Chapter 65

CHAPTER 65

As Elovik exited his vehicle, his eyes took in everything, especially the multiple customers sitting outside the café. Among them, three men and two women looked like they might be pros, but he couldn't be sure. In scenarios like this, he was always hypervigilant. As a result, his overactive mind could perceive threats that weren't necessarily there. It was a weakness, to be sure, but it had also helped keep him alive for a very long time.

Joining his counterpart at the small, marble-topped table, he stated, "I don't like this, Ray. Our current circumstances are quite undesirable. This was not how I wanted things to unfold."

"I didn't either," Powell admitted, scanning the pavement. "Believe me."

There had been two other men in Elovik's vehicle, neither of whom had gotten out. Instead the car had rolled forward and pulled into a nearby loading zone, where it was currently idling. The other vehicle, the one that had twice circled the café, was nowhere to be seen.

"All the way over here," Elovik continued, "I was tempted to pull the plug and tell my men to turn around."

"Yet you didn't."

"My government would have been most displeased with me if I had. Particularly, my president. The opportunity to capture his son's killer has quite an allure. Not the least of which is the opportunity to be recognized as a Hero of the Russian Federation."

Even before being ensnared by Harvath and pressed into service, this kind of banter had never appealed to Powell. There was no reason to act like he enjoyed it now. "Where's the money?"

"Right to the point," Elovik replied. "How American of you."

"I'm sorry. Did you expect drinks first?"

"A drink wouldn't hurt. It would give us something to do while my men confirm the authenticity of your information."

"Fine," Powell relented. "Anything but vodka."

Snapping his fingers, Elovik got the waiter's attention and waved him over. "As a rule, I don't like to celebrate before a job is done. But for some reason, I feel extra confident tonight. Let's have champagne."

"Order whatever you like. You're buying."

After a little back-and-forth with the waiter about the wine list, the Russian settled on a vintage and the waiter headed inside to retrieve two glasses.

While they waited, Elovik probed what had happened in the Bois de Boulogne. "Six dead Russians and only three dead Americans. Seems somewhat disproportionate, doesn't it?"

"I warned you," Powell replied. "The Americans were all ex–Special Forces. A couple of them were even Tier One operators."

"Which was why I sent some of my best."

"Well, apparently your best weren't good enough."

"Good enough to take out three of yours," Elovik responded with a smile.

"If, at any point, you want to say ‘thank you,' feel free to just spit it out. If it wasn't for me, you never would have seen Harvath coming."

"My dear Ray. We did thank you. One hundred and fifty thousand times. And you're about to get three hundred thousand more. Perhaps it is you who owe us some thanks."

Powell shook his head. "This is the problem with Russian economics. To you guys, hundreds of thousands of dollars are like winning the world's biggest lottery. You think you can retire and maybe, in Russia, four hundred and fifty sets you up for the rest of your life. But in American economics, four fifty is nothing but a really good year."

Elovik smiled. "Who said anything about retiring? We expect you to have a long, deeply involved career at the CIA. In fact, we're going to help get you to deputy director. That's when you'll really begin making money."

The station chief, not a fan of being bullied, was choking back the urge to tell his handler to fuck right off when the waiter appeared with two glasses of champagne and set them on the table.

"Santé," the Russian said in French, picking his up and clinking it against Powell's. To health.

The station chief didn't respond in kind. Instead he raised his glass in the attaché's direction and took a long, smooth sip.

It was a decent champagne, made even more delicious to Powell by the fact that his handler actually thought he had something worth celebrating.

"Well," Elovik stated, setting his glass down. "Now that we have our drinks, I think it's time that you give me what I came for."

Removing a cocktail napkin from his pocket, the station chief placed it on the table and slid it across to him.

"You've got to be kidding me," the Russian replied, picking his head up and looking across the street at the building that housed the Clinique Saint-Raphael. "I thought you chose this neighborhood because it was off the beaten U.S. Embassy path, or you had a safehouse around here or something. That's where Harvath is? Right now?"

"My hand to God," Powell replied, not raising his hand.

"Who else is in there?"

"Patient-wise? Only Harvath and one of his teammates. I don't know how many staff. Probably pretty sparse. One nurse. Maybe two? It's the overnight shift."

"How did Harvath find this place? He didn't get it from you, did he?"

The station chief shook his head. "I haven't heard from him since I dropped him off at the safehouse. From what I understand, his own organization kept working with the surgeon who runs the place after we fired him. Sometimes the intelligence world is small."

"Quite," Elovik agreed. "Do you know anything about the building? Service elevators? Stairwells? Airshafts?"

"Not part of my purview. Our security guys handle that stuff. I just made sure the bills were paid."

"Understandable," the Russian replied as he pulled out his phone and took a picture of the cocktail napkin with the address written upon it. Typing out a quick text message, he attached the photo and hit send.

"Now what?" Powell asked.

Sitting back in his chair and raising his glass, Elovik said, "Now we enjoy our champagne."