The Last Patriot - Brad Thor [5]
The Apex Project was buried in a little-known branch of DHS known as the Office of International Investigative Assistance, or OIIA for short. The OIIA’s overt mission was to assist foreign police, military, and intelligence agencies in helping to prevent terrorist attacks. In that sense, Harvath’s mission was in step with the official OIIA mandate. In reality, he was a very secretive dog of war enlisted post-9/11 to be unleashed by the president upon the enemies of the United States anywhere, anytime, with anything he needed to get the job done.
But that part of Harvath’s life was over. It had taken him years to realize that his counterterrorism career was incompatible with what he really wanted—a family and someone to come home to; someone to share his life with.
Starting relationships had never been his problem. It was keeping them going that he never could get right. Tracy Hastings was the best thing to ever happen to him and he had no intention of letting her go. For the first time in he couldn’t remember how long, Scot Harvath was truly happy.
“We don’t have to go back right away,” said Tracy, interrupting his thoughts. “We can wait until November, after the elections. There’ll be Christmas and then the inauguration in January. Unless the Constitution has been rewritten and Rutledge is elected to a third term, you’ll be dealing with a completely new president.”
Harvath was about to respond when he looked out across the street and noticed a well-dressed Arab man remove a “Slim Jim” from beneath his blazer.
Popping the lock on a faded blue Peugeot, the man climbed in, shut the door, and disappeared beneath the window line.
He didn’t know why, but something inside Harvath told him this was more than just a car theft.
CHAPTER 3
Car thefts probably happened all the time in Paris, but Harvath had never seen one. He had also never seen such a smartly dressed criminal before.
As much as he was trying to escape his old life, his instincts were still attuned to the world around him. Just because a sheepdog had grown tired of fighting off wolves, it didn’t mean that wolves had grown tired of preying on sheep.
“What is it?” asked Tracy, as she followed his gaze across the street.
“Somebody just broke into that Peugeot.”
They both listened as the car’s engine came to life and the thief’s head popped back up from beneath the dashboard. Instead of driving away, though, the man just sat there.
“What’s he doing?” she asked.
Harvath was about to answer when he saw a silver Mercedes sedan approach. The thief must have seen it too because he immediately applied his blinker and pulled away from the curb, leaving the parking space to the Mercedes.
Harvath had spent enough time in cities like New York to know the lengths people would go to for a parking space, but stealing a car? This was ridiculous.
As the Peugeot slipped away, the Mercedes took its place.
No sooner was it parked than another well-dressed Arab opened the door, looked both ways up and down the street, climbed out, and walked away.
Tracy looked at Harvath again. “What the hell was that all about?”
“I’ve got no idea,” he replied. “I didn’t see that guy arm his car alarm, though. Did you?”
Tracy shook her head.
For a second or two, Harvath studied the Mercedes. Then he removed a twenty-euro note, laid it on the table, and said, “Let’s go.”
Tracy didn’t argue.
On the sidewalk, Harvath took her arm and picked up the pace.
“Shouldn’t we do something?” Tracy asked.
“We are,” responded Harvath. “We’re leaving.”
“I mean, report what we saw.”
Since retiring from the counterterrorism arena, Harvath had kept an exceptionally low profile. He loathed bureaucracies more than ever, and the Paris police had one of the worst.
Nevertheless, Tracy was right. What they had just seen didn’t make sense. It could, of course, be nothing, but Harvath doubted it. “The next phone we see, we’ll call it in,” he said.
In front of them, the door of a small bookshop opened and