Chapter 49

CHAPTER 49

P ARIS

It was late morning when they landed at the Paris Le Bourget Airport. A storm had just moved through and the wet tarmac looked like it had been slicked down for a movie scene.

They taxied for a few minutes before pulling into a large, private hangar. Waiting for them, alongside a convoy of three vehicles, was Ray Powell, the local CIA station chief.

"Welcome to Paris," the man said, extending his hand as Harvath descended the jet's airstairs.

He was a bit tweedy for Harvath's taste, but knowing that it took all kinds to keep the Agency running, he reserved judgment and shook the man's hand.

He briefly introduced the other team members and then oversaw the offloading of their gear.

Once everything had been loaded into the vehicles, Powell suggested Harvath ride with him, so he could be briefed on the rest of the intelligence he had requested.

As the station chief piloted the black Citroen C5 out of the airport and headed for the Périphérique road, he removed a folder and handed it to Harvath. "Here's everything else we were able to pull together for you."

Opening it, Harvath saw a picture of his target right up top. Colonel Vladimir Elovik was Russia's military attaché to France. He operated out of the Russian Embassy in Paris's westernmost arrondissement, the 16th, and lived just across the Seine in a suburb called Suresnes.

"Elovik travels with two FSB bodyguards. Per your question, he doesn't receive any protection beyond that, nor does he receive a police escort."

"Good," Harvath replied.

"We've got you set up at an Agency safehouse in Nanterre. It should have everything you need. If it doesn't, you'll have to improvise."

"Roger that."

"And a word to the wise," said Powell. "My guys refer to that area as Transylvania. When night falls, you don't want to be caught out wandering the streets if you know what I mean."

Harvath nodded and continued to peruse the folder.

"The upside though," the station chief continued, "is that the people in that neighborhood don't care for the police. They mind their own business. As long as you and your team keep a low profile, nobody's going to bother you."

"Just the way we like it."

"I've also included some satellite imagery. You'll see I highlighted possible routes as well as suggested areas to engage the target."

Harvath flipped to the main image and studied it. "Lot of places somebody could get lost in here."

"Better to have them and not need them, right?"

"Exactly," he responded. The tweedy chief was growing on him. "What about these three bridges you've marked?"

"Elovik's most direct path home from the embassy is via the one in the middle. But we don't know how competent his security detail is. Maybe they run surveillance detection routes and change things up every night, or maybe they don't. You're going to have to adapt on the fly."

"Understood. What about the DGSI? I know the French rotate surveillance on Russian diplomats. Will there be a team on him tonight?"

"You guys are going to have to figure that out for yourselves," said Powell. "This isn't supposed to have any American fingerprints on it. For the sake of operational security, I haven't pinged anyone—not even my most trusted DGSI contacts."

Harvath appreciated his attention to detail. Powell was both smart and thorough.

"What about the special items I asked for?"

"Very difficult to come by, especially on short notice, but we got them. It's all waiting at the safehouse."

If Powell had, in fact, rounded up everything on his list, Harvath was going to recommend the man for a promotion. Though he didn't know how much better one could do than Paris station chief. It had to be one of the best assignments Langley had going.

At Porte Dauphine, they got off the Périphérique and drove down the broad, apartment-block-lined Boulevard Lannes and past the Russian Embassy.

In a city of such striking architectural beauty, the Russian Embassy was positively ugly. It was even worse than the FBI's headquarters in Washington.

Built in the brutalist style, the embassy was a three-story concrete monstrosity that took up an entire city block. Not only was it ringed with an iron fence, but the French police had erected barricades so that pedestrians, and more than likely protestors, couldn't access the sidewalk. There was plenty of security, including cameras and uniformed law enforcement officers.

The narrow streets on each side had been closed to through traffic and were posted with manned checkpoints.

Drawing Harvath's attention to the first checkpoint, Powell explained, "The embassy has an underground parking structure. Vehicles exit from the rear of the building and come out here."

"There isn't a road in back?" Harvath asked.

"There is, but it's been closed off as well. The city even went so far as to build concrete embankments back there. Essentially, three out of the four streets surrounding the embassy are off-limits to anyone but embassy personnel. To get in or out, you have to go through a police checkpoint."

"I don't see any parking along here. How are we going to have eyes on in order to know if they turn left or right?"

Powell smiled and pointed out the Piscine Henry de Montherlant across the street. "Public pool. We've got a hidden camera up on the roof. It allows us to monitor who comes and goes. You'll be parked about a block over. As soon as Elovik's car leaves, I'll let you know if he's headed north or south."

"What about CCTV cameras in the park? Are we going to have to be concerned about those?"

Powell shook his head. "The Bois de Boulogne is over two thousand acres. That's two and a half times the size of Central Park. They would need an army to watch that many cameras."

"So their answer is no cameras at all?"

"In the city proper, where they're worried about terrorism, they've grudgingly given way to more and more cameras. But out in the woods, on the edge of the city? It's highly unlikely that it would be a terrorist target, so they figure why bother?"

Harvath couldn't argue with that logic. Until AI had completely taken over and was watching everything, all the time, human-monitored cameras only made sense in areas where they were actually needed.

He supposed he should be grateful. Even New York City had invested in cameras for Central Park. Granted, they were placed strategically at entrances around the perimeter, but they were still there, always recording. And the software system the NYPD and the Department of Homeland Security used to tap into and analyze feeds from across the city was downright scary. It was like something out of a sci-fi movie. He didn't know how younger spies were going to be able to ply their trade in a few years.

