Page 124 of Shadow of Doubt

Popping two packets of pain meds, he carried his bottle of water to the first chair he saw and, exhausted, dropped into it.

As the forward door closed, he could hear the engines spinning up. Pulling out his phone he texted Staelin for a SITREP.

It had been decided that Haney and Johnson should remain behind to convalesce. Once they were both ready to travel, a plane would be sent to bring them back to the United States. Until that time, Staelin and Preisler were in charge of their protection.

When Harvath’s phone chimed with a response that everything was good, he gave permission to release Powell, tilted back his seat, and closed his eyes.

Hayes hadn’t been kidding. He had an incredibly long night still in front of him. As he fell into what would be a very short sleep, the last thing his mind pinged off before going silent was that if his story was ever written, how might he be remembered?

CHAPTER 72

PARIS

Scot Harvath was an asshole.That was the first thought that had gone through Ray Powell’s mind when he was released from the trunk of his Citroen.

He had been left by the side of the road, two klicks away from the nearest suburban train station, with only his house keys and a ten-euro note in his pocket.

Technically, Harvath had kept his word, but only just barely. Powell, for whatever reason, had expected more.

At the very least, he had expected Harvath, upon his release, to give him back his false passports. And maybe, if Harvath was a halfway-decent human being, to also hand over the rest of the contents of the safe from his bedroom closet. Minus the gun, of course.

To his credit, Harvath, in his own sadistic way, had done just that, but not without making Powell jump through a few more flaming hoops.

Instead of allowing the CIA man to begin his life on the run by heading for the closest airport or seaport, Harvath had made it so that the station chief needed to return to his apartment in the center of Paris.

There, Harvath had informed him, wrapped in a garbage bag and tucked in his freezer, was everything Harvath had pulled from his safe. Minus the gun, of course.

Without his phone, there was no one Powell could call for help. The emergency numbers that field operatives were required to memorize were useless. There was no way he could phone the embassy or Langley for assistance. He was completely and totally on his own.

Taking the first available RER train, he had then transferred to the Métro, changing lines twice before resurfacing two blocks from his apartment.

He was burning extremely valuable time. If Harvath or, God forbid, the Russians were looking to screw him, resurfacing in Paris was the absolute last thing he wanted to do. In fact, part of him wondered if the journey was even worth it.

That was his self-preservation instinct talking. When his professional instincts kicked in, he knew the contents of that bag in his freezer were indispensable. Passports, cash, gold coins, and debit cards were crucial to his ability to disappear. Only once he was safely ensconced in another country could he partially let down his guard, breathe a little easier, and begin accessing the money he had hidden away in his multiple international bank accounts.

Walking up to his building, he maintained his vigilance, covertly keeping his eyes peeled for any signs of surveillance. Per his training, he had conducted multiple surveillance detection routes since boarding the RER. He had scanned every face on the Métro, had changed carriages multiple times, and had gone so far as to take the long way home once exiting the subway system. To his relief, he hadn’t seen anything.

Entering his building, Powell couldn’t be bothered to wait for the elevator. Instead he bounded up the stairs, taking them two and even three at a time.

When he arrived at his floor, he moved down the hall comforted by the fact that he didn’t need to waste time packing. Prior to Harvath’s arrival, his weekender bag had been fully prepped.

At his front door, he pulled out his keys, opened it wide, and hurried inside. His bag was right there where he’d left it. All he needed was the garbage bag fucking Harvath had shoved in his freezer.

Charging into the kitchen, he threw open the freezer, fully expecting to see it, but it wasn’t there.

He was about to curse Harvath out when a woman’s voice from the living room said, “Looking for this?”

Powell spun to see both Brunelle and Gibert sitting there, a garbage bag between them on the coffee table.

“God damn it,” the station chief swore, pissed beyond measure that his apartment had been breached twice in one night.

“Raymond Alan Powell,” Brunelle continued, reading the arrest warrant that had been signed off on by her boss, Director General Audrey de Vasselot, “By the power vested in me by the Republic of France, I hereby place you under arrest in connection with the killing of Jean-Jacques Jadot.”

Pausing briefly, Brunelle then added, “We also want to discuss your possible involvement in the death of France’s ambassador to Beirut.”

The station chief looked at the bag on the table, looked at Brunelle, and then looked at Gibert.

For a fraction of a second, Powell weighed his options. But no sooner had he started thumbing his mental scale than he knew what he had to do.

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