“And how does it work?”

“They have an online password-protected catalog. When you see something you’re interested in, you send them a query. The director speaks with the courtesan in question and if she agrees, you set up a Skype visit as a sort of get-to-know-you session, then the price is set and the details are worked out.”

“And you’re convinced she was a professional, not just some whack job?”

The Troll shook his head. “No, she was definitely a professional.”

“What does this have to do with the bus bombing in Rome?”

“You’ve been shown the evidence of my supposed involvement?”

“I have,” said Harvath. “What can you tell me about it?”

“Someone obviously wanted to frame me. They chartered a private jet to Sicily and sent a little person with two dogs and a suitcase into a hangar. Ten minutes later, he comes out and the plane takes off. The pilots never see the meeting, but plenty of grist has been thrown into the rumor mill and a scenario starts to emerge. Add to that some Muslim men who make contact with the Cosa Nostra looking to buy explosives and why wouldn’t the authorities believe what they’re being told? The only thing is, I’m not in the arms business. I didn’t sell any explosives to some Muslim terror cell. That’s cheap and beneath me.”

It was the same thing Harvath had told the Old Man. “So the idea was to frame you and then kill you to make the frame job stick?”

“Dead or alive, as long as they could convincingly pin it on me, I assume that it meant nobody would be looking for them.”

Harvath raised his eyebrows. “And who are they?”

“I don’t know. What I do know is that whoever this person is, they began building their attempt to frame me for the bus bombing before it even happened. That means they had advance knowledge of it.”

“I agree,” said Harvath. “Did you buy or purchase any information leading up to the bombing that could be connected?”

“As far as I can tell, no. There was nothing I was involved with that indicated this attack was coming. I don’t like when children are targeted. I never would have gone along with something like this.

“I might have taken money from animals who wanted to target children, but I would have found a way to either sell them incomplete intelligence, or leak their plans to the authorities so that I didn’t get implicated but the attack would have been stopped.”

Harvath was good at telling when he was being lied to. Right now, he wasn’t. “So you believe the woman who tried to kill you was placed at the Academy as bait?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Who knows that you’re a client?”

Nicholas thought for a moment. “It’s not something I advertise. There’s the women themselves and the director. Other than that, nobody.”

Harvath knew the list had to be longer than that. He was also certain Nicholas knew it as well. In the sex trade, everything was for sale, even the identity of valued customers. It all came down to how much someone was willing to pay.

“Whoever placed the woman there knew enough to build a profile that I would find irresistible. I should have known better.”

“You should have, but right now that’s not my problem. When Padre Peio called me, he said you believed there would be more attacks. I want to know when and where.”

The Troll began to shrug but abandoned the gesture due to the pain. “I’m only picking up bits and pieces. There has been chatter. The handful of sources I have communicated with are talking about attacks in multiple European cities against Americans.”

“Like the one in Rome or something different?”

“I don’t know.”

“C’mon, Nicholas,” said Harvath. “If we’re going to stop these attacks, I have to know more.”

“Nothing would make me happier than to give you more information, but everything has gone quiet. You know what that means.”

Harvath did know what that meant. Terror networks often went dark before a big attack.

“Our best hope for stopping these people is for you to uncover who placed my attacker at the Academy.”

He was right.

“The director’s name is Dominique Fournier. She’s based in Provence. Nothing happens at the Academy without her knowledge. She’s an absolute bitch, and I promise that she will not willingly cooperate with you.”

“We’ll see,” said Harvath. “What kind of security does she have?”

“Better than most. I’ve already discussed my plan with Peio.”

“He isn’t a priest, is he?”

Nicholas smiled. “Father Peio is definitely a priest, but it’s what he did before his calling that makes him so interesting.”

“I’m going to assume he didn’t run a petting zoo.”

“No,” said Nicholas with a laugh. “He didn’t run a petting zoo.”

“He was an ETA operative, wasn’t he? What happened? He got tired of planting bombs and found religion?”

“You’ve got Peio completely wrong. He wasn’t a terrorist. He was actually an intelligence agent.”

“Peio was a spook?”

Nicholas nodded. “With the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia.”

Harvath was familiar with Spain’s official intelligence agency, also known as the CNI. “How did he end up making that kind of career change?”

“You can ask him on the way.”

“On the way where?”

“France. He’s offered to make sure you get across the border. I just hope you can get to Fournier in time.”

CHICAGO

FRIDAY

When John Vaughan met Paul Davidson at a health food restaurant under the “L” tracks in Chicago’s River North neighborhood, he thought he had the wrong guy. Davidson was a barrel-chested man in his late forties who looked more like a narcotics officer or a Hell’s Angel than a cop from Public Vehicles. He had long hair pulled back in a ponytail, a goatee, and even an earring.

Vaughan, who had dropped off his daughter at school and bypassed the Starbucks in order to get to this meeting on time, hadn’t been expecting this.

“We’ve only got one type of coffee,” said the waitress after he had joined Davidson at the table. “But I’ve got tons of teas. I can bring over the box if you want to choose.”

“No thanks,” said Vaughan. “Just coffee, please.”

“Anything to eat?”

“Their turkey sausage is off the hook,” replied Davidson.

Vaughan shook his head. He hated health food.

Davidson rattled off an order that sounded like it was straight from a craft services table for some Hollywood movie. Vegan this and tofu that. It was disgusting.

“Why do you eat that stuff?” asked Vaughan.

“Because I’m too stubborn to go on Lipitor.”

“I’d rather take a bullet.”

“No you wouldn’t. Trust me. It’s not fun.”

“You’ve been shot?” asked Vaughan.

“I didn’t move to the Public Vehicles Division for the action.”

“When did it happen?”

“Four years ago. I was a patrol officer. My partner and I were doing a traffic stop. Some thug pulled a gun, and my partner and I both got capped. I took it through the shoulder and my partner got a round in the leg. I shot the offender in the head and killed him.”

“So you decided to hang it up being a patrol officer?”

“No. My wife decided. No mas patrol.”

“How did you wind up at Public Vehicles?” asked Vaughan.

“Due to my heroism and valor, blah, blah, blah, the department let me have my pick. There was a slot at Public Vehicles and the rest is home-by-six-every-night history.”

Vaughan was amazed by how the man downplayed what had happened. “Is your partner still a patrol officer?”

Davidson laughed. “He is and he’s been shot two more times since then. I’m glad I got away from him. The guy’s a bullet magnet.”

Vaughan laughed. “Listen, I’m sorry again for bothering you on vacation.”