Killing the scientists once their work was complete, as well as silencing anyone with any knowledge of it made sense, but what didn’t make sense was kidnapping Tokay. Why wasn’t he killed as well? Why kidnap him?

As they approached the hotel, Harvath tried to quiet his thoughts. At this point, he no longer wanted to struggle for answers. All he wanted was a long hot shower, followed by several Advils and a good night’s sleep. The minute they stepped through the hotel’s back door and into the kitchen, though, he realized that wasn’t going to happen.

“Putain, bougez pas! Bougez pas!” yelled one of two provincial police officers startled by Harvath and Alcott’s entrance. Based on their uniforms, they looked to be motorcycle cops, but that still didn’t explain what they were doing in Marie Lavoine’s kitchen.

Before Harvath could react, the men had drawn their sidearms and had both him and Jillian covered. The last thing he wanted to do was provoke a shootout with police officers, so he just raised his hands above his head and left all of the guns he was carrying where they were for the time being.

Seeing Harvath with his hands above his head, Jillian did the same and asked, “What’s going on?”

“Ta gueule!” barked one of the motorcycle cops, while his partner turned and yelled into the other room for their captain. Moments later, a heavyset man in his mid-fifties with thinning hair and bags under his eyes entered the kitchen. At first he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but he quickly recovered and began giving orders to his men.

As they bounced Harvath up against the wall and searched him, they found not only Alomari’s tactical machine pistol and.357 revolver, but also the folding knife, Harvath’s Sam Guerin identification, and the stacks of U.S. dollars, British pounds, and EU euros that Harvath had been given by his boss, Gary Lawlor, to help finance his assignment. After patting down Jillian, they searched both the packs and found Jillian’s tissue samples and yet another weapon, Harvath’s.40-caliber H amp;K USP Compact.

“At least they are all of different calibers,” said the captain, in English, as he examined the guns. “That should help speed up the ballistics process.”

“What ballistics process?” replied Harvath. “What is this all about?”

“Monsieur Guerin, Madame Alcott, my name is Captain Marcel Broussard of the provincial gendarmerie, and it is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest, pending an investigation of your involvement in the murders of London police officer Donald Mills and two civilians at the Harvey Nichols department store, as well as Dr. Molly Davidson, who had been working for Sotheby’s Paris office, and tonight’s murder of Marie Lavoine.”

Harvath was about to protest their innocence and ask what evidence the authorities had against them, when he realized the French police and Interpol would already have more than enough. Security camera footage from Harvey Nichols, though it wouldn’t have revealed much of Harvath’s identity, would have perfectly captured Jillian Alcott’s. Then he and Alcott had been asked to show IDs and have their pictures taken for security badges at Sotheby’s. Having been thrown out for an altercation with Davidson the same day she was killed, he and Jillian were the perfect suspects. Now, they had been caught returning to the scene of yet another murder. While not conclusive, there was more than enough circumstantial evidence to hold them indefinitely. He couldn’t blame the French police; they were one hundred percent correct in what they were doing, but he also couldn’t let them hold him.

As one of the two motorcycle cops stepped up from behind to handcuff him, Harvath swung his head back as hard as he could, shattering the officer’s nose. He followed it up with a right-handed chop to the side of Broussard’s neck, which dropped him like a trash bag full of mud right onto the linoleum floor. As the other motorcycle cop wrapped his arms around Harvath’s waist and tried to tackle him, Harvath laced his fingers together and brought both of his hands down in a lightning-fast snap at the base of the man’s skull. Subduing all three gendarmes had taken only a matter of seconds.

Harvath looked at Jillian, who was completely amazed by the speed at which he had moved. Sliding the Ruger into the pocket of his climbing pants, he started giving orders. “Guns, cash, passports, all of it. Gather it up and put it in the small backpack.”

Jillian nodded her head as Harvath grabbed the car keys, then bent down and cleaned out the pockets of the unconscious French police officers. Relieving them of their handcuffs, he shackled them in a convoluted wrist-to-ankle, ankle-to-wrist Twister pose that would make it impossible for them to move once they came to. After that, he dumped the chambered rounds and magazines from all of their weapons into the garbage, placed their pistols in the oven, and set it to bake.

When Jillian held up Harvath’s KIVA pack, indicating that everything was ready to go, he held his finger to his lips and signaled for her to follow.

If there had been other policemen in the small hotel, they would have come running at the first sounds of a struggle in the kitchen. As none had, Harvath felt it was a safe bet they were all alone. That didn’t mean, though, that more weren’t on the way. Small towns like Ristolas didn’t usually get much action, so a murder was likely to attract a lot of attention. The minute Marie Lavoine’s body had been discovered, word would have gone out far and wide.

The first thing Harvath noticed as they approached the reception area was the blood. It covered half the hardwood floor. Before he even saw the body, he noticed that most of the pictures had been knocked from the wall and their frames lay shattered in pieces. Harvath wanted to believe that the end had come quickly for Marie, but obviously it hadn’t. There had been a struggle, and knowing Alomari, Harvath figured he had taken pleasure in making the poor woman suffer.

When they finally came upon her body behind the small reception desk, Jillian gasped in horror. Marie’s throat had been cut, much in the same way as Ellyson’s, and her face was bruised and horribly swollen. Alomari had beaten her before he killed her, most likely in the process of trying to extract information. Everyone caves under torture eventually, and if Marie had told Alomari where he and Jillian had gone, Harvath couldn’t blame her.

Harvath and Alcott needed to get as far away from the gendarmes and Ristolas as possible. Leaning down, he removed the gold chain with the medallion of Saint Bernard from his pocket and placed it in Marie Lavoine’s hand. At least now she and Bernard were together, he thought as he straightened himself up and stepped from behind the reception desk.

Walking to the windows near the front door, he peered out from behind the curtains and was not happy with what he saw. The tiny driveway in front of the Carré de l’Ours was crammed with provincial police cars. Apparently, Broussard had entered the hotel with the first officers on the scene, the motorcycle cops, and had told the rest of the police to remain outside. From an investigative standpoint it was a smart move. The less people tramping through the hotel, the less chance of evidence being damaged. But from an escapee’s standpoint, Harvath and Jillian were screwed-doubly so, as he noticed teams of officers moving around to secure the back of the property.

“Shit,” said Harvath as he pulled his head back in from the window.

“What’s going on?” asked Jillian.

“It’s crawling with police outside.”

Jillian came up and looked out the window for herself. “What are we going to do?”

“As far as the authorities are concerned, you and I have been on a three-day killing spree. They’re not about to let us just walk out of here, and I’m not about to draw them into any sort of fight.”