Chapter 59

CHAPTER 59

The evening light slanted through the apartment windows and splayed across the floor, pushing back against the deepening shadows. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Like something out of a Michel Setboun photograph.

Ray Powell hated the idea of losing the apartment. But unless Harvath was found, and found soon, he would have no other choice. He would have to go on the run.

That was the only reason he had returned to his residence on the Rue des écoles. His cash, his fake passports, his Beretta pistol… all of it was kept in a safe under a false floor in his bedroom closet.

He had learned early on in his career that you never cached anything personal at the office—at least not anything you weren't prepared to walk away from. Tides could turn quite quickly, especially in the intelligence game. When they did, it paid to be prepared.

There were a half-dozen places he could flee to, none of which the CIA would ever suspect him of having contacts in—Argentina, Namibia, Angola, Oman, Vietnam, or Kyrgyzstan. Of course, the Russians would also take him, but it would come at a cost. He'd have to sing for his supper every day for the rest of his life.

After milking him dry of everything he knew, they would put him on a propaganda tour, weaponizing him back against the United States. All the while, he'd be living in state-run housing on an inconsistent, quasi-survivable stipend. No thanks.

Besides, he wasn't in this for the politics. He was in it for the money. He was at the pinnacle of his career. As station chief, he was the law in these parts. While he reported to CIA headquarters back in Langley, there was no one physically overseeing him. Simply put, things weren't going to get any better than they were right here, right now. This was the time to feather his nest.

That's why he had said yes to the Russians. He understood them. He understood not only what they wanted from him, but also what they needed. The Chinese, on the other hand, were too dull, the North Koreans too obnoxious, and the Iranians too fanatical. The Russians you could deal with —bang out all the details, get rip-roaring drunk together, and then be back to business again the next morning. They were nuts, but there tended to be a method to their madness.

Madness. It was a good word for what he was experiencing right now. He hadn't signed up to be operationally involved with the Russians. His job was to be on the lookout for intelligence that the Kremlin might find valuable and to pass said intelligence to them via his handler. That was it. End of story.

Now he had not only sent a covert American tactical team into an enemy ambush but was also about to help mount a secret enemy manhunt for the survivors.

It was insane, Wild West stuff—except that in this scenario, he was the rogue Indian helping the U.S. Cavalry hunt down members of his own tribe.

But true to his nature, Powell had made sure that he was being paid. Handsomely.

As soon as he learned American operatives were coming for Elovik, he had sold that information to the Russians at triple his usual rate.

Luring Harvath and his teammates into the ambush had brought another payday. But the Russians had drawn the line at forking over any further cash until the manhunt was successful.

They weren't stupid. The Kremlin and the Russian president himself had been after Harvath for years. Every time they thought they had him, he had slipped their grasp. Until his head was delivered to Moscow in a cooler, the Russians wouldn't part with another ruble.

What's more, Elovik and his superiors figured Powell had an even greater incentive than money to find Harvath—the preservation of his own skin.

Since the Russians had a healthy, professional respect for Harvath, the moment they heard their operatives had been slain in the failed Bois de Boulogne ambush, they knew that it was only a matter of time before Harvath realized who had betrayed him. It was in Powell's best interest to get to Harvath before Harvath could get to him. But time was running out.

Pulling his weekender bag from under his bed, he unzipped it and began packing enough to get him through the next several days—shirts, trousers… the works.

In the bathroom, he hurriedly stuffed his razor, toothbrush, and other assorted items into his dopp kit and then tossed it into his weekender.

After adding a heavy sweater, a sport coat, and an extra pair of shoes, he was ready to go. Zipping up the bag, he set it in the hall near the front door and returned to his closet.

Kneeling, he hooked his index fingers behind the false floor panel and popped it out, revealing a small, biometric safe underneath.

He placed his thumb over the sensor, the light went from red to green, and there was a click as the lock released and the lid opened.

There would be no time to sort through the contents. He would be taking all of it, right down to the gold coins and preloaded debit cards.

As he lifted the lid and reached for his pistol, his heart seized in his chest. The safe was empty.

But then he heard the hammer of his Beretta being cocked and things went from bad to much, much worse.

"Don't move," a voice said from behind. "Don't even fucking twitch."

Scot Harvath had gotten to him first.