Page 42 of Shadow of Doubt

CHAPTER 19

NICE, FRANCE

TUESDAY

Nice Côte d’Azur was the third-busiest airport in France, handling almost three million passengers a year. Even its glitzy VIP terminal experienced a constant churn of arriving and departing flights. It was the perfect place to go overlooked, which was exactly what Harvath wanted.

Grechko had put him in an untenable position. Dangling one of the people responsible for his wife’s murder, but refusing to give up that person until Harvath did something for him, left him with few options.

He also had Sølvi to consider. For her to be successful, she needed Grechko to be cooperative. And for him to be cooperative, he wanted Inessa to be “rescued.” The larger question, however, was whether that was what Inessa wanted. Harvath had his doubts.

Inessa Surkova was, to use the most charitable word available, a courtesan. She traded sex for money—and had done so on several occasions with Grechko. For his part, Grechko had not only willingly given her money, he had also fallen in love with her. He said she felt the same about him, which in Harvath’s experience was what most men who fell for hookers or strippers said. The fact that Grechko’s feelings might be unrequited wasn’t his problem.

His problem was putting the two of them together long enough for Grechko to make his case and then, if Inessa agreed, helping her disappear. A task that was going to be much easier said than done.

On top of all of this was Holidae Hayes, the CIA, and their threat toboth freeze him out of his off-the-books bank account and to come after him for taxes and penalties.

If he walked away from the account and never touched it again, there was zero chance they could ever tie him to it. But he had no intention of walking away from it. That money was his. He had more than earned it.

The irony that the money had come from a Russian oligarch in Antibes, only twenty kilometers down the coast from where they had just landed, was not lost on him. Nor was the fact that Inessa was being “kept” by a different Russian oligarch a mere twenty kilometers up the coast from where they now were, in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat.

In a different time and under different circumstances, it might have made interesting grist for a comedic opera, but neither Nikolai Nekrasov, who had previously put the largest bounty in history on Harvath’s head for killing his godson, nor mining oligarch Arkady Tsybulsky, who had installed Inessa as his mistress, were men to be trifled with.

Both were close friends of President Peshkov, exceedingly dangerous, and absolutely ruthless. They owed their fortunes and their positions in life to cold-blooded, cutthroat acumen and were driven by a thirst for power, lust, and greed.

Capable of incredible cruelty, they took pleasure in the suffering and misfortune of others. Harvath had no problem helping karma catch up with either of them. And, if he was able to help magnify their pain in the process, he was more than happy to do it.

After a brief discussion at the cottage in Norway, both he and Sølvi had agreed on what needed to be done. Once they had worked out the details, Harvath had contacted Holidae Hayes, who arrived an hour and a half later in a blacked-out Mercedes sprinter van with a small, heavily armed security team she had handpicked herself.

By 10 p.m., they were all tucked safely away inside the U.S. Embassy compound back in Oslo, the framework of their deal having been hammered out on their drive up.

Sølvi would remain in control of Grechko’s debriefing. Harvath and the Carlton Group would be in charge of security. The CIA would provide logistical support, including helping smuggle Grechko out of Norway, a safehouse in the South of France, clean passports, and any otheritems that might prove necessary. In exchange, the CIA would be allowed to remotely observe Grechko’s debriefing and ask questions via Sølvi.

While not perfect, it was the arrangement that offered the best possible outcomes for all involved.

As part of his mission planning, Harvath had asked Hayes to provide him with everything the Agency had on Arkady Tsybulsky, as well as satellite imagery of his estate on the tiny peninsula of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. He also asked for anything they could dig up on Inessa Surkova.

Overnight, Hayes set them up in a part of the compound where they wouldn’t be seen by any staff. One of the security team went out for Chinese food.

When it was time to turn in, Harvath and Sølvi were given an office together and Grechko got one across the hall. The rollaway beds Hayes had scared up weren’t the most comfortable in the world, but they were definitely better than army cots. Not that anyone much cared. They were all exhausted and fell asleep almost instantly.

The next morning, Hayes and her team accompanied the trio to the Oslo airport, where Chief Inspector Borger, the police officer who had previously escorted Harvath off his flight from Poland, was waiting for them in his car outside the private jet terminal.

Hayes exited the van and walked over to him. When he rolled down his window, she handed him three freshly minted U.S. passports. Rolling his window back up, he drove off to get everything processed. He hadn’t asked the passport holders to present themselves.

Once Borger had gone, Hayes texted the pilots of the jet that the CIA had coordinated. When the pilots texted back that they were ready for boarding, Hayes and her team escorted Harvath, Sølvi, and Grechko out to the plane.

Hayes waited on the tarmac for Borger to return with the passports. As soon as she had them in hand, she thanked the cop, headed up the airstairs, and delivered them to their new owners.

There wasn’t any prolonged goodbye. With their friendship having iced over, there wasn’t much to say. It was a business transaction and this current phase was complete. Hayes wished them good luck and, along with the security team, deplaned. They were on their own.

The flight from Oslo to Nice took just under three hours. The trio cleared customs and passport control in a private lounge at the Nice Côte d’Azur VIP terminal, much the same way as Harvath had when he first arrived in Norway. And as he had done then, he helped himself to a strong cup of coffee, some snacks, and all the packs of pain medication that were in the sundries drawer.

When he received a text that their ride was waiting out front, he gathered everybody up and they headed outside.

There, standing next to a black Audi S8, was one of his Carlton Group teammates, Mike Haney.

Like everybody else on the team, Haney was usually a wiseass—gallows humor being a prerequisite for their line of work. As ex–Special Forces operatives, the compulsion to make fun of each other, as well as the dangerous situations they found themselves in, had been developed early in their military careers and honed to perfection going forward.

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