Near Dark (Scot Harvath #20) - Brad Thor Page 0,114
violent in the IRA.”
“So we think these guys may be ex–guerrilla fighters?”
“At best.”
“And at worst?” Harvath asked.
“Ex–IRA hitters. Hard-core assassins with mountains of experience taking out political, military, civilian, and law enforcement targets. Not too far-fetched if you think about it.
“A truce has been signed, the walls were closing in, and there’s nothing left for them in Northern Ireland. Someone in Dublin, a sympathizer, can get them clean passports, which will allow them to start over somewhere else. Cullen jumps at the chance and goes to Boston, where he puts his skills to work for the Irish mob. Aubertin goes to France and ends up with the Foreign Legion. Like I said, not too far-fetched.”
It wasn’t too far-fetched at all, thought Harvath. “Do we know where Paul Aubertin lives?”
“That, I’m still working on. He is, though, registered as a Licensed Guide of France and promoted by the Federation of Guides of Normandy.”
“Wait. Our assassin is a fucking tour guide?”
“Unless he uses it as cover for something else, it would appear that way. His ratings are pretty solid. Four stars or above. Consistently.”
“How do we find him?” Harvath asked, knocking on the shared door between their rooms to wake Sølvi up.
“NormandyGuides.com has a profile on him. Unfortunately, he’s one of a handful of guides who never uploaded a personal photo.”
Harvath wasn’t surprised.
“There is, though, a contact feature. It looks like you can fill out a request and they’ll forward it to him.”
“Let’s do that. Make it look like it’s coming from anyplace other than the United States or Norway. Present it as a couple looking for a guide in the next day or two. Pick the tourism site he gets the best reviews for.”
“His specialty appears to be the D-Day beaches of Normandy, particularly Omaha and Utah, or the abbey of Mont-Saint-Michel.”
“Go with the D-Day beaches,” said Harvath, partial to America’s World War II connection to France. “Hopefully, he’ll take the bait, we can hire him as a guide, and set up a time and a place to meet.”
“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
CHÂTEAU 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