Foreign Influence (15 page)

Before he could do anything, though, Fournier grabbed the open car door and slammed it into his side. Harvath had a rule about striking women, but was about ready to tear that page from his book.

The whole right-hand side of his body was on fire and five feet away, the bodyguard was struggling to stand.

Planting his left foot, Harvath exploded into the door with his shoulder and knocked Fournier backward with it. She lost her footing as she tripped over the bodyguard, and fell on top of him.

Harvath lunged for the Taser atop the dash and pulled the trigger. Because Fournier’s skin was in physical contact with her bodyguard’s, the electricity was transmitted to both of them and they got to “ride the bull,” as it was known, together.

The minute Fournier was incapacitated, Harvath removed a handful of Tuff Ties from his pocket and trussed her up tight. He did the same thing to the bodyguard. After removing the man’s fanny pack, he slapped pieces of duct tape over each of their mouths and placed hoods over each of their heads. Then he had to get them into the car.

Fournier had done a real number on him, and it was a lot harder moving the two of them than it normally would have been. The bodyguard was a pretty solid fellow and even though she didn’t have an ounce of fat on her, six feet of woman was a hell of a lot of sugar and spice to be moving right after the beating he had taken.

The bodyguard got dumped in the trunk and he laid Fournier down on the backseat and covered her with a blanket. He didn’t have far to go, but even out here in the middle of the countryside there was always the
possibility someone would see them. The last thing he wanted was to drive past some bicycling tour of Provence with the red-headed Amazon queen in plain sight, bound and gagged across the backseat.

For their destination, he had searched for something close that would allow him to work without being disturbed. After driving around yesterday, he had found it. The abandoned barn was only a few kilometers away from the ambush site. Though part of the roof was missing, all of the sides were still intact. It was well off the road and hadn’t been touched in decades. It was perfect.

He drove the Citroën directly into the barn, turned off the ignition, and then got out and closed the barn doors.

Leaving her hood on, he pulled Fournier off the backseat and then took her to a stool in the middle of the barn. He sat her down and gently dragged his knife blade across her midriff before placing it against her throat and telling her not to move.

With that, he walked back to the car and fished some gauze out of the first aid kit and shoved it into his nose to stop the bleeding.

After he’d had enough time to assess the rest of his injuries, he tuned in the Citroën’s radio and turned up the volume. The bodyguard didn’t need to hear what he and Fournier were about to talk about.

Next to the stool upon which she sat was a rickety old table. Upon it, Harvath had assembled several pictures Nicholas had e-mailed him. It was his hope that they would be all that was necessary to secure Fournier’s cooperation.

Removing the gauze from his nose, Harvath walked up behind the woman and snatched off her hood.

She was frightened and her eyes swept the barn as she tried to figure out where she was and what was going on. Harvath stepped into her field of view so that she could see him. When she did, the look of fear in her eyes turned to one of pure hate. She tried to say something but the duct tape made it impossible. Whatever it was, she was very animated about it and Harvath could imagine what it was she was saying.

“Shut up,” he replied.

Fournier ignored him.

Harvath walked back over to her, grabbed a fistful of her ponytail, and
jerked her head backward as he played the tip of his knife along her cheek just under her eye. “Don’t say another word,” he cautioned. “Look.”

Still holding her hair, he directed her attention to the photos laid out along the table. They were partially illuminated by a shaft of sunlight filtering in from the damaged roof above.

Harvath himself had trouble looking at the pictures. They had been chosen because of Fournier’s vanity. He had no desire to physically harm her. That said, he had no reservations about threatening the use of harm and leaning on her as hard as he could psychologically. He also knew that if it came to it, and he was left with no other choice, he would use violence against her if it meant preventing more Americans from being killed. But the person who would decide what ultimately came to pass was Fournier herself.

“Ms. Fournier, you are in the position you are right now because you tried to kill the wrong person,” he said.

Instantly, Fournier protested through the duct tape and began to shake her head.

“There’s no use denying it. The man you tried to kill has sent me to exact his revenge. Now, in front of you, you see the pictures of five women. The man who sent me suffered serious facial trauma because of your botched attack.

“He is not unreasonable and though I suggested he kill you and be done with it, he has decided to keep things fair. Each of the women you see on the table before you was disfigured in a very specific manner. Each attack was painful and caused grotesque disfigurement.

“My employer is willing to allow you to select the means by which you will be disfigured.”

Fournier began screaming behind the duct tape and shaking her head wildly. Tears streamed down her face as she looked at the photos depicting the results of torture by acid, knives, hammers, and other terrifying instruments.

“You need to make peace with it, Ms. Fournier. Undoubtedly your looks have served you very well in life. Shortly, you will become a monster and will have no choice but to hide your face from the world. I’m going to remove the tape from your mouth. Please choose your method.”

The moment Harvath pulled off the tape, Fournier began to negotiate with him. “Please,” she begged. “Don’t do this. I have money. I will pay you. I also have girls; lots of
beautiful
girls. They can all be yours.”

Harvath wasn’t finding her very attractive anymore.

“I could tell you liked me back on the road. I like you too. I can be yours if you want me.”

“I don’t want you,” he said. “I want payback for the man you tried to kill.”

“But I didn’t try to kill anyone!”

He smiled. “Yes, you did. Maybe not directly, but you used his trust in you, his loyalty, to place an assassin in his bed.”

A flash of recognition raced across Fournier’s face. It only lasted for a fraction of a second before it was gone. Harvath had seen it. It was called a microexpression and he had been taught to spot them years ago by the Secret Service.

“You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”

“No,” she replied, and the tell was visible again.

“Ms. Fournier, I have lunch in Nice and a flight back to Paris. Choose or I will choose for you,” he said, tapping the table with the edge of his knife.

