Page 105 of Shadow of Doubt

Staelin scrubbed in, ready to assist with either patient, or both if need be. Preisler left to dispose of the SUV, as well as the BRI raid vests. Harvath familiarized himself with the building, including possible evacuation routes in case the team had to leave in a hurry. If it came to that, which he prayed it wouldn’t, they were going to be well and totally screwed. Neither Haney nor Johnson could be safely moved at this point.

It had been hours since Harvath had had any pain meds and, finding a water cooler, he poured himself a cup and swallowed the last two from his pocket. He made a note to get a few more from Jourdain before they left. With the little bit Nicholas had revealed, he had a feeling the doctor would let him have anything he wanted.

After taking his meds, he checked back in on his injured teammates. Johnson’s situation had been deemed the most urgent, so Jourdain had taken him right into surgery. Haney was stabilized, given three units of blood, and now was being prepped as the next up.

When Harvath stuck his head into his room, Haney reminded him, “This is the second time you’ve gotten me shot.”

The first time was in North Africa. It was hard to believe that it had only been a couple of years ago. So much had happened since then.

“Well,” Harvath replied. “Third time’s always the charm.”

Haney gave him the finger and turned his attention back to the nurse who was helping to get him ready.

With Johnson in surgery and Haney soon to follow, there wasn’t much Harvath could do. Walking down the hall to Jourdain’s office, he made himself comfortable.

In a small cabinet, he found that the doctor had a well-curated liquor collection. He must have known someone in the business because he not only had a bottle of Blanton’s, but also a bottle of Colonel Taylor. They were both excellent bourbons. Harvath poured himself two fingers of the Colonel Taylor and sat down on Jourdain’s couch.

Pulling out the Russian diplomatic passports, he photographed each one and sent them to Nicholas. He didn’t know if they would be helpful or not. That wasn’t his department. Shortly after sending them, his phone rang.

“How are the guys doing?” Nicholas asked.

“Johnson’s in surgery. Haney’s up next, but they think they can do him under local anesthetic.”

“You know this is the second time you’ve gotten him shot.”

“It’s like a frickin’ conspiracy with you guys,” said Harvath. “For the record, Mike got shot byterroristsin North Africa andRussiansin France. Neither was my fault. He’s a bullet magnet.”

“Speaking of fault,” the little man replied, changing the subject. “Are you sure you want to go after Powell?”

“He set us up. He got two of my guys shot. I’m more than sure.”

“Okay. I’m going to text you the address of his apartment. Anything that happens after that is up to you.”

“Understood,” said Harvath.

“You’re still going after Elovik, though, right?”

“Absolutely. But first Powell. We can’t trust anything he’s told us thus far. I want to apply some pressure and make sure we’re getting the truth.”

“How much pressure?” asked Nicholas.

“That’ll be up to Powell. If he cooperates, it’ll go quickly.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“If he doesn’t…” Harvath said, pausing. “It’s going to be very long, very painful, and he’ll spend every second wishing it was over.”

CHAPTER 59

The evening light slanted through the apartment windows and splayed across the floor, pushing back against the deepening shadows. It was perfect.Absolutelyperfect. 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.

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