Near Dark (Scot Harvath #20) - Brad Thor Page 0,53
up and soothe their wounded egos by claiming that if it wasn’t for the old lady calling the cops, they would have finished off the Arab and left him in a bloody heap.
And so, like a murmuration of starlings, they turned together and fled down a narrow alley.
Discretion being the better part of valor, the Arab turned in the opposite direction, and ran as well.
To Nikolai’s amusement, he was headed right toward him. Rolling down the Bentley’s window, the Russian beckoned the boy over.
Wary of the myriad of wealthy sexual predators who trolled the Riviera, the teen approached the expensive car cautiously.
“That was quite impressive,” said Nekrasov. “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
“From my brother,” the young Arab said, the pride evident in his voice.
“Sounds like someone I might be interested in hiring. Where can I find him?”
“Clairvaux.”
Nekrasov knew the high-security prison well. Russian anarchist Peter Kropotkin—who had helped to establish socialism in France—had been housed there, as well as the international terrorist Carlos the Jackal. It was not a nice place and was reserved for some of the most serious criminals in France.
“What does your father do?” the Russian asked.
“He’s dead.”
“Your mother?”
“She cleans the houses of rich people like you.”
Nekrasov smiled. The boy was fearless and also highly intelligent. He reminded him of himself at that age.
“Do you work? Go to school?”
The teen shrugged. “Work, yes. School, sometimes.”
“Do you want a better job?” the Russian asked.
“You don’t even know what I do.”
“I don’t care. I’m giving you one chance. Take it or leave it. Do you want a better job?”
The young man nodded.
Removing his business card, Nekrasov wrote something on the back. “What’s your name?”
“Beni.”
“Come by the hotel Friday,” he said as he handed the card out the window. “You’re not a guest, so make sure to use the service entrance.”
It wasn’t meant as an insult and Beni didn’t take it as such. Rich people, in his experience, were simply direct.
Pocketing the card, he stepped back as the man gave a command in Russian and the driver pulled away from the curb.
He stood watching until the huge car turned a corner and disappeared from view. Then he did the same, calmly making his way down the nearest side street. He doubted the cops were coming. If they had actually been on their way, he would have already begun hearing the staccato, high-pitched wail of their klaxons. Besides, they had better things to do than break up groups of teenagers fighting. Nice was awash in drugs, gambling, human trafficking, and organized crime—industries he suspected his new benefactor was all too familiar with.
In the back of the Bentley, Nekrasov’s thoughts should have returned to Eva and her oncology appointment. But they didn’t. Instead, his mind was focused on a bigger problem.
He had fronted one hundred million dollars to activate the most lucrative murder-for-hire contract in history. His assumption had been that by opening it up to multiple assassins, the rush would be on to kill the target as quickly as possible and be the first to claim the prize.
The contract, though, was still open. The target had yet to be taken out. He was not happy. In fact, the more he thought about it, the angrier he became.
By the time Valery had brought the Bentley to a stop in front of the Centre Antoine Lacassagne, Nekrasov knew what he had to do.
It was time to start letting people know what would happen if he didn’t soon see results.
CHAPTER 20
VILNIUS, LITHUANIA
Sølvi Kolstad hadn’t been to the Baltics in a long time—and for good reason. The last time she’d run an operation here, she had almost been killed.
It should have been easy. A foreign diplomat, with information valuable to Norway, wanted to make a trade. In exchange for a list of Norwegian diplomats who were actively being recruited by his government’s intelligence service, the man wanted to be smuggled out of Lithuania, along with his family, and given a new life in Norway.
Carl Pedersen had put Sølvi in charge. It had been her first major operation and from the word go, everything had gone wrong.
For starters, the diplomat was a sexist. He had refused to work with a woman, especially one who, at the time, appeared so young and inexperienced. As soon as Sølvi was introduced as his handler, he had threatened to call off the deal.
“You dictate the terms of the relationship,” Carl had instructed her, “or they do. You never want it to be them. Always make sure it’s you.”