by Brad Thor
Harvath had been incredibly cruel in meting out the punishment to Mohammed, but in almost the same breath he had shown himself to be incredibly compassionate. Argos would have surely died if Harvath had not given him medical attention himself and found him an able veterinarian. Harvath had even gone so far as to pay the doctor out of his own pocket for the animal’s surgery. Though the Troll had never been very fond of Americans, this was a man he respected. He was a ruthless, cold-blooded killer, who also possessed a marked degree of humanity.
Turning his mind to dinner, the Troll removed several large Kobe steaks from the refrigerator, part of a special shipment he’d had flown in from Japan.
The Japanese were famous for the beer-and-sake-
laced diet they fed their premium cattle—and of course for the massages the cows received. Nothing was too good for Kobe cattle, and the painstaking efforts showered upon the animals yielded an incredible meat. It was finely marbled with fat that was less saturated than the fat in other beef, was significantly lower in cholesterol, and was without rival in flavor and tenderness.
As he set the steaks up on the counter, both of the dogs appeared by his side, their nostrils flaring at the scent of the beef. They both asked so little from him and yet gave so much in return. They were his ever-present companions, truer and more loyal than almost any human being he had ever known.
The Troll plated a steak for each of the dogs and set them down on the floor. Immediately, they fell upon them and the beef disappeared.
When his food was prepared, the Troll set it upon the dining table, uncorked another bottle of Château Quercy, and climbed into his chair to eat.
His steak was perfect. Cutting into it was like slicing into a piece of soft, ripened Brie.
He savored every bite of his meal, and when his plate was clean and his wine glass empty, he removed his dinnerware to the kitchen.
Pouring himself a snifter of Germain-Robin XO, he took a long sip and closed his eyes. For all of his accomplishments, the Troll’s life was a lonely place.
Chapter 14
T he living-room windows were on sliding tracks and had been pulled back to open the room onto the sea. A light breeze carried the smell of the ocean mixed with the tiny island’s exotic flowers. Only the Brazilians could create a night so perfect, mused the Troll as he climbed up to the table he used as a desk and opened his rugged General Dynamics XR-1 GoBook laptop. Via a small, inflatable satellite dish positioned outside, he was soon connected with his rack of dedicated servers secretly housed in a bunker deep within the eastern Pyrenees Mountains.
A British entrepreneur had rolled the dice on an idea that the Swiss approach to banking could be replicated in the digital realm.
The Brit’s facility in the European principality of Andorra boasted redundant power supplies, redundant network feeds, FM200 fire suppression, redundant air-conditioning, and multistage security identification processes. His servers were connected to generous bandwidth allocations, fully burstable, with multiple aggregated providers, ensuring 100 percent availability for maximum uptime.
It had all been music to the Troll’s ears. Relying on the servers at his estate was out of the question. Eilenaigas House was beyond dangerous, at least for now. If he kept a low enough profile, the U. S. intelligence services would give up on him eventually, but until they did, he’d have to stay far away from his home in Scotland.
When it was all said and done, there were much worse places to pass one’s time than a private island in Brazil. And he would know. He’d been to them.
Listening to the music of the waves as they gently washed against the rocks outside, the Troll logged on to his primary server and began the authentication process to gain access to his data. He still had not sifted through the windfall of intelligence he had gleaned from raiding the NSA’s top-secret files in New York during the Al Qaeda attack. The amount of data he’d stolen from the Americans had been beyond his wildest dreams.
The NSA program had been named Athena, after the Greek goddess of wisdom. Apparently the Greeks didn’t have a goddess of blackmail.
It had been a deep black data-mining operation. Using both the Echelon and Carnivore systems, the NSA had been gathering intelligence that could be used as leverage against various foreign concerns—governments, heads of state, and influential foreign business people.
In short, the Athena Program had been created to collect and sort extremely dirty laundry. Once they had their teeth into something particularly juicy, such as the Princess Diana crash, TWA 800, or the true cause of Yassir Arafat’s death, they assigned teams of operatives to flesh out the big picture and uncover as much supporting data as possible. That way, when it came time to use it, they had the victim pinned against the wall so tightly, there was absolutely no room for him or her to wiggle free.
And when they uncovered a conspiracy involving several powerful foreign figures, it was like hitting the jackpot.
The Troll had to smile. It was devious, deceitful, and utterly unAmerican. And now, all of the NSA’s data belonged to him. The gift that will keep on giving. There was enough in there to keep him busy for three lifetimes. The biggest risk was jumping the gun and selling off the pieces of information too quickly. He would have to study all of it and understand how it interrelated before he began assigning values. Fortunately, the Athena analysts had already done a lot of his work for him.
The Troll clicked on the subgroup folder he’d been working in and waited for its contents sheet to appear. It didn’t.
He clicked on the icon again and waited, but still nothing happened. He checked his uplink status. Everything appeared to be okay. So why then wasn’t his data coming up?
He tried another file and then another. They were all the same—empty. The Troll’s heart caught in his throat. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t happening.
He quaffed the balance of the brandy in his snifter, wiped his bearded lips with the sleeve of his linen shirt, and went through every single file on every single server.
All empty.
As he neared the end, he saw an animated icon that didn’t belong there. It was a little bearded man with a horned helmet, a sword in one hand, and a shield in the other. The figure hopped from one foot to the other and on every fourth hop banged his sword against his shield.
It looked like a little Viking, but the Troll knew better. This was no Viking. It was a Norseman—the codename of American counterterrorism operative Scot Harvath.
Chapter 15
E nraged, the Troll clicked on the icon and opened the folder. It took a maddeningly long time for the file to load. For a moment, he thought it might be a trick—a way to purposely keep him online so that American intelligence could pinpoint his location.
Finally, the file loaded. It was a series of screen captures for all of his bank accounts. Every single balance reflected the same amount—zero.
A scream welled up from deep inside his tiny body as he hurled his brandy snifter against the wall. The dogs leaped up and began barking.
His entire life’s work was gone. Everything. The only thing that was still his was the estate in the Scottish Highlands, but if the Americans had been this thorough, the Troll had little reason to doubt that they had found a way to tie that up and keep him from doing anything with it as well. British antiterrorism laws were quite severe. It wouldn’t take much for the Americans to convince the U. K. authorities to play ball.
The dogs were still barking. The Troll grabbed a pewter dish filled with pistachios and was about to launch it when he thought better of it. “Silence,” he ordered, and the barking dogs fell quiet.
He needed to think. There had to be some way out of this.
He spent the next two hours going through his servers, remotely connecting to his various bank accounts scattered around the globe. Then began a series of angry phone calls, during which he suffered through excuse after excuse from each of his bankers. They plied him with empty promises to get to the bottom of
what had happened, but the Troll knew it was no use. The Americans had done it. They had gotten everything. He was ruined.
While the Troll had no idea what he was going to do next, he knew one thing for certain. Scot Harvath was responsible, and he was going to make him pay.
He went back to the lone computer file that had been left behind. The dancing Norseman mocked him as it hopped from one foot to the other. Slowly, the Troll scrolled through the data. On his third pass he found it.
Now the Troll understood why the file had taken so long to load. Embedded within that annoying, hopping Norseman icon was a message.
It was an invitation to a private chat room from none other than Scot Harvath. The Troll shut down his computer.
This was going to take some brainpower. He resisted the urge to pour another brandy. Instead, he brewed a small copper pot of potent Turkish coffee and returned to the living room.
As he watched the brightly colored fish below the glass floor, he considered his options. This would be a fight for his very survival, and though he guessed himself to be far beyond Harvath in the brains department, there was no telling what kind of resources the American had at his disposal. The gravest error he could make here would be to underestimate the man.
Since there was no clock ticking on the offer to enter the chat room, the Troll decided to take his time and research his adversary first.
Chapter 16
ELK MOUNTAIN RESORT
MONTROSE, COLORADO
Y ou’re positive he saw the link?” asked Harvath.
Morgan nodded. “We loaded the icon with a program designed to ping us back once he clicked on it and then erase itself. He saw it. Believe me.”
“I still don’t like how long this is taking,” said Ron Parker as he paced along one side of the long table. They had all gathered in the Sargasso Intelligence Program’s conference room, which also doubled as its War Room when sensitive operations required monitoring. “We should have set a time limit on him.”
Tim Finney held up his hand. “Gentlemen, he’ll come. Don’t worry. He doesn’t have a choice. He’s taking his time because he can. Making us wait is the only power he has at this point, and he knows it.”
Parker stopped pacing and poured himself a cup of coffee from the machine on top of a low-slung credenza. Above it was a large oil painting of a bugling elk in a lush mountain valley. “He could also walk away.”
Harvath had always appreciated Parker’s keen, tactical mind. Only fools refused to consider retreat when it was the best option. But in this case, Harvath knew his opponent better than Parker did. The Troll might try to double-cross them, but he wasn’t going to simply disappear.
“There’s too much at stake for him here,” said Harvath, signaling to Parker that he wanted a cup of coffee too. “He can’t afford to walk away. He’ll want to get back what we took from him.”
“Fat chance of that happening,” replied Parker as he handed Harvath a mug and sat down next to him. “Have you got any idea what you’re going to say when he does appear in that chat room?”
“How about, In addition to your data and your bank accounts, we also revoked your membership in the lollipop guild, asshole?” offered Finney as he bellied up to the credenza.
Though he didn’t much feel like it, Harvath smiled. “I hadn’t thought of that one. I’ll throw it in the pot and see what moves me when the time comes.”
“It’s come,” said Tom Morgan as he punched a button on his laptop and pushed it across the table to Harvath.
Flat-panel monitors at the front of the conference room sprang to life with a real-time view of the chat room. A message indicated that a new chatter had entered. As this was a private chat room that had been created solely for this exchange, they all knew they were looking at the digital presence of the man known only as the Troll.
Harvath’s fingers hovered above the keyboard, but Finney shook his head, no. “He made us wait. Now let’s return the favor. We’ve got the upper hand here. Let’s make it clear.”
Though he wasn’t sure he agreed with his friend, Harvath waited. Moments later, the Troll fired the opening shot.
You have taken things that do not belong to you, he typed.
Harvath didn’t need any coaching. So have you, he replied.
I want my bank accounts and my data restored, immediately.
And I want to know who shot Tracy Hastings, Harvath responded.
There was a long pause. Finally, the Troll responded, So that is what this is all about? There was another pause before the dwarf added, Perhaps we can come to an arrangement.
Finney looked ready to make a suggestion, but Harvath held up his hand to stop him. He knew what he was doing. If you cooperate, I’ll let you live.
The Troll typed :) followed by, I have been threatened by more powerful men than you and yet here I am. You will have to offer me something more.
You killed a very good friend of mine in New York, replied Harvath. You are lucky that I am offering as much as I am.
You are referring to Master Sergeant Robert Herrington. His death was most regrettable, but it should be noted that it was Al Qaeda who killed him. I was nowhere near New York when the attack took place.
The Troll knew way too much about Harvath, and it made him very uncomfortable. How did you find out where I lived?
It was not difficult.
Humor me, Harvath fired back.
I conducted a simple credit check.
My name is not on my new house. None of the utilities are in my name. I don’t even receive mail there.
I know you don’t, answered the Troll. It all goes to a local pack-and-ship store in Alexandria. Your last known address before you got smart and switched to the pack-and-ship was an apartment several blocks away. I hired someone to ascertain whether you still lived there. The day my source showed up you were moving to the house. He simply followed you to your new domicile. From what he tells me, Bishop’s Gate is quite lovely.
Harvath was done dancing. Did you order the hit on Tracy Hastings?
The Troll took his time. Finally he typed, No. I did not.
Do you know who did?
Maybe.
It took everything Harvath had to keep his temper in check.
Chapter 17
M oments later, the Troll responded, Agent Harvath, you have taken everything I have. Unless you put something more than threats against my life on the table, there really isn’t anything in this for me and I don’t see any point in continuing our conversation.
Harvath had expected this and was prepared to bargain. I’m prepared to purchase the information from you.
Using my own money, of course.
Of course.
I want it all, stated the Troll. Half as a show of good faith now, the rest upon delivery of the information.
Harvath typed slowly and deliberately. You’ll get one million if and when you provide me proof of the shooter’s identity. And as far as good faith goes, you’re going to demonstrate yours by giving me the name of the person who followed me to Bishop’s Gate.
I never reveal my sources, replied the Troll. Not even for one million dollars, which by the way is a mere pittance considering what you took from me.
Then there is no deal.
Agent Harvath, what happened to Ms. Hastings was indeed unfortunate. When I heard about it, I questioned my source, in detail, but he neither saw nor heard anything that could be of value to you. He followed you and early the next morning he placed my gift upon your doorstep.
Harvath had figured whoever it was had been nothing more than a courier, probably some cut-rate private eye the Troll had hired on the cheap. It was a concession he was willing to make, and he let it drop.
Before he could type a response, the Troll added, I heard they found lamb’s blood above your front door.
The man’s sources were scarily good. It sickened Harvath that such a person could worm his tentacles in wherever he pleased, even a highly sensitive feder
al investigation. So what?
So, very biblical, wouldn’t you say?
Can you help me or not? asked Harvath.
I want a show of good faith from you first.
I already told you I’ll let you live.
A rather empty threat considering that you have no idea where I am.
Harvath nodded to Tom Morgan and then typed, Just so you know, I don’t make empty threats.
A fraction of a second later, an infrared surveillance image appeared on the screen and Harvath narrated. This satellite footage was taken over your location in Angra dos Reis less than ten minutes ago. From what I can tell, that’s you near the front of the structure, and the two hot spots on your left would be the dogs. Am I correct?
The Troll didn’t respond. Harvath figured he had to be shocked. Having an adversary discover where you live is an incredibly unsettling violation. It was nice to be able to dish out a little of the Troll’s own medicine.
So now you have my show of good faith, added Harvath. I’m a man of my word. If I had wanted you dead, you’d be dead.
Minutes passed as the Troll tried to piece together how they had tracked him down. Finally, he typed, It was the wire transfer to the property management company.
Now it was Harvath’s turn to post a smiley face. :) With Finney’s help, he had stripped the Troll of everything and had knocked him completely off-balance.
A few minutes later, as he finished his instructions to the newly acquiescent Troll, Harvath left the man with one final warning, You are not to leave the island. If you do, I will hunt you down and kill you myself.