“You don’t want money. You don’t want sex,” she sobbed. “What do you want?”

Harvath looked at her. “I told you, I want revenge. Revenge for the man you disfigured.”

“I had no choice!” she stated. “Besides, how was I supposed to know she would try to kill him?”

“Ms. Fournier, I’m giving you thirty seconds to choose.”

“I was forced to take her. I was told not to place her in the general catalog; only the one that was made available to him.”

Harvath walked several feet away and with his back to her asked, “Who are we talking about?”

“The dwarf, of course. It’s the little man who sent you, isn’t it?”

Harvath didn’t respond. “Who forced you?” he demanded as he turned back to face her.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Fine. First we’ll use the acid and then I will go to work on you with the knife.”

“No!” Fournier screamed. “No!”

“Then tell me,” he shouted. “Tell me right now who forced you. I will not ask you again.”

Fournier was silent and Harvath removed a bottle from his pocket and began unscrewing the top.

“Leveque! Gaston Leveque!” she cried.

“How did he force you?”

“One of my girls had been involved in smuggling a substantial amount of drugs into France. He was going to implicate me. I would have lost everything.”

She was lying. Harvath could see it in her face. “You’re not telling me the truth,” he said.

Fournier hung her head and was quiet again. Finally, she said, “I have a child, a little boy. His name is David. He’s eight years old. He was in a private boarding school outside Paris.”

“Was?”

“Leveque found him and kidnapped him. He told me I would never see my boy again unless I did what he asked. He said if I told anyone he would kill me and David both.”

Fournier then broke down sobbing.

“Where is your son now?”

“Back with my mother in Toulouse.”

“And this Leveque?”

Fournier tried to stop crying. “Antibes.”

CHAPTER 20
 

H
OTEL DU
C
AP
-E
DEN
-R
OC
A
NTIBES

The only thing Harvath disliked more than Russian Communists was the Russian mafia, and the Côte d’Azur was lousy with them. What once was a tasteful European summer playground was now choked with bulletproof Hummers, women overinjected with silicone, and men wearing so much gold jewelry that no matter what direction they faced when sitting down in the cafés, they always ended up pointing magnetic north.

They were as gaudy as the Saudis and had bought up much of this stretch of the French coast. Even the Russian president was rumored to have a villa here. They did what they pleased and even handled crime in their own special way. To wit, when the home of a rich Russian gangster had been burgled, he sent his own leg breakers in every direction to crack heads until they found the perpetrators.

Once the Mafioso’s goods had been recovered, he loaded the two thieves into his helicopter, flew it out over the Mediterranean, and shoved them out. The French police never even lifted a finger.

For years, the center of Russian gravity was the exclusive Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc. Its owners were more than happy to suck up the Russians’
ill-gotten gains, and once they found themselves to be the hotel of choice, they began ratcheting up their prices. Not only was it a license to print money, they found that the more expensive they were, the more popular they became. As their clientele rarely used credit cards, they abolished their use at the hotel completely. Instead, armored cars came three times a day to carry away the money to the bank.

Finally, a big-time Russian billionaire, with plenty of notorious connections to the Russian mob, made the owners an offer they couldn’t refuse, and the hotel was sold. A subtle sign that the economy was catching up even with the Russians came when the hotel quietly reinstituted credit cards.

Despite the global economic hardships affecting the hotel’s clientele, it was still comfortably booked throughout the summer months. Harvath was less than ten minutes away when Nicholas called to inform him that he had finally managed a reservation.

When he pulled the black Porsche Panamera Turbo he had rented in Cannes up to the hotel’s front doors, his $135,000 sports car was the least expensive vehicle by far. He counted three Maybach Landaulets, two Bugatti Veyrons, an SSC Ultimate Aero, a Leblanc Mirabeau, a Pagani Zonda Cinque Roadster, a Lamborghini Reventon, and a Koenigsegg CCXR. It was easily twenty million dollars of exotic cars right there. Knowing the Russians, they all probably belonged to one man.

Harvath tipped the valet and followed the bellman inside. The lobby was full of fresh-cut flowers and potted palms. It was bright and elegantly furnished. Its high ceilings and soaring white columns bounced back the sunlight that streamed in through the porticos and open French doors. It wasn’t at all garish and Harvath put a check in the billionaire owner’s column for having the good sense not to mess with a good thing.

After the front-desk clerk had checked him in, Harvath sent the bellman on to his room with his bag. He had a stop to make before going upstairs.

Behind the concierge desk was an average-looking man of medium height and thin build in his late fifties. He had a long Gaelic nose upon which were perched a pair of trendy designer glasses. Affixed to his perfectly pressed uniform was the prestigious
clefs d’or
, or crossed keys of gold,
marking him as a member of the top concierge society in the world. Beneath the
clefs d’or
was a name tag which read “Leveque.”

“May I help you, sir?” the concierge asked as he saw Harvath approach.

Harvath smiled. “I hope so,” he said, removing a stack of bills, counting off a thousand dollars, and sliding it across the counter to the man. “I’m going to need some dinner reservations while I’m here, and I also would like to charter a yacht.”

“Absolutely, sir. Where would you like to eat?”

It was all Harvath could do not to reach out and throttle the man right there. If only half of what Dominique Fournier had told him about Leveque was true, it would be too much. He was a fixer for the Russians. Whatever they wanted, he got for them: drugs, underage children for sex, you name it. Fournier used to arrange liaisons for the wealthy guests of the Hotel du Cap, but had stopped. She claimed the Russians drank too heavily and when they did they beat her girls mercilessly. Add to that the fact that Leveque trafficked in children for prostitution and Fournier had severed all ties with him—at least until he had orchestrated the kidnapping of her son.