Black List by Brad Thor Read Free Book Online

was an ingenious design that allowed him quick access to his weapon while he looked like just another tourist and blended right in.
    To round out his look, he picked up a guidebook in Italian and a map of the city, both of which he consulted repeatedly as he strolled the neighborhood’s popular Siete Calles, or Seven Streets, conducting his SDR.
    Behind the cathedral on the Calle de la Tendería he walked into a small Basque restaurant and chose the same table he had taken on his previous trip, two back from the window, and sat down.
    Making himself comfortable, he glanced over the menu and ordered some food. There was no telling how long it was going to be before, or if, the tobacconist would make his move.

CHAPTER 7

    B ecause of the tobacconist’s age, Harvath had counted on his being a traditional Spaniard who still observed the siesta. The man didn’t disappoint.
    Harvath watched as he closed up his shop, tucked a newspaper under his arm, lit a cigarette, and began walking.
    At this time of day, there were plenty of people about, and he didn’t need to work hard to avoid being seen. He hung far enough behind that if the man should happen to glance back, he wouldn’t notice him among the throngs of people up and down the narrow street.
    Having dealt very briefly with the man before, Harvath had pegged him as a very low level operative, and even that might have been entirely too generous a characterization.
    He watched as the tobacconist continued on his way, passing up opportunity after opportunity to ascertain whether he was being followed. He was definitely not a professional.
    He hoped that the man lived within walking distance of his place of business. If he took public transportation or had a car parked somewhere that he intended to drive home for siesta, it was going to put Harvath in a difficult situation.
    Two blocks later, the man turned left and a block after that, Harvathrealized he had been given a gift. Leaning out a second-story window was a buxom woman with flaming red hair. She looked half the tobacconist’s age. Seductively, she blew him a kiss as he approached. Harvath had a pretty good feeling she wasn’t the man’s wife.
    Slowing his pace, he removed his city map and pretended to study it as the tobacconist entered the building and disappeared. Ten minutes later, Harvath went in after him.
    The locks were easy enough for him to pick, and once inside the small apartment, he quietly made his way toward the sounds of lovemaking from the bedroom.
    He stood in the doorway for a moment waiting to be noticed, and then finally cleared his throat.
    Looking over and seeing Harvath, the woman shrieked and clutched the sheet to her chin as she rolled off her partner, leaving the tobacconist completely naked.
    Before he could find something to cover himself with, he saw Harvath’s pistol and his look of anger shifted to fear. He told the woman in Spanish to shut up. “Callate. Cierra la boca!”
    The man gestured at the bedspread, asking if he could cover himself and the woman. Harvath nodded and said, “Go ahead. Slowly.”
    “Englishman? American?” the tobacconist asked in heavily accented English.
    Harvath ignored his question. “You don’t remember me?”
    The tobacconist studied him for a moment. “No.”
    “I bought some cigarettes from you over the summer.”
    The man smiled. “Señor, I sell cigarettes to tourists all day long.”
    “These were ETA cigarettes,” he said, referring to the Basque separatist organization. “I was told to ask for your Argos and Draco brand.”
    Whether the man recognized the pass phrase or not, he couldn’t be quite sure, but there was an unmistakable microexpression that flashed across the man’s face. It was a subtle “tell” that Harvath had been taught to look for in the Secret Service. It indicated when a person was under duress because they were not telling the truth or intended to do harm.
    “I don’t sell any ETA cigarettes and certainly none