Page 93 of Shadow of Doubt

Giving her one last kiss, Harvath went back upstairs, picked up his bag, and rallied his teammates.

He wanted this operation done with as soon as possible. It was a chapter from his life that needed to be welded shut. Once it was, he would be able to move on.

As much as he wasn’t looking forward to it, however, there was one consolation: he intended to fully vent his rage. He wasn’t going to stop until he had purged every last ounce of anger from his body. Consider it highly kinetic therapy.

Harvath was going to make this as painful for the Russians as possible.

CHAPTER 49

PARIS

It was late morning when they landed at the Paris Le Bourget Airport. A storm had just moved through and the wet tarmac looked like it had been slicked down for a movie scene.

They taxied for a few minutes before pulling into a large, private hangar. Waiting for them, alongside a convoy of three vehicles, was Ray Powell, the local CIA station chief.

“Welcome to Paris,” the man said, extending his hand as Harvath descended the jet’s airstairs.

He was a bit tweedy for Harvath’s taste, but knowing that it took all kinds to keep the Agency running, he reserved judgment and shook the man’s hand.

He briefly introduced the other team members and then oversaw the offloading of their gear.

Once everything had been loaded into the vehicles, Powell suggested Harvath ride with him, so he could be briefed on the rest of the intelligence he had requested.

As the station chief piloted the black Citroen C5 out of the airport and headed for the Périphérique road, he removed a folder and handed it to Harvath. “Here’s everything else we were able to pull together for you.”

Opening it, Harvath saw a picture of his target right up top. Colonel Vladimir Elovik was Russia’s military attaché to France. He operated out of the Russian Embassy in Paris’s westernmost arrondissement, the 16th, and lived just across the Seine in a suburb called Suresnes.

“Elovik travels with two FSB bodyguards. Per your question, hedoesn’t receive any protection beyond that, nor does he receive a police escort.”

“Good,” Harvath replied.

“We’ve got you set up at an Agency safehouse in Nanterre. It should have everything you need. If it doesn’t, you’ll have to improvise.”

“Roger that.”

“And a word to the wise,” said Powell. “My guys refer to that area as Transylvania. When night falls, you don’t want to be caught out wandering the streets if you know what I mean.”

Harvath nodded and continued to peruse the folder.

“The upside though,” the station chief continued, “is that the people in that neighborhood don’t care for the police. They mind their own business. As long as you and your team keep a low profile, nobody’s going to bother you.”

“Just the way we like it.”

“I’ve also included some satellite imagery. You’ll see I highlighted possible routes as well as suggested areas to engage the target.”

Harvath flipped to the main image and studied it. “Lot of places somebody could get lost in here.”

“Better to have them and not need them, right?”

“Exactly,” he responded. The tweedy chief was growing on him. “What about these three bridges you’ve marked?”

“Elovik’s most direct path home from the embassy is via the one in the middle. But we don’t know how competent his security detail is. Maybe they run surveillance detection routes and change things up every night, or maybe they don’t. You’re going to have to adapt on the fly.”

“Understood. What about the DGSI? I know the French rotate surveillance on Russian diplomats. Will there be a team on him tonight?”

“You guys are going to have to figure that out for yourselves,” said Powell. “This isn’t supposed to have any American fingerprints on it. For the sake of operational security, I haven’t pinged anyone—not even my most trusted DGSI contacts.”

Harvath appreciated his attention to detail. Powell was both smart and thorough.

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