Brad Thor - Blowback

His address was listed as being in care of a hotel called the Carré de l’Ours, or the Skin of the Bear, somewhere in southeastern France. Harvath had never heard of the village before and had to look it up online. Once he found it, he also pulled up the SNCF web site and began scanning timetables for the next high-speed TGV train to Nice. He knew driving the distance would take way too long, and the last thing he wanted to do was hassle with airport security. At least traveling by train, he’d be able to quietly carry his gun along with him. In Nice, they could rent a car and drive north into the Alps for the rest of the trip to the village of Ristolas.

After they gathered their belongings and checked out of the hotel, they took a cab across town to the Gare de Lyon. Once their train was safely outside of Paris and well on its way to the south of France, Harvath finally felt comfortable enough to close his eyes and get a few hours’ sleep.

In Nice, they used Harvath’s Sam Guerin credentials to rent the last car the agency had available, a midnight blue Mercedes. It was well into the evening by the time they pulled across the old wooden bridge and into the tiny village of Ristolas. The three-story, barnlike Alpine hotel known as the Skin of the Bear was located just off the main street. A series of low stone walls surrounded the building and looked as if they might have once been used for grazing livestock. They parked their rental in the driveway and climbed the wooden steps to the hotel’s ornately carved front doors.

A large stone fireplace with books covering its mantelpiece anchored the deserted reception area inside. One book in particular caught Harvath’s attention, and he walked immediately over to it and took it down. It was an autographed first edition of John Prevas’s Hannibal Crosses the Alps. Harvath held it up for Jillian to see. She looked at it for a moment and then went back to studying the many photographs that covered the reception area’s walls. They appeared to be of different climbers who must have used the hotel as a base camp over the years. In each one, there was a big bear of a man whom Jillian assumed was the hotel’s owner as well as a mountain guide.

Harvath had come over to join her and was hoping to spot Rayburn in one of the photos, when a petite, gray-haired woman of about sixty, her face as craggy as the mountains in the photos, emerged from the kitchen and said, “Bon soir. Puis-je vous aider?”

“Bon soir,” replied Harvath. “Avez-vous une chambre?”

Wearing a white, lace-trimmed apron over a loose-fitting peasant’s smock, the experienced hotelier recognized Harvath’s accent and replied in perfect English, “You’re American.”

“Yes.”

“And British,” added Jillian.

“You’re on your honeymoon,” said the woman, raising her eyebrows conspiratorially. “I can always tell.”

For some reason, people often came to that conclusion when they saw Harvath with an attractive woman. He had no idea why. He figured he must have had a look about him that suggested he was perfect marriage material. He had learned the hard way, though, that at this point in his life, marriage or any kind of reasonable relationship was not in the cards for him. “No, we’re not here on our honeymoon. We came to climb. We’ve heard very good things about your hotel.”

“Really?” said the woman as she looked at the ground and smoothed the creases of her apron. “We don’t get many guests here anymore. Not since Bernard has gone.”

“Was Bernard your husband?” asked Jillian as she turned toward the photographs. “Is he the one I see in all of these?”

“Yes,” she said, managing a small smile. “Guests used to say they came for three things-Bernard, the climbing, and my cooking, in that order.”

“He sounds like he was very special.”

“He was. Everyone loved him.”

“What happened?” replied Harvath. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Bernard went climbing about a year ago and never came back.”

Tears began to form at the corners of the woman’s eyes, but she removed a tissue from her sleeve and quickly dabbed them away.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Jillian.

“It’s how he would have wanted to go,” responded the woman, “but you didn’t come to listen to the sad stories of an old woman. You came for a room. I have one available for fifty euros a night. I hope you don’t think it is too expensive, it’s just that-”

“No,” said Harvath, interrupting her with a smile. “Fifty euros is fine.”

“But we’ll need two rooms if possible, please,” Jillian added.

Definitely not on a honeymoon, Harvath thought to himself.

After unpacking his few belongings, Harvath walked downstairs for dinner. A small table had been set in the kitchen, and Marie, not expecting guests, apologized that all she had available was pottage. That didn’t bother Harvath. The temperature had dipped below freezing outside, and the weather was forecasted to get worse. It was a perfect night for soup. Actually, it was a perfect night for the fireplace, a good book, and a large glass of bourbon, but Harvath knew there was no way in hell that was going to happen.

As they ate their pottage, Marie explained that her husband, Bernard, had named the hotel the Carré de l’Ours after an old French saying, Don’t try to sell the skin of the bear until you have already gone out and killed it. She spoke fondly of him and of how Bernard had been born in Ristolas and had started hiking and climbing as soon as he could walk. Mount Viso and its surrounding mountains, valleys, and gorges had been his métier. The people of the village joked that his body had been formed from the mountain’s granite and that glacier water ran through his veins.

They still had a hard time believing that he had just gone off on a climb one day and never returned. Marie Lavoine had a hard time believing it too.

Without Bernard, the hotel had suffered. He had been the draw-the larger-than-life personality who organized and led top-of-the-line climbing and hiking trips throughout the area. Without him there anymore, even the most loyal clients began finding other guides and inns to stay at. When Bernard disappeared, it heralded the end of an era. It was obvious that Marie Lavoine had been struggling since his disappearance both emotionally and financially. As hard as it was going to be, Harvath decided it was time to address why they had come. “Marie, we need to ask you a question about one of your guests.”

“One of my guests? Who?”

“Elliot Burnham. An American.”

Lavoine looked up at the ceiling for a moment as if trying to recall the name and then back at Harvath. “I’m sorry, we usually received more Europeans than Americans, so you would think it would be easy for me to remember, but I’m sorry, I don’t.”

Harvath could see Marie Lavoine was lying to him. “Marie, this man is very dangerous. People have died because of him.”

At the mention that people had died because of Burnham, a sudden change came over her. Marie grew tense, and even Jillian could read it in the strained creases of her face. Lavoine’s small hands nervously twisted the napkin in her lap. “Who are you? Why are you asking me these questions?”

Jillian placed her hands atop the widow’s and tried to calm her. “Marie, your name, along with Elliot Burnham’s, was listed as the owner of a group of artifacts being authenticated for sale by Sotheby’s. Why is that?”

“I have no idea.”

It was there again, the tell. This time it was even more pronounced. Marie Lavoine was not a good liar. Harvath could see that she was on the edge of coming unraveled. “Marie, I can tell just by looking at you that you know who we’re talking about.”