Free Foreign Influence by Brad Thor Page B

I’ll keep it under a hundred bucks. So do we have a deal?”
    Vaughan didn’t need to negotiate with him. If Davidson could deliver, and do it that quickly, it would be worth ten times the amount. “You’ve got a deal.”
    He gave him the rest of his contact details and asked, “When can you start?”
    “How about right now?”
    “Are you serious?”
    “Of course not,” said Davidson. “I’m on vacation. I’ll call you when I get back to the city.”
    Vaughan said good-bye and set the phone down on the table. Davidson reminded him of a cocksure young Marine he’d gone into Tikrit with. Everything was a joke and he never broke a sweat. Twelve hours later, when the Marine went in to clear an insurgent safe house, he zigged when he should have zagged and died on the spot.

CHAPTER 12
 
    B ASQUE P YRENEES
S PAIN
    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