Full Black - Brad Thor [158]
Harvath was confused. “What’s this?” he asked as the man stood up to leave.
“I was told to give it to you when we were finished.”
As the man walked out of the bar, Harvath opened the small envelope. Inside was a piece of paper with an address in the Sixth Arrondissement. It was written in the Old Man’s hand.
Carlton had told him there was something else he wanted him to do in Paris, but he hadn’t elaborated. Most likely, the address was for the Carlton Group’s new Parisian safe house and there’d be further instructions waiting for him there.
Carlton could often be cryptic like that. He compartmentalized everything, revealing only as much as he felt you needed to know. Robert Ashford could have had no clue about the nature of the new life and identity the Old Man had promised him in exchange for his cooperation. The Brit had made the mistake of referring to James Standing as the “world’s deadliest catch,” and that cemented his fate.
Ashford was quite distraught once he learned that he was being relocated to Alaska. Harvath could only imagine the look on the MI5 man’s face once he discovered that his new career was nowhere near as pedestrian as recycling boxes at the Fairbanks Wal-Mart.
Rawhide was a ninety-two-foot crab-fishing boat out of the Aleutian Islands port of Dutch Harbor in Unalaska. Robert Ashford was her newest deckhand.
The Old Man had kept his word, but he had simultaneously sentenced Ashford to a life of hard labor. Carlton had made it very clear that, if Ashford tried to run, there was an open kill order for him and Harvath would fill it personally.
The Old Man then turned Yaroslav Yatsko over to the CIA. Though they might very well kick him out of the country and turn him loose, the Carlton Group needed to purchase a modicum of goodwill with the Agency. Harvath wanted to see the man tried for setting up the murders of the filmmakers and the attempted murder of Larry Salomon, but the Old Man had his mind made up. He did, though, make sure the CIA intervened with the L.A. County authorities on behalf of Ralston and Salomon, and for that, Harvath was grateful.
Stepping out of the bar, he turned up the collar of his coat. It was a chilly night, but Harvath decided to walk anyway and headed north.
Unlike Venice, Paris was a city that could be romantic and still not make you feel self-conscious about walking its streets alone.
As he walked, he remembered the last time he had been in Paris. He had been sitting in a café, ready to propose to a woman with whom he thought he could spend the rest of his life and leave his career behind, when his career had reappeared and sucked him back in.
It hadn’t been that long ago, but it seemed like a lifetime. So much had happened since. So much had changed.
Couples passed by on the sidewalk. They seemed oblivious to his presence, too wrapped up in each other to even notice him. Harvath shook his head and moved on.
He wondered where he was going and why the Old Man had transmitted the address through the Israeli.
Entering the Sixth Arrondissement, he conducted another round of SDRs. Finally, he arrived at the address.
He stood outside looking up at the limestone façade of the building with its black, wrought-iron balconettes. The ground floor consisted of a patisserie and a wine shop separated by a security door that likely provided entrance to the dwellings above.
Harvath studied the note again. There wasn’t any name, just the address.
As he removed his cell phone to call the Old Man, it vibrated with a text message. Harvath clicked on it. It was from Carlton. All it said was Ring #7.
Harvath approached the buzzers. Number 7 was listed under the name Bonduelle. He pressed the button.
Moments later the door clicked open.
Harvath stepped into the eighteenth-century lobby. A gilded, cage-style elevator was surrounded by a stained marble staircase.
Not a fan of tiny elevators, Harvath opted for the stairs and began climbing.
Stepping onto