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“Yesterday in Paris. Today in Madrid.” Asher turned the screen back around and read directly from it. “Arrived in Paris from Sydney, Australia, the day before. Very interested in your apartments, apparently. I’m at a loss, actually, as to why you would ever keep permanent apartments. In Paris and Madrid.”
“They’re not permanent. I take a short-term lease in a dingy shithole that doesn’t ask a lot of questions. Under a fake name, fake ID, fake history, fake papers.”
Asher tapped the screen. “Not too fake though, huh?”
“They can’t have known those names were me.”
“Who are they?”
“Paul Gibson and Simon Hull. Last I heard, they were SRG... but that was years ago. Specialist Response Group, an Australian Defence Force special forces unit tasked with responding to counterterrorism. It’s part of my old unit.”
“You worked with them?”
Harry gave a nod. “We trained together, did ops together back home, and in Venezuela and Uruguay.”
“Before you were kited.”
God, Harry hated that term. “Yes. I don’t know what division they are now; I haven’t seen them in ten years. Who knows? Maybe they’re private contractors now. A lot of high-ranking military go into private security, contract out for a few years and earn a fuckton of money.”
“We need to find out who hired them.”
“The assignment for both our necks went to all agencies, yeah?” Could Harry cling to the hope that it wasn’t a home-ordered hit? That Gibson and Hull were hired by someone, anyone, else?
Asher conceded a nod. “True.”
“So it could be anyone.”
“Yes. But you said no one could know the apartments in Paris and Madrid were yours because you gave fake names. Did your handler know about them? Your address? Your aliases?”
Harry shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Yes or no?”
“I never told them!” Harry barked. “All fake passports and documents I’ve procured on my own over the years. They don’t know any of that shit.”
“So they’re tracking you,” Asher shot back. Not giving Harry the time to reply, he continued. “If we can confirm whose orders they follow, we’ll know if your government ordered you dead.”
Harry wanted to punch or kick the living shit out of something, preferably Asher, but he settled for a sigh. “Why are we going to Algeria?”
“Answers. My informant has a name and address.”
“For what? Answers to what?”
“The contract you took six months ago. In Ghardaïa.”
Harry raised his chin but said nothing.
How the hell did Asher know every single thing about him?
Asher met his gaze. “And who ordered the hit. And why someone would want a university professor of nuclear energy dead.”
A university professor?
Harry’s stomach soured. “Fucking hell.”
Asher clapped his arm and walked over to his duffle bag. “We need to pack up and leave, tonight.”
“Why the rush? I thought you wanted to stay put for a week. It’s been four days. If our plans change, you need to tell me why.”
