“So what do you suggest?”

After thinking for several moments, Harvath looked out the window again and focused on something at the end of the driveway. “Do you know how to ride a motorcycle?”

“No, why?”

“Because I only have one idea on how to get us out of here, and we’ve probably only got a million-to-one shot at making it work.”

Five minutes later, wearing the visored helmets and uniforms of the two unconscious motorcycle cops from the kitchen, Harvath and Jillian exited the hotel and began quickly walking past the officers waiting outside.

When the gendarmes began asking what had happened inside, Harvath held up a plastic evidence bag containing Khalid Alomari’s tactical machine pistol and continued walking. The officers seemed to understand. They knew a murder had been committed, and the presence of such an exotic weapon confirmed what they all secretly believed-that the scene inside was particularly gruesome. Obviously, the captain had dispatched the two motorcycle officers on some important assignment involving the weapon, and they had no time to talk. That was fine with most of them. Hopefully, they would soon be allowed inside and would be able to see the crime scene for themselves. There wasn’t a man among them who had ever had the opportunity to see a murder scene before.

They went back to talking among themselves, but when Jillian climbed onto one of the motorcycles at the bottom of the driveway behind Harvath, and with a backpack no less, several of the gendarmes began to suspect something might be going on.

Please let it start on the first try, thought Harvath. It did, and they were half a block away before the first of the cops had run inside the hotel, discovered his colleagues in the kitchen, and come back outside to send the other officers to apprehend the wayward police motorcycle and its two fugitive riders.

Instantly, sirens started echoing off the stone structures of the small village. As Harvath drove the high-powered motorbike up both streets and sidewalks, he was thankful it was evening and most people were inside.

While he drove, Alcott stuck to her part of the plan. With their rented Mercedes surrounded by police cars in the Carré de l’Ours’s driveway, their only hoping of getting away was in whatever car Khalid Alomari had left behind. All they had to do was find it.

Harvath knew that Alomari was professional enough not to have parked right in front of a murder scene, but needing immediate access to the only route to the Col de la Traversette, he wouldn’t have parked too far away either.

As they drove up and down each of the village’s narrow streets, Alcott repeatedly pressed the remote panic feature on the car key Harvath had found in Alomari’s pocket.

The police were less than two blocks behind when Alcott finally got a hit, and the headlights, taillights, and horn of a black BMW 7-series sedan started going crazy. Immediately, Alcott pushed the panic button again and shut down the alarm.

Having seen the proficient way she drove her MG, Harvath had little doubt Jillian could handle the big BMW. Skidding to a halt beside it, he helped her slide off the motorbike and then told her to meet him on the other side of the bridge outside the village

Once she was in the car with her head down, Harvath took off, the police just turning the corner behind him.

Having been through most of the streets in Ristolas already, he had a pretty good idea of where and how he could shake the gendarmes from his trail.

Racing into the heart of the village, he did two circles around the communal fountain, giving the police plenty of time to at least gain sight of the taillight on the much faster motorbike he was driving, before shooting down one of Ristolas’s most crooked thoroughfares.

Revving the high-performance bike into the red zone, Harvath released the clutch and rocketed ahead, putting as much distance between him and the police as possible.

Approaching the deadly ninety-degree turn Harvath remembered from his first pass, he locked up the brakes and laid a skidding trail right up to a low stone wall overlooking an Alpine meadow far below.

The large bike took forever to stop, and for a split second, Harvath thought he was going to be thrown right over the wall along with it. As the front tire slammed into the stones, narrowly missing the iron bench overlooking the valley, Harvath jumped off, flipped open the gas cap, and muscled the bike the rest of the way over. As it fell to the ground far below and burst into flames, he removed his helmet and tossed it as close as he could to the burning wreckage.

He then took off the provincial police parka, stuffed it in a nearby trash can, and ran to meet Alcott at their agreed-upon rendezvous point.

FIFTY

WASHINGTON PLAZA HOTEL

WASHINGTON, DC

Brian Turner had spent enough time with the CIA to know that continuing to meet Senator Carmichael at his apartment was probably not a very good idea. The smart thing to do was to no longer hold any of their meetings in the same place twice. He also had to make sure he picked a hotel where the senator could come up to his room straight from the parking garage and not be seen in the lobby. The chic yet affordable Washington Plaza was the perfect choice. If Carmichael decided she felt amorous after their meeting, they could spend the evening together and order room service, and she could still sneak out via the garage later on with no one the wiser. If she didn’t feel like staying, Turner could still take advantage of the magnificent room he had overlooking one of the best outdoor hotel pools in DC and troll the Plaza’s very funky bar, known as one of the hottest young pickup spots in town.

Having arrived well in advance of the senator, Turner decided to kill a little time downstairs in that self-same bar. Ordering his favorite drink, a double-dirty Absolut martini with extra olives, he settled back and listened as one of his all-time favorite albums, Mothership Connection by Parliament, played overhead. God, he hated DC, but moments like this, when he found a slice of culture in the vapid city, almost made it worth living there.

Halfway through his third martini, Turner looked at his watch and realized he’d lost track of time. Throwing a fifty-dollar bill down on the table, he zipped out of the bar and hopped an elevator up to his room.

As the doors opened, he prayed to God he wouldn’t see Carmichael in the hallway waiting for him, and thankfully, he didn’t. Opening the door to his room, Turner had just enough time to take a leak and rinse his mouth out with one of the complimentary bottles of Listerine before he heard the senator’s familiar rap on the door.

“Good evening, Helen, “He said with a smile as he showed Carmichael into the room.

“What the fuck’s going on, Brian?” she replied as he closed the door. “I thought we were only going to communicate via e-mail from now on.”

Feeling no pain, Turner’s smile never wavered as he replied, “For normal communications, that would make sense, but tonight I have something special to show you.”

Carmichael ignored the seat her young lover offered her and instead chose to remain standing in the center of the room. “So what is it?”

“I don’t even get a kiss?” asked Turner as he held out his arms, the liquor getting the better of him. “I’m going to start thinking that you don’t care about me anymore.”

“Are you drunk?” demanded the senator. “I can’t fucking believe this. I came all the way down here and you’re shit-faced.”

“Helen, please,” said Turner, bobbing his head a little too much as he accentuated his words.

“Please what?” she asked. “Why am I here, Brian?”

Turner smiled again and did a little dance. “Because I have discovered something that will be the final nail in Scot Harvath’s coffin. The coup de grace, if you will.”