Near Dark (Scot Harvath #20) - Brad Thor Page 0,118
in French, before he handed Harvath the wine list and said, “Something to drink?”
“I’m driving, but what about you, darling?” he said to Sølvi.
Sølvi looked at Dominique. “You won’t make me drink alone, will you?”
The Frenchwoman smiled. “My next tour starts here, so luckily, I’m not driving. Yes, I’ll join you.”
“Red or white?” asked Sølvi, as Harvath handed her the wine list.
“C’est à vous. It’s your decision.”
“Champagne then,” she said, showing the manager which vintage she wanted before surrendering the wine list and watching him scurry off to fetch the bottle.
“It’s good to be on holiday,” said Dominique. “I like your style.”
Sølvi smiled. “I’m a lucky woman. Thanks to my husband, we have a very rich uncle.”
Harvath couldn’t wait to get the bill for this operation from the Norwegians. It was going to be off the charts. And Lawlor was going to wring his neck.
But by using Sølvi’s alias and her credit cards, she was helping to further insulate him from the one-hundred-million-dollar bounty on his head.
When the manager returned, he walked right up to Sølvi, bowed deeply, and presented a bottle with his apologies. “We are out of the 2011, but I would like to offer you a bottle of the 2009 for the same price. It is an exceptional vintage.”
She looked at Harvath, mouthed the word upgrade, then turned back to the manager and replied, “That is so kind of you. Thank you. We’ll take it.”
“Our uncle will be so happy that you’re happy,” said Harvath.
Sølvi winked at him and then turned her attention to Dominique.
Despite how loquacious the guide had been, she hadn’t wanted to talk about Aubertin at all. No matter how subtly Harvath and Sølvi had tried to bring him up, she had changed the subject. She wasn’t just a charmer, she was also a hell of a saleswoman—and she wanted to keep these clients all to herself.
The consummate intelligence officer, Sølvi plied her with the expensive champagne, making sure her glass remained full. She also asked a bunch of personal questions, including requests to see pictures of the woman’s grandchildren, her dog, and her last vacation.
Each time she did, she caught Harvath’s attention and signaled with her eyes for him to pay attention as the woman entered the passcode into her iPhone.
At first, he didn’t understand what Sølvi was asking him to do, but finally—feeling like an idiot—he got it. But what good was a passcode without the phone?
He was about to find out.
After having downed a couple of glasses of champagne, Sølvi suggested that she and Dominique visit the ladies’ room. The lovely Frenchwoman agreed.
As they got up and slung their purses over their shoulders, Sølvi feigned having trouble with her balance, but Dominique saved her from an embarrassing tumble.
Thanking her, Sølvi remarked, “Apparently, the 2009 goes right to your legs.”
“If only the 2009 could give me legs like yours,” said the Frenchwoman, “I’d buy it by the vineyard.”
Sølvi smiled. “My husband is going to give you a great tip. You know that, right?”
Dominique smiled back.
“Speaking of which,” Sølvi added, as she came around the table and planted a kiss on Harvath. “Don’t go falling in love with anyone else while I’m gone.”
“Never,” he said, a bit shocked. “Not unless the Norwegian women’s volleyball team walks in.”
“Norwegian girls,” she replied, putting her arm around the Frenchwoman and walking toward the ladies’ room. “He’s obsessed. Sometimes, it seems that’s all he ever talks about.”
As they walked away, he looked down at what Sølvi had pressed into his hand while giving him that kiss. The Norwegian ninja had struck again. It was the cell phone she had lifted from Dominique’s purse.
CHAPTER 47
By the time the ladies had returned to the table, a little man halfway around the world had been set loose on one of the most important missions of his life.
Ever the gentleman, Harvath stood up to pull out each of the women’s chairs. As he helped the Frenchwoman to be seated, he asked, “Dominique, is that yours?”
Following his eyes, she saw her phone lying on the floor, under the table. Before she could pick it up, he had already bent down and retrieved it.
“My goodness,” she said, as he handed it to her. “Thank you. I didn’t even know I had dropped it. Perhaps, I’ve had too much champagne.”
“You can never have too much champagne,” Sølvi confided.
“You can if it’s a workday,” Dominique replied pleasantly, waving the manager over. “Shall we order some lunch?”
La Mère Poulard was known for making the most famous