Foreign Influence_ A Thriller - Brad Thor [29]
“He was very generous to the orphanage, as well as the children, with both his time and his money,” said Peio. “In exchange, he was accepted. I would even say loved by many of the people there.”
“What happened?”
“As Nicholas put it, the only way one can outrun his past is to keep running.”
“But his past caught up with him in Belarus, at the orphanage?”
“We never knew,” replied the priest. “One day, he just disappeared.”
“How did he end up here?”
“We remained in touch. I told him that when the day came that he got tired of running, he could come here.”
“And when exactly did he arrive?”
Either Peio hadn’t heard him or he had chosen not to respond. He quietly turned off onto a smaller road bordered by high rock walls. Three hundred meters later, a locked livestock gate prevented them from going any further.
The priest flashed his brights—long, long, short, short, short—and from behind a large boulder off to the side of the road a man appeared. He reminded Harvath of the two Basque from the Peugeot. He was about the same size and was cradling a similar sawed-off shotgun. He peered into the Land Cruiser and, after acknowledging Peio, unwound the chain from around the gate and swung it open for the vehicle to pass.
As they drove through, Harvath saw three more men through the open door of a wooden guardhouse that had been obscured by the large boulder. They sat around a propane heater, but instead of sawed-off shotguns, were armed with high-end tactical rifles and night vision optics.
“Where are we?” asked Harvath.
“Someplace safe.”
CHAPTER 14
Harvath was given four hours to rest in a small apartment above the stables. Judging by the heavily armed guards and all of the other security precautions he had seen on their drive in, they were at some sort of fortified ranch compound that probably belonged to ETA.
In the apartment, a single place had been set at a wooden table in the kitchen. Next to it was a chipped glass and a half bottle of wine. On the stove was a traditional dish of Basque beans flavored with ham and Basque chorizo.
After eating, Harvath slept fitfully with his hand wrapped around his Glock.
Just before sunrise, Padre Peio knocked at the door. “Good morning,” he said, handing Harvath a thermos of hot coffee. Gone was the soutane. In its place, the priest was wearing blue jeans, boots, and a dark green fleece. He had a small bag slung over one shoulder. “Were you able to sleep?”
“A little,” replied Harvath.
“Good. You’ll need your strength. It’s a tough journey. Ready to go?”
Harvath put on his jacket and grabbed his pack. “Will we be coming back?”
“No. And just so we understand each other, we were never here.”
“Understood,” replied Harvath as he followed the man into the hall and down a flight of wooden stairs.
When they stepped outside, two horses were saddled and waiting for them. It was cold and their breath rose into the air.
Peio offered him a pair of leather gloves. “I assume you are comfortable around horses.”
Harvath walked up to one of the animals and patted it on the neck. “I like all animals, Padre. It’s people I usually have problems with.”
“Is Nicholas one of those people?”
“Nicholas is a thief.”
“And yet you have come halfway around the world to help him.”
“I’ve come for answers.”
“We’re all searching for answers.”
“I think you and I have different questions, Father.”
“You’d be surprised, Mr. Harvath.”
After a cup of coffee, Harvath tucked the thermos into his pack, swung into the saddle, and fell in behind the priest as he led the way further up into the mountains.
The trail was narrow and didn’t allow for them to ride abreast, so they rode in single file. It made conversation difficult, which was fine