The tidal island of Mont-Saint-Michel was connected to the mainland via a man-made causeway. The causeway, though, was closed to all but official traffic.
Visitors were required to leave their vehicles in one of the official parking areas and then were allowed to cross the causeway on foot, via a cart drawn by draft horses, or on a free shuttle bus known as a “Passeur.”
Harvath didn’t like being cut off from their SUV, but he didn’t have a choice. Finding a spot for the Land Rover, they locked it and headed over to the nearby Tourist Information Center, hoping to gather some intelligence.
One of his biggest questions was what security would be like once they got out to the site. It didn’t take long to get an answer.
According to a sign they passed, only purses and small backpacks were allowed on Mont-Saint-Michel. Before you could enter through the fortifications, there was an inspection station. All bags were subject to search.
There was no mention of wanding or any other body-scanning technology, though knives were listed as a prohibited item. Drones were also prohibited and a red circle on a map showed the large exclusion zone around the island where nothing was allowed to be flown.
The only things they’d be able to take along were those they could conceal beneath their clothing.
Harvath tried to console himself with the fact that this was a reconnaissance operation and not a tactical engagement. Even so, he had always believed that you could never be too prepared.
Back at the Land Rover, he and Sølvi took turns keeping watch while the other covertly geared up. When they were done, they once again locked the vehicle, and headed toward the shuttle bus.
Once the Passeur arrived, the ride out to the island only took a few minutes. The views were amazing. Of all of the places around the world he had been, and all of the things he had seen, Mont-Saint-Michel was one of the most beautiful and most dramatic. He could understand why it had been referred to as the Eighth Wonder of the World. If a company of knights had come thundering out of the gates, and had galloped past them across the marsh, it wouldn’t have seemed odd at all.
When the bus came to a stop and they got off, Sølvi hustled Harvath to the side, before the other tourists got the same idea, and had him pose for a photo with her. Though not usually a selfie kind of guy, he indulged her. After all, they were supposed to be a married couple on vacation. The unobstructed view of the fortified medieval stone town with its soaring abbey atop the hill was breathtaking. She had a great eye.
As warned back on the mainland, there was indeed a bag check. There were so many people in line that it took longer to get through than the shuttle ride out.
Thankfully, there was no wanding or body scan of any kind. Had that been the case, he and Sølvi had agreed that she would feign having left something important in the Land Rover that they had to go back for.
Waiting just past the bag check, as promised, was Dominique Loiseau. She was a stylish, petite Frenchwoman in her sixties, with platinum hair and a red and gold scarf. The scarf, she had explained over the phone, was to help her clients identify her. Though Harvath would have recognized her anyway, it was probably a good idea. The profile photo she had posted on the website was at least twenty years out of date.
“Is that her?” Sølvi asked.
“That’s her,” said Harvath.
As soon as Sølvi waved, Loiseau smiled, waved back, and walked over to them. She couldn’t have been a more delightful woman.
“Monsieur and Madame Owen,” she said, extending her hand. “How lovely to meet you. Bienvenue à Mont-Saint-Michel.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” replied Sølvi, shaking hands.
“Madame Loiseau,” said Harvath, taking her hand next. “Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice.”
Her English was excellent. “It is my honor,” she stated. “And please, Madame Loiseau was my grandmother. Call me Dominique.”
She was a charmer, which was why Harvath instantly liked her. Charmers were some of the easiest people to build rapport with.
“Okay,” she energetically continued. “Have either of you ever been to Mont-Saint-Michel before?”
Harvath and Sølvi shook their heads.
“How about Normandy?”
Again, they shook their heads.
“France?”
This time, both nodded.
“Okay,” said Dominique, as she motioned for her clients to follow. “Why don’t we start walking, I’ll tell you a little bit about the region, and then we can begin to learn how Mont-Saint-Michel came to be.”
Dominique Loiseau was an absolute pro. Having confirmed that her clients were indeed hungry, their tour ended two and a half hours later, on the dot, at Mont-Saint-Michel’s La Mère Poulard hotel and restaurant.
As they entered the dining room, the manager was already standing at the door and whisked them off to one of the best tables in the house. It was so well choreographed that Harvath had to subtly tip his hat. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of a kickback she received for bringing in high-end patrons.
There was a pleasant back-and-forth between Dominique and the manager in French, before he handed Harvath the wine list and said, “Something to drink?”
“I’m driving, but what about you, darling?” he said to Sølvi.
Sølvi looked at Dominique. “You won’t make me drink alone, will you?”
The Frenchwoman smiled. “My next tour starts here, so luckily, I’m not driving. Yes, I’ll join you.”
“Red or white?” asked Sølvi, as Harvath handed her the wine list.
“C’est à vous. It’s your decision.”
“Champagne then,” she said, showing the manager which vintage she wanted before surrendering the wine list and watching him scurry off to fetch the bottle.
“It’s good to be on holiday,” said Dominique. “I like your style.”
Sølvi smiled. “I’m a lucky woman. Thanks to my husband, we have a very rich uncle.”
Harvath couldn’t wait to get the bill for this operation from the Norwegians. It was going to be off the charts. And Lawlor was going to wring his neck.
But by using Sølvi’s alias and her credit cards, she was helping to further insulate him from the one-hundred-million-dollar bounty on his head.
When the manager returned, he walked right up to Sølvi, bowed deeply, and presented a bottle with his apologies. “We are out of the 2011, but I would like to offer you a bottle of the 2009 for the same price. It is an exceptional vintage.”
She looked at Harvath, mouthed the word upgrade, then turned back to the manager and replied, “That is so kind of you. Thank you. We’ll take it.”
“Our uncle will be so happy that you’re happy,” said Harvath.
Sølvi winked at him and then turned her attention to Dominique.
Despite how loquacious the guide had been, she hadn’t wanted to talk about Aubertin at all. No matter how subtly Harvath and Sølvi had tried to bring him up, she had changed the subject. She wasn’t just a charmer, she was also a hell of a saleswoman—and she wanted to keep these clients all to herself.
The consummate intelligence officer, Sølvi plied her with the expensive champagne, making sure her glass remained full. She also asked a bunch of personal questions, including requests to see pictures of the woman’s grandchildren, her dog, and her last vacation.
Each time she did, she caught Harvath’s attention and signaled with her eyes for him to pay attention as the woman entered the passcode into her iPhone.
At first, he didn’t understand what Sølvi was asking him to do, but finally—feeling like an idiot—he got it. But what good was a passcode without the phone?
He was about to find out.
After having downed a couple of glasses of champagne, Sølvi suggested that she and Dominique visit the ladies’ room. The lovely Frenchwoman agreed.
As they got up and slung their purses over their shoulders, Sølvi feigned having trouble with her balance, but Dominique saved her from an embarrassing tumble.
Thanking her, Sølvi remarked, “Apparently, the 2009 goes right to your legs.”
“If only the 2009 could give me legs like yours,” said the Frenchwoman, “I’d buy it by the vineyard.”
Sølvi smiled. “My husband is going to give you a great tip. You know that, right?”
Dominique smiled back.
“Speaking of which,” Sølvi added, as she came around the table and planted a kiss on Harvath. “Don’t go falling in love with anyone else while I’m gone.”
“Never,” he said, a bit shocked. “Not unless the Norwegian women’s volleyball team walks in.”
“Norwegian girls,” she replied, putting her arm around the Frenchwoman and walking toward the ladies’ room. “He’s obsessed. Sometimes, it seems that’s all he ever talks about.”
As they walked away, he looked down at what Sølvi had pressed into his hand while giving him that kiss. The Norwegian ninja had struck again. It was the cell phone she had lifted from Dominique’s purse.