spring-loaded, retractable brace. Haney had added a TacDev Ripstik charging handle, a SureFire weapon light, and a compact Trijicon red-dot sight. Sitting underneath it were four fully loaded thirty-round magazines and an Applied Defense Concepts tactical holster.

"Very nice," Harvath responded, lowering the armrest. "How's the house?"

"It's seen better days, but it's quiet. Just the way we like it."

"Everything in place?"

Merging onto Avenue Didier Daurat, Haney headed for the A8 autoroute to avoid the coastal traffic. "Palmer and Ashby are in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat doing surveillance and reconnaissance," he said. "Staelin's setting up perimeter security at the house and Preisler's helping Nicholas with all the remaining electronics issues."

The location the CIA had secured as their safehouse was in the hills above the French village of Eze, halfway between Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat and the Principality of Monaco.

After stopping to unlock a set of tall iron gates, they proceeded down a long, dusty driveway lined with ancient sycamore trees. On one side, beyond the trees, rows of vines could be seen. On the other, groves of olive trees. Harvath rolled down his window. Though it was well past summer, the car filled with the unmistakable scents the region was famous for—wild thyme, rosemary, and lavender.

At the end of the drive, they came upon their destination—a run-down, two-story, stone villa.

Left to wither in the intense southern sun, the villa's once-vibrant yellow fa?ade had been bleached to a pale straw. Its previously azure-blue shutters were now dull and faded. The terra-cotta tiles adorning its crooked roof had given up their dark red hues and had been replaced by an aging palette of apricot, coral, and pale orange.

They parked in the circular motor court and, gathering up his personal defense weapon along with the spare magazines from under the armrest, Harvath exited the Audi.

After helping S?lvi out of the vehicle, they left Grechko with Haney and walked back to the G-Wagon to say hello to the other members of the team.

The last time Harvath had seen most of these guys was when they had been tasked with recovering a high-value intelligence asset and his family from Afghanistan. The team had been involved in a brutal firefight with the Taliban and almost didn't make it out. Had Harvath, against the wishes of his teammates, not offered himself up as bait, they all might have been killed.

As usual, the men acted more excited to see S?lvi than to see him. They rehashed the same lame jokes and reminded her that it would only be a matter of time before Harvath screwed up, in which case any one of them would be available to help console her.

From the jibes about replacing Harvath as the man in her life, they quickly pivoted to asking how many of her "hot" friends were going to be coming to their wedding in the United States. They were beyond shameless, and S?lvi, smart aleck that she was, gave as good as she got. She had an excellent sense of humor.

It went back and forth like this for a few more moments until Harvath saw a diminutive figure appear at the front door, bracketed by two huge white dogs. Smiling, he told his team to get back to work and led S?lvi away.

He was a handful of feet from the Audi when he noticed the shocked expression on Grechko's face.

"You," the Russian exclaimed.

"Hello, Leonid," Nicholas replied from the doorway.