The priest took a moment to find his words. “It is a delicate matter, Mr. Harvath, and I think it would be better if he explained it to you himself.”

It was obvious he knew the answer to the question, but he wasn’t going to give it up. “Let me rephrase my question. Is the person who attacked Nicholas still alive?”

“No, dead.”

“Who killed him?”

“It wasn’t a he, it was a she, and the dogs killed her.”

“Nicholas was attacked by a woman?”

The priest downshifted as the road began to climb. “According to what he told me, she was a very patient assassin. She bided her time; worked on gaining his trust. She even got him to remove the dogs to another room. That is when she struck.”

“Then how did the dogs kill her?”

“They heard his screaming and broke through the heavy oak door of his bedroom. She was mauled to death and they tore her throat out. There was blood everywhere.”

“Didn’t Nicholas have any security?”

“No one was supposed to know he was here.”

It was a subtle, disapproving tone that Harvath picked up on. “He invited her, didn’t he?”

“Mr. Harvath,” said the priest, returning to his previous posture, “I think it’s best if you discuss these things with Nicholas.”

Harvath watched as the headlights bounced off of large rocks and thick-trunked trees. He wanted more answers. “Are you a priest, or is that just a cover?”

“No, I am actually a priest.”

“Have you always been a priest?”

“I have been many things,” the man replied, his eyes focused on the road.

Harvath could only imagine.

As they gained altitude it grew colder. Peio reached over and adjusted the temperature knob, trying to coax a little more heat from the Land Cruiser’s vents. “How do you know Nicholas?” he asked.

“You could say we met through work,” replied Harvath. “How about you?”

“I also met Nicholas through work.”

“Don’t tell me. You were in the seminary together.”

“I take it you don’t think much of him.”

“In all honesty, Padre, I don’t know what to think of him. He has done a lot of bad things in his life.”

“Haven’t we all?” asked the priest.

Harvath didn’t reply.

Peio maneuvered the Land Cruiser around a small slide of rocks and once they were back on the road stated, “I know very little of who Nicholas is and what he has done. He has not taken confession with me.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Father.”

The priest looked at him. “No one is beyond God’s love and mercy. Not you. Not Nicholas. Not anyone. Despite what you may think of him, Nicholas has a very good heart. There is incredible decency in him. As do all men, he has his failings, but he has a desire to do good in the world.”

“You’ll forgive me for asking, but how long have you known him?”

“Many years now.”

“And you say you met through work? What kind of work?”

Peio removed a pack of cigarettes from the dashboard and offered one to Harvath. When he refused, the priest removed one for himself, lit it from the vehicle’s cigarette lighter, and cracked the window. He took a long, deep drag, and then exhaled. “Have you ever heard of the children of Chernobyl?”

Harvath, like everyone else, had heard of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster. It happened in the Ukraine in 1986 and was the worst nuclear power plant disaster in history. The only level-seven event to ever occur on the International Nuclear Event Scale, it distributed four hundred times more fallout than the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. Fifty-six people were killed directly, with about 4,000 more being stricken with various forms of cancer. Nuclear rain fell as far north as Ireland and over three hundred thousand people had to be resettled across huge swaths of area far beyond the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone.

He had never heard any reference, though, to the children of Chernobyl. “I assume these were children somehow adversely affected by the disaster?”

Peio took another drag on his cigarette. “Sixty percent of the fallout landed upon Belarus. You can imagine the consequences. One of the most disturbing has been the increase in birth defects. Parents in the affected areas are usually poor, scared, and lacking in hope. If they have children born with mental or physical impairments, they often abandon them at state orphanages. It is such a common occurrence that a word for them has entered the lexicon, Podkidysh: one who is left at the door.

“Early in my priesthood, I did missionary work at one of the orphanages in Belarus. That’s where I met Nicholas.”

Harvath knew that when Nicholas stopped growing because of his dwarfism, his Russian parents hadn’t even bothered to try to find a suitable home for him. Nor did they even have the kindness to place him in an orphanage. Instead, they had sold him to a brothel near the Black Sea. That troubling aspect of his past, and the man’s obvious love for his dogs, had been two of the biggest reasons Harvath could not completely harden his heart toward Nicholas. Knowing his history made it easy to understand why he might be involved with an orphanage dedicated to the children of Chernobyl.

“He was very generous to the orphanage, as well as the children, with both his time and his money,” said Peio. “In exchange, he was accepted. I would even say loved by many of the people there.”

“What happened?”

“As Nicholas put it, the only way one can outrun his past is to keep running.”

“But his past caught up with him in Belarus, at the orphanage?”

“We never knew,” replied the priest. “One day, he just disappeared.”

“How did he end up here?”

“We remained in touch. I told him that when the day came that he got tired of running, he could come here.”

“And when exactly did he arrive?”

Either Peio hadn’t heard him or he had chosen not to respond. He quietly turned off onto a smaller road bordered by high rock walls. Three hundred meters later, a locked livestock gate prevented them from going any further.

The priest flashed his brights-long, long, short, short, short-and from behind a large boulder off to the side of the road a man appeared. He reminded Harvath of the two Basque from the Peugeot. He was about the same size and was cradling a similar sawed-off shotgun. He peered into the Land Cruiser and, after acknowledging Peio, unwound the chain from around the gate and swung it open for the vehicle to pass.

As they drove through, Harvath saw three more men through the open door of a wooden guardhouse that had been obscured by the large boulder. They sat around a propane heater, but instead of sawed-off shotguns, were armed with high-end tactical rifles and night vision optics.

“Where are we?” asked Harvath.

“Someplace safe.”

Harvath was given four hours to rest in a small apartment above the stables. Judging by the heavily armed guards and all of the other security precautions he had seen on their drive in, they were at some sort of fortified ranch compound that probably belonged to ETA.

In the apartment, a single place had been set at a wooden table in the kitchen. Next to it was a chipped glass and a half bottle of wine. On the stove was a traditional dish of Basque beans flavored with ham and Basque chorizo.

After eating, Harvath slept fitfully with his hand wrapped around his Glock.

Just before sunrise, Padre Peio knocked at the door. “Good morning,” he said, handing Harvath a thermos of hot coffee. Gone was the soutane. In its place, the priest was wearing blue jeans, boots, and a dark green fleece. He had a small bag slung over one shoulder. “Were you able to sleep?”

“A little,” replied Harvath.

“Good. You’ll need your strength. It’s a tough journey. Ready to go?”

Harvath put on his jacket and grabbed his pack. “Will we be coming back?”