The First Commandment

by Brad Thor

  T he Troll looked at the list again and then pushed the pad of paper away. In a word, he was stunned.

  Getting hold of the list had been as close to impossible as he had ever come. The Troll had precious little to bargain with and was forced to call in the favor of a lifetime from someone extremely well placed whom he knew was sitting on a piece of information so hot, it was practically radioactive.

  Once he had that information, he had enough currency to go after what he was really looking for. Though Harvath had taken almost everything from him, the Troll still had a couple of aces up his short sleeve, and he played them masterfully.

  Picking up his empty coffee cup, he slid down from his chair and padded into the kitchen. A cold breeze moved through the house carrying upon it the promise of rain. That had been one of the few drawbacks of this private island paradise. On the infrequent occasions when it rained, it poured. This meant that all of his satellite transmissions had to be suspended until after the storm had passed.

  The pots of sobering Turkish coffee were burning a hole in his stomach. Removing the remnants of a half-eaten baguette, a wedge of Camembert, and a bottle of mineral water, he set them on a tray and returned to the table, where he looked at the list once more.

  A million different things were floating around his mind, and he found it hard to stay focused. With each piece he uncovered, the puzzle only grew bigger.

  One of the most interesting items he had discovered was that a little over six months ago, the Americans had secretly released five of the most dangerous prisoners they held at Guantanamo Bay. They had used a radioactive isotope to taint their blood in order to track them, but it had failed, and the Americans had lost track of them.

  That all formed the what of the equation. What the Troll couldn’t put together was the why.

  Had it been some kind of a hush-hush trade? If so, who was it with and why track the men? Were they hoping to get them back, and if so, from whom? Who wanted them in the first place?

  As far as the Troll could see, the prisoners were in no way connected. They all came from different organizations—even different countries. It didn’t make any sense.

  He supposed an Al Qaeda connection probably could be established among the five, but not in such a way that the release en masse made any sense. And they certainly hadn’t been released because they had been model detainees or had been wrongly incarcerated in the first place. No, these were very rough, very dangerous men.

  Their dossiers listed multiple escape attempts and multiple attacks on the Joint Task Force Guantanamo guards. While it was probably a relief to some of their captors to see them gone, the United States must have commanded a heavy price in return.

  That had been the Troll’s theory, but no matter how hard he tried to find a link, he couldn’t. There was an absolute black hole of information—a very rare intelligence phenomenon, especially by his standards. Information could be hidden, but it never simply evaporated. The fact that he had to drill down so hard to get what was sitting in front of him right now told him one thing—the United States didn’t want word of the release of these five men ever getting out.

  The soldiers who had been involved with releasing the prisoners that rainy night nearly six months ago had all been promoted and transferred out of Guantanamo. The United States had done a very good job tying up all its loose ends, but why? What were they hiding?

  The Troll let that question spin in his brain for a bit while he focused on another piece that didn’t seem to fit—Agent Scot Harvath.

  Over the last several hours, it had become quite apparent that Harvath had some exceptional resources at his disposal, but they weren’t resources that belonged to the U. S. government per se.

  On the contrary, for some reason the United States regarded him as a liability and, according to the Troll’s sources, wasn’t allowing Harvath to pursue the investigation into who’d shot Tracy Hastings. Harvath was working alone.

  Be that as it might, the man obviously had friends—and quite talented ones at that. The Troll was still chiding himself for having lost everything. His data, his fortune, all of it.

  At first, he had entertained the idea of putting a contract out on Harvath, but not only would it have been prohibitively expensive, but if anything happened to Harvath, the Troll might very well never see his money or his data again. He had no choice, at least for the time being, but to let things play out. If an opportunity presented itself at some point in the future, and one always did, then he would make his move. But for the time being, he was going to have to give every appearance that he was playing ball.

  Reaching across the table, he pulled the thin pad of paper back toward him and studied the list of five names again. What should his next move be?

  As a clap of thunder roared from somewhere out over the bay, the Troll lifted his pen, crossed the top name off the list, and then logged back into the chat room. What Harvath didn’t know wouldn’t kill him.

  Chapter 27

  SARGASSO INTELLIGENCE PROGRAM

  ELK MOUNTAIN RESORT

  MONTROSE, COLORADO

  A fter talking with her doctors, Harvath had sat with his mother again and had watched her sleep. It was still too early to tell if the damage to her vision would be permanent, but they were hopeful that her eyesight would begin to return soon. The blows she had taken to her head during the attack were what concerned them the most at this point, and they wanted to hold on to her for at least the next several days for more testing and observation.

  After a little while longer, Harvath had stood. He loved his mother dearly, but no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t just sit there by her bedside and wait for someone else to be attacked. He needed to act. So with a group of her friends on deck ready to sit vigil, he had climbed back aboard Tim Finney’s Citation X and had flown back to Colorado.

  Though the trip was smooth and uneventful, Harvath couldn’t get any sleep. Tracy lay near death and his mother had been assaulted and tortured. He would have to live with the horrors of what had happened to them for the rest of his life. For a moment, he wondered if that was a part of the plan. The thought of it turned his stomach sour and once again he tasted the bile rising in his throat.

  Harvath was coming unglued and he knew it. He was not one to let his emotions get the better of him, but this was different. The victims were people he knew and loved who were getting attacked. Would there be others? Probably. Would the attacker become more emboldened and potentially kill? That was a possibility—one so big that Harvath didn’t even like to think about it, but he had to count on it.

  Everyone, no matter how good, left clues. This guy was dropping pretty obvious ones, but none that helped Harvath figure out who he was or how he could be stopped.

  Harvath wracked his brain all the way through the plane’s touching down and the ride up into the mountains to the resort.

  When he got there, Finney and Parker were waiting for him.

  “Did you get any sleep on the way back?” asked Finney.

  Harvath shook his head, no.

  His friend handed him a key card in a small folder with a room number on it. “Why don’t you knock off for a bit?”

  “What about the Boy from Ipanema down there in Brazil?”

  “We heard from him right before a storm front moved in. His comms are down for the time being. We’ll keep an eye on things. When the weather starts to break, we’ll come get you.”

  Harvath thanked his friends and headed for his room. At the door, he made a conscious decision to shut his mind off and try to leave all his problems outside. Sleep was a weapon. It kept you sharp, and right now Scot Harvath needed it badly.

  Opening the door, he kicked his shoes off and fell onto the bed. The resort was famous for its insanely high-thread-count sheets, down duvets, and featherbeds, but Harvath didn’t care about any of that. All he wanted was sleep.

  In a matter of moments his prayers were answered and he stepped off the cliff of consciousne
ss into one of the deepest, darkest sleeps he had ever known.

  Chapter 28

  I t was midmorning when Ron Parker called Harvath and told him to meet him in the dining room.

  Harvath grabbed a quick shower, throwing the temperature control all the way to cold at the end to help wake him up and shake off the remnants of the horrible nightmare that had visited him every night without fail since Tracy’s shooting.

  He dressed in the spare clothes Finney had arranged for him and then called both hospitals to check on how his mother and Tracy were doing.

  In the restaurant, Parker already had breakfast waiting for them. Harvath poured himself a cup of coffee and asked, “Where’s Tim?”

  “He’s glued to the markets this morning. There’s a stock in South America he has his eye on.”

  Harvath got the picture and didn’t ask any more questions. Once he had gulped down his breakfast, Parker drove him out to Sargasso.

  When they entered the conference room, Tim Finney and Tom Morgan were waiting for them.

  “The weather’s almost cleared,” said Morgan as Harvath poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. “We should be hearing from our friend shortly.”

  “How’s your mom doing?” asked Finney as he took the chair next to Harvath.

  “Awful.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. How about Tracy?”

  “No change,” he replied. Wanting to steer the questions away from his series of misfortunes he posed one of his own. “Has that sawed-off little shit bag moved at all?”

  “Nope,” replied Parker as he stood in front of his laptop and took a sip of coffee.

  “Has anyone been out to the island to see him?”

  “Negative.”

  Harvath leaned back in his chair and massaged his face with his hands. “So we’re back to waiting.”

  Finney tapped his pen against the conference table. “Yep.”

  The screens around the room were all illuminated and showed the chat room with the last message from the Troll indicating that he had information for Harvath but that it would have to wait until the rain had passed.

  “How’s Alison look?” asked Parker, breaking the silence that had fallen upon the room. “Good?”

  Harvath smiled. No matter how luxurious the surroundings, lying in wait was still lying in wait, and cops as well as soldiers always talked about the same thing. “Yeah,” Harvath replied. “She looks very good.”

  “If I could convince her to move here full-time, maybe we could have something.”

  Finney snorted derisively. “And deprive all the resort’s female guests of your attention? Not on your life.”

  Parker laughed. “It doesn’t matter. San Diego is