Foreign Influence by Brad Thor Page B

The lights flashed. The door unlocked.
    After thoroughly checking the vehicle for explosives, he tossed in his backpack, climbed into the driver’s seat, and started the car. He reversed out of the space, drove up two levels, and after using the prepaid receipt, exited the facility.
    He drove through several neighborhoods before finally pulling over and looking for a clue as to where he was supposed to go next.
    Inside the glove compartment were a portable GPS device, a window mount, and cigarette adaptor. After powering up the GPS, he toggled to the screen with pre-loaded routes and saw it contained one destination labeled “Nicholas.”
    It appeared to be a village in the Basque Pyrenees. According to the GPS, the drive was five hours and forty-three minutes. Harvath kept his gun where he could get to it.
    Incredibly, he found a radio station playing the American funk classic “Pass the Peas” by Fred Wesley, and turning up the volume, he pointed the car toward the Autopista and stepped on the accelerator.
    Fifteen kilometers outside of Bilbao, he noticed he was being followed.

CHAPTER 10
 
    The immediate exits outside the city offered only bad neighborhoods, and the shoulder of the highway was equally dangerous. Harvath decided to wait.
    As long as they weren’t trying to overtake him and run him off the road, he was fine. The problem lay in whether or not there was an ambush waiting somewhere up along the route; somewhere he could be forced off the road and everything could be made to look like an accident.
    It seemed a bit over the top, especially when they could have arranged for something to have happened to him in Bilbao, but maybe they had another scenario in mind. All Harvath knew was that he didn’t like being followed. He needed to find out who these people were and what they wanted. Fifty kilometers later, an opportunity presented itself.
    Gunning the car, he sped off the Autopista and raced down the exit road to the service area. The parking lot was crowded and Spaniards coming or going from their cars gesticulated wildly and cursed him for his excessive rate of speed.
    He slowed down as he neared the restaurant and parked in one of the handicapped spaces up front. Grabbing his backpack, he unplugged the GPS device, tucked it in his pocket, and left the keys in the ignition. He wouldn’t be coming back for the car.
    The lot was peppered with cars and long-haul trucks. Inside the café cum restaurant, most of the business was gathered around the beer taps at the counter. There were two families having a late lunch and Harvath noted four police officers drinking coffee at a nearby table, but that was it.
    He stepped to the far end of the crowded counter and ordered a beer. Seconds later, he saw the car that had been following him since Bilbao, a black Peugeot, roll through the parking lot. When it came upon his vehicle parked in one of the handicapped spaces up front, it slowed down and then moved on. If Harvath had needed any further proof that they were following him, that was it.
    The Peugeot had been moving slowly enough that Harvath could make out a large man at the wheel with a thick neck, a sloping forehead, and eyebrows so thick they were like Brillo pads. Then, the car disappeared from sight.
    Harvath had a good vantage point. Not only could he look out the windows onto the parking lot, he could also see straight through the building’s front door.
    As he continued to watch, he ordered a sandwich. He didn’t have to see them to know they were outside waiting for him. The same questions that had been plaguing him since he’d first seen them in his rearview mirror continued. Who were they, and why were they following him?
    Asking the police for help was out of the question. The men outside would say they had no idea what he was talking about and that they had pulled in simply to rest and get something to eat. Naturally, they would then have plenty of questions for Harvath, who was carrying a