who still observed the siesta. The man didn’t disappoint.
Harvath watched as he closed up his shop, tucked a newspaper under his arm, lit a cigarette, and began walking.
At this time of day, there were plenty of people about, and he didn’t need to work hard to avoid being seen. He hung far enough behind that if the man should happen to glance back, he wouldn’t notice him among the throngs of people up and down the narrow street.
Having dealt very briefly with the man before, Harvath had pegged him as a very low level operative, and even that might have been entirely too generous a characterization.
He watched as the tobacconist continued on his way, passing up opportunity after opportunity to ascertain whether he was being followed. He was definitely not a professional.
He hoped that the man lived within walking distance of his place of business. If he took public transportation or had a car parked somewhere that he intended to drive home for siesta, it was going to put Harvath in a difficult situation.
Two blocks later, the man turned left and a block after that, Harvath realized he had been given a gift. Leaning out a second-story window was a buxom woman with flaming red hair. She looked half the tobacconist’s age. Seductively, she blew him a kiss as he approached. Harvath had a pretty good feeling she wasn’t the man’s wife.
Slowing his pace, he removed his city map and pretended to study it as the tobacconist entered the building and disappeared. Ten minutes later, Harvath went in after him.
The locks were easy enough for him to pick, and once inside the small apartment, he quietly made his way toward the sounds of lovemaking from the bedroom.
He stood in the doorway for a moment waiting to be noticed, and then finally cleared his throat.
Looking over and seeing Harvath, the woman shrieked and clutched the sheet to her chin as she rolled off her partner, leaving the tobacconist completely naked.
Before he could find something to cover himself with, he saw Harvath’s pistol and his look of anger shifted to fear. He told the woman in Spanish to shut up.
The man gestured at the bedspread, asking if he could cover himself and the woman. Harvath nodded and said, “Go ahead. Slowly.”
“Englishman? American?” the tobacconist asked in heavily accented English.
Harvath ignored his question. “You don’t remember me?”
The tobacconist studied him for a moment. “No.”
“I bought some cigarettes from you over the summer.”
The man smiled. “Senor, I sell cigarettes to tourists all day long.”
“These were ETA cigarettes,” he said, referring to the Basque separatist organization. “I was told to ask for your Argos and Draco brand.”
Whether the man recognized the pass phrase or not, he couldn’t be quite sure, but there was an unmistakable microexpression that flashed across the man’s face. It was a subtle “tell” that Harvath had been taught to look for in the Secret Service. It indicated when a person was under duress because they were not telling the truth or intended to do harm.
“I don’t sell any ETA cigarettes and certainly none with that name. I think you have made a mistake.”
Harvath saw the tell again. “I don’t think so. I was told to see you and only you. When I asked for that brand, you sold me a pack of cigarettes. Inside was a car key and an address to a garage not far from here.”
The woman, who had been staring at Harvath, must have understood enough English to figure out what was being said as she turned to him and asked,
The tobacconist ignored her and motioned with his head toward his cigarettes on the nightstand. Harvath nodded that it was okay.
He removed a cigarette from the pack, lit it up, and adjusted the pillows behind him with his elbow before sitting up and taking a deep drag. “I do favors sometimes.”
“I know you do. And now I need a favor.”
The man shrugged. “How can I possibly do you a favor?”
“After you sold me the cigarettes and I left your shop, two men followed me.”
“
Harvath described the pair and their very distinct features.
The tobacconist’s eyes went wide.
“So you do remember me.”
“Those men were very angry for what you did.”
“That’s not my problem,” replied Harvath. “Right now, you’re going to contact their boss for me.”
The tobacconist grimaced and drew in a deep breath. “He was not happy with what you did to the men.”
Harvath raised his weapon and pointed it at the man’s forehead. “There’s only one person’s happiness you should be concerned with at this moment and that’s the guy holding this gun.”
The tobacconist raised his hands in self-defense. “I don’t have contact with him. He calls me.”
Harvath noticed the wedding ring on the man’s hand. “Does your wife know where you are right now?”
Harvath lowered his weapon. “Do either of you have a car?”
The man looked at his paramour, then back at Harvath, and nodded.
“Good,” Harvath replied. “Both of you get dressed. We’re going for a drive.”
CHAPTER 8
Parked alongside a narrow country road outside Bilbao, Harvath allowed his two guests to get out of the car. Removing the keys from the ignition, Harvath slid them into his pocket.
The tobacconist lit up another cigarette while his mistress spread a blanket on the grass. Before leaving her apartment, Harvath had suggested she bring along something to eat. The people they were waiting for wouldn’t be in any hurry to get here.
It was pretty basic fare as far as picnics were concerned, which was understandable considering the hasty circumstances in which it was thrown together. The woman had brought bread, cheese, a few apples, and some sausage. She had also brought a plastic bottle filled with homemade wine, which Harvath declined.
He had no idea what the tobacconist had said to her, but she had lost her apprehension and had even tried to smile at Harvath once or twice. He wasn’t in the mood and didn’t return the gesture.
His mind was on Riley and what had happened. The protocol he was following was correct, but it was maddeningly slow. He needed to make contact with Carlton. The Old Man would know immediately what their next move should be and he’d move heaven and earth to get to the bottom of the attack. Once he had all the puzzle pieces in place, he’d set Harvath loose to exact revenge.
A lot would have to happen between now and that moment, so he tried to think of something else. Unfortunately, he couldn’t get the image of Riley Turner out of his mind.
While he was lost in thought, the tobacconist noticed a car in the distance. “Eh,” the old man said, drawing Harvath’s attention to the vehicle.
Harvath recognized it right away and wondered who would be behind the wheel. He didn’t have to wonder long.
When the black Peugeot pulled up alongside them, Harvath saw the two Basque separatist operatives he had crossed paths with over the summer. They were both beefy men with thick necks. One had a sloping forehead and eyebrows as thick as Brillo pads. The other had a thin scar running down his right cheek.
