Brad Thor - Foreign Influence

SPAIN

The out-of-the-way route Harvath had chosen meant that it was well after midnight when he drove into the village of Ezkutatu. Like many of the villages he had driven through since entering the Pyrenees Mountain Range, Ezkutatu was composed of rugged, squat buildings made of stone. Its highest point was the steeple of the local Catholic church.

With its tiny, storybook-like railway station, it was as if he had driven back in time. Clear the cars from the streets, and the village would look no different now than it had over a hundred years ago.

Pushing further into the heart of Ezkutatu he came upon its cobblestoned, communal square. According to the route that had been planned for him on the GPS, this was his final destination. He would have liked to have done some reconnaissance, but the village was built along the side of a mountain with only one road in and one road out.

Against the lights illuminating the church facade he saw the silhouette of a man in a long, dark coat. As he slowed the Peugeot, the man began walking toward him. Harvath balanced the sawed-off shotgun on his lap; his finger on the trigger. He had no idea who the man was and didn’t like that he had apparently been waiting for him.

When he got within forty yards of the church, he realized that the figure was not dressed in a long coat, but rather the vestments, or soutane, of a Catholic priest.

Harvath brought the Peugeot to a stop on an angle, powered down the passenger window, and raising the sawed-off said, “That’s far enough, Father. Let me see your hands, please.”

The figure lifted his hands into the air, but kept walking forward. Harvath gripped the weapon tighter and aimed for center mass. Though they couldn’t have looked more dissimilar, the man’s flowing garb reminded him of the robes worn by many Muslim imams and he had learned the hard way how well the costume lent itself to secreting weapons and psychologically disarming opponents.

“That’s far enough,” he repeated. The man was within ten feet of the vehicle and Harvath could now make him out. He looked to be about the same age as him, with dark hair and a clean-shaven face. He held himself ramrod straight, almost military-like, as if he were undergoing an inspection. And while he projected a serene countenance, he was not like any priest Harvath had ever seen before. Something about his eyes put him on edge.

“You seem to be carrying a lot of weight in your trunk,” said the priest. “Should I be preparing to hold funerals tomorrow, or can we release those two men and let them return to their warm beds and families?”

Harvath recognized the man’s voice from the phone call two days ago in Virginia. “That depends. Why were they following me?”

“To protect you.”

“To protect me? From whom?”

“From whoever tried to kill Nicholas,” said the priest.

“These are Nicholas’s men?”

“No, I sent them.”

“Funny, they didn’t strike me as altar boy types.”

“Mr. Harvath, it’s late. I’m tired, and because you changed the route those men are long overdue at home.”

“Hold it a second,” replied Harvath. “How do you know what route I took?”

“You’re driving a vehicle that belongs to the Basque Separatist organization, ETA. I have been receiving updates on your progress ever since you entered the foothills from the opposite direction from the one I programmed into the GPS device we left for you.

“Now, in the trunk of your vehicle you have the cousin and brother-in-law of one of the district commanders. For your sake and mine, I hope that they’re still alive.”

“They are.”

“Good. The sooner you let them go, the sooner they can report in and the sooner the men of this district can stand down and we all can get some sleep.”

Harvath lowered the shotgun and stepped out of the car. He scanned the buildings around the square and wondered how many pairs of eyes they had on them at the moment.

“So this is ETA country?” he said as he met the priest at the trunk.

“Practically the epicenter,” replied the man. “Once we take care of this, I have a bed and food waiting for you.”

“I’d like to see Nicholas first.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. It’s too dangerous. We’ll leave in the morning.”

“Where is he?”

The man smiled. “You expected us to keep him here in the village? Please, Mr. Harvath. You may not find us very sophisticated, but we’re not amateurs.”

“That’s good to know,” said Harvath as he lifted the lid of the trunk and revealed the two Basque men hog-tied inside. “Because if you had sent amateurs, I would have been insulted.”

The embarrassed priest produced a Basque Yatagan and cut the men loose. Both glared at Harvath as they climbed out of the trunk and massaged their stiff limbs. Though he didn’t speak Basque, he had no problem interpreting the priest’s remarks as he chastised the men and sent them home.

Once they had driven off, the priest formally introduced himself. “I am Padre Peio.”

Harvath shook his outstretched hand. The man had an unusually strong grip.

“I have a car nearby if you’re ready.”

Harvath nodded and quietly followed the priest down a small street to a battered Land Cruiser. “Would you like to place your bag in the back?” the man asked as he opened Harvath’s door for him.

“No thank you, Padre. I think I’ll keep it with me.”

The priest gave a slight nod as he walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in. Though it was an older vehicle, the inside was meticulously kept and the engine instantly sprang to life. Harvath closed his door, and Padre Peio pulled away from the curb and piloted the Land Cruiser out of the village.

“I’m sure you have many questions,” said the priest.

“One or two,” admitted Harvath.

“Well, when I take you to Nicholas in the morning, I’m sure he’ll be happy to answer them for you.”

“Who are you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t mind. I’m just a priest. A friend of Nicholas.”

Harvath doubted that was the long and the short of it, but changed the subject anyway. “Does he know who attacked him?”

The priest took a moment to find his words. “It is a delicate matter, Mr. Harvath, and I think it would be better if he explained it to you himself.”

It was obvious he knew the answer to the question, but he wasn’t going to give it up. “Let me rephrase my question. Is the person who attacked Nicholas still alive?”

“No, dead.”

“Who killed him?”

“It wasn’t a he, it was a she, and the dogs killed her.”

“Nicholas was attacked by a woman?”

The priest downshifted as the road began to climb. “According to what he told me, she was a very patient assassin. She bided her time; worked on gaining his trust. She even got him to remove the dogs to another room. That is when she struck.”

“Then how did the dogs kill her?”

“They heard his screaming and broke through the heavy oak door of his bedroom. She was mauled to death and they tore her throat out. There was blood everywhere.”

“Didn’t Nicholas have any security?”

“No one was supposed to know he was here.”

It was a subtle, disapproving tone that Harvath picked up on. “He invited her, didn’t he?”

“Mr. Harvath,” said the priest, returning to his previous posture, “I think it’s best if you discuss these things with Nicholas.”

Harvath watched as the headlights bounced off of large rocks and thick-trunked trees. He wanted more answers. “Are you a priest, or is that just a cover?”