The good thing about his Bois de Boulogne plan, however, was that even if he and his team were spotted, it wouldn't matter. They were going to be perfectly disguised.

Powell entered the park and, one by one, showed Harvath the three different bridges and the routes the military attaché and his bodyguards might take. Then they crossed the river and drove past Elovik's house in Suresnes. From there it was less than five klicks to the CIA safehouse in Nanterre.

When they arrived, Harvath was impressed. It was an old, out-of-business auto shop and looked like an absolute shithole.

The front of the property had a high, graffiti-covered wall, topped with barbed wire. Removing a remote from under his armrest, the station chief retracted the metal security gate, revealing a small outer parking area and a squat commercial building with three service bays.

"What do you think?" he asked, as the other two vehicles followed them in.

"I think you knocked it out of the park," Harvath replied.

"Good. There are a couple additional features that I'll show you once we get inside."

Climbing out of Powell's Citroen, Harvath took in the sight lines. They were in some sort of warehouse district and none of the structures were high enough to let anyone observe what they were up to. Once the front gate had closed, they were all but invisible to the outside world.

As the team got out and started unloading their gear, Harvath followed the station chief into the shop. It wasn't exactly the Ritz, but it didn't need to be.

Despite being old and run-down, it was at least clean. There was a closet-sized bathroom with a toilet and sink, a break room with a couch, table, small fridge, microwave, and coffeemaker, and a parts area that had been converted into sleeping quarters with several cheap bunk beds.

The pièce de résistance was down a narrow flight of stairs, beneath the shop. There the Agency had set up a makeshift interrogation chamber.

High-intensity construction lights, portable DJ speakers, a stainless-steel surgical table, ten-gallon water jugs, pulley systems mounted to the ceiling—they hadn't missed a thing. Right down to the lone metal chair in the center of the space—it was all there.

Opening a hard-sided Storm case, Powell revealed two video cameras, digital audio recorders, and several tripods to mount everything on.

"The entire structure is outfitted with high-speed, encrypted Wi-Fi," he said, handing Harvath a small piece of paper with the log-in and password.

"How many cameras are there?" Harvath asked. "Besides the three I saw outside."

The station chief led him to a small office off the interrogation chamber. Inside was a desk with a wide flat-screen monitor. Moving the mouse to wake it up, Powell tapped several keys saying, "Same password as the Wi-Fi, but in reverse." The screen then lit up with the feeds from all of the cameras.

"Nothing down here?" Harvath asked.

The CIA man shook his head. "None. You can turn any of the cameras on and off from this workstation."

"Backed up to the cloud?"

Powell nodded. "But we'll scrub everything when you guys are done."

Sure you will, Harvath thought to himself. They had already blackmailed him once. He didn't intend to give them another opportunity. "What about the vehicles?"

"Right this way," the station chief said, taking him back upstairs and into the service area.

Sitting there were two unmarked Renaults—a windowless panel van and a sedan. They were both painted in the deep navy blue popular with French law enforcement and security services.

"Go ahead," Powell encouraged him. "Take a closer look."

Since the van was closest, Harvath checked it out first. Sliding its side door open, he looked inside.

Everything was set up just the way he had requested. Moving around to the driver's side, he opened the door and tested the blue strobe lights mounted behind the grille, as well as a quick squawk from the Klaxon. Inside the enclosed space, it was ear-piercing.

Leaving the van, he walked over and checked out the sedan. "No strobes?" he asked, not seeing a switch.

"Gumball," Powell responded, referring to a single, spinning light that could be manually attached to the roof via its magnetic base. "The cops use them all the time in Paris. Very authentic. There's one on the trunk."

Harvath gave the sedan's Klaxon a quick blast, making sure that it was operational. It was. In fact, it sounded even louder than the one on the van.

"What about the raid vests?"

"Also in the trunk," said the station chief.

Walking to the rear of the car, Harvath popped the lid and looked inside. Next to the box containing the blue gumball were five tactical vests, all emblazoned with emblems from the Research and Intervention Brigade, or brI for short.

The brI was a highly specialized police tactical unit responsible for hostage rescue, as well as taking down France's most violent criminals. Except for their SWAT teams, it was a plainclothes unit, which spent most of its time hiding out among the public.

When it was time to spring into action, they donned balaclavas, the black tactical vests, and special police armbands, which Powell had also been able to secure. They carried their pistols in military-style thigh holsters worn right over their jeans.

Whether on TV, in movies, or the news, there wasn't a single French citizen who couldn't recognize the brI. Everyone knew that they meant business and not to get in their way. Even beat cops kept their distance, unless directly instructed to engage.

The station chief had delivered all the items on Harvath's wish list, right down to clean license plates.

"Anything else we can do for you?" the station chief asked.

"I think we're good," said Harvath, offering his hand. "Thank you."

Powell shook his hand and after handing over a couple of gate remotes said, "You know how to reach me if you need me. Here's hoping you don't. Good luck."

After the CIA man had left and the gate had closed, Harvath shut down all the cameras and set to work finding any others that Powell might have "forgotten" to mention. He also had his team scour the vehicles for hidden surveillance equipment, including tracking devices.

As they worked, he made contact with Nicholas and provided him remote access to the safehouse workstation, which could be used as a springboard into the CIA's cloud. He wasn't leaving any box unchecked when it came to covering his tracks.

Stepping back into the service area, he saw Mike Haney doing an inventory of everything in the van.

"All good?" Harvath asked.

Haney flashed him the thumbs-up.

Harvath checked in with the rest of the guys, making sure they all had what they needed. This was going to be an extremely dangerous, two-part assignment. And once it began, the clock would start racing against them.