Foreign Influence

Fournier had done a real number on him, and it was a lot harder moving the two of them than it normally would have been. The bodyguard was a pretty solid fellow and even though she didn’t have an ounce of fat on her, six feet of woman was a hell of a lot of sugar and spice to be moving right after the beating he had taken.

The bodyguard got dumped in the trunk and he laid Fournier down on the backseat and covered her with a blanket. He didn’t have far to go, but even out here in the middle of the countryside there was always the possibility someone would see them. The last thing he wanted was to drive past some bicycling tour of Provence with the red-headed Amazon queen in plain sight, bound and gagged across the backseat.

For their destination, he had searched for something close that would allow him to work without being disturbed. After driving around yesterday, he had found it. The abandoned barn was only a few kilometers away from the ambush site. Though part of the roof was missing, all of the sides were still intact. It was well off the road and hadn’t been touched in decades. It was perfect.

He drove the Citroën directly into the barn, turned off the ignition, and then got out and closed the barn doors.

Leaving her hood on, he pulled Fournier off the backseat and then took her to a stool in the middle of the barn. He sat her down and gently dragged his knife blade across her midriff before placing it against her throat and telling her not to move.

With that, he walked back to the car and fished some gauze out of the first aid kit and shoved it into his nose to stop the bleeding.

After he’d had enough time to assess the rest of his injuries, he tuned in the Citroën’s radio and turned up the volume. The bodyguard didn’t need to hear what he and Fournier were about to talk about.

Next to the stool upon which she sat was a rickety old table. Upon it, Harvath had assembled several pictures Nicholas had e-mailed him. It was his hope that they would be all that was necessary to secure Fournier’s cooperation.

Removing the gauze from his nose, Harvath walked up behind the woman and snatched off her hood.

She was frightened and her eyes swept the barn as she tried to figure out where she was and what was going on. Harvath stepped into her field of view so that she could see him. When she did, the look of fear in her eyes turned to one of pure hate. She tried to say something but the duct tape made it impossible. Whatever it was, she was very animated about it and Harvath could imagine what it was she was saying.

“Shut up,” he replied.

Fournier ignored him.

Harvath walked back over to her, grabbed a fistful of her ponytail, and jerked her head backward as he played the tip of his knife along her cheek just under her eye. “Don’t say another word,” he cautioned. “Look.”

Still holding her hair, he directed her attention to the photos laid out along the table. They were partially illuminated by a shaft of sunlight filtering in from the damaged roof above.

Harvath himself had trouble looking at the pictures. They had been chosen because of Fournier’s vanity. He had no desire to physically harm her. That said, he had no reservations about threatening the use of harm and leaning on her as hard as he could psychologically. He also knew that if it came to it, and he was left with no other choice, he would use violence against her if it meant preventing more Americans from being killed. But the person who would decide what ultimately came to pass was Fournier herself.

“Ms. Fournier, you are in the position you are right now because you tried to kill the wrong person,” he said.

Instantly, Fournier protested through the duct tape and began to shake her head.

“There’s no use denying it. The man you tried to kill has sent me to exact his revenge. Now, in front of you, you see the pictures of five women. The man who sent me suffered serious facial trauma because of your botched attack.

“He is not unreasonable and though I suggested he kill you and be done with it, he has decided to keep things fair. Each of the women you see on the table before you was disfigured in a very specific ma

“My employer is willing to allow you to select the means by which you will be disfigured.”

Fournier began screaming behind the duct tape and shaking her head wildly. Tears streamed down her face as she looked at the photos depicting the results of torture by acid, knives, hammers, and other terrifying instruments.

“You need to make peace with it, Ms. Fournier. Undoubtedly your looks have served you very well in life. Shortly, you will become a monster and will have no choice but to hide your face from the world. I’m going to remove the tape from your mouth. Please choose your method.”

The moment Harvath pulled off the tape, Fournier began to negotiate with him. “Please,” she begged. “Don’t do this. I have money. I will pay you. I also have girls; lots of beautiful girls. They can all be yours.”

Harvath wasn’t finding her very attractive anymore.

“I could tell you liked me back on the road. I like you too. I can be yours if you want me.”

“I don’t want you,” he said. “I want payback for the man you tried to kill.”

“But I didn’t try to kill anyone!”

He smiled. “Yes, you did. Maybe not directly, but you used his trust in you, his loyalty, to place an assassin in his bed.”

A flash of recognition raced across Fournier’s face. It only lasted for a fraction of a second before it was gone. Harvath had seen it. It was called a microexpression and he had been taught to spot them years ago by the Secret Service.

“You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”

“No,” she replied, and the tell was visible again.

“Ms. Fournier, I have lunch in Nice and a flight back to Paris. Choose or I will choose for you,” he said, tapping the table with the edge of his knife.

“You don’t want money. You don’t want sex,” she sobbed. “What do you want?”

Harvath looked at her. “I told you, I want revenge. Revenge for the man you disfigured.”

“I had no choice!” she stated. “Besides, how was I supposed to know she would try to kill him?”

“Ms. Fournier, I’m giving you thirty seconds to choose.”

“I was forced to take her. I was told not to place her in the general catalog; only the one that was made available to him.”

Harvath walked several feet away and with his back to her asked, “Who are we talking about?”

“The dwarf, of course. It’s the little man who sent you, isn’t it?”

Harvath didn’t respond. “Who forced you?” he demanded as he turned back to face her.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Fine. First we’ll use the acid and then I will go to work on you with the knife.”

“No!” Fournier screamed. “No!”

“Then tell me,” he shouted. “Tell me right now who forced you. I will not ask you again.”

Fournier was silent and Harvath removed a bottle from his pocket and began unscrewing the top.

“Leveque! Gaston Leveque!” she cried.

“How did he force you?”

“One of my girls had been involved in smuggling a substantial amount of drugs into France. He was going to implicate me. I would have lost everything.”

She was lying. Harvath could see it in her face. “You’re not telling me the truth,” he said.

Fournier hung her head and was quiet again. Finally, she said, “I have a child, a little boy. His name is David. He’s eight years old. He was in a private boarding school outside Paris.”

“Was?”

“Leveque found him and kidnapped him. He told me I would never see my boy again unless I did what he asked. He said if I told anyone he would kill me and David both.”

Fournier then broke down sobbing.

“Where is your son now?”

“Back with my mother in Toulouse.”

“And this Leveque?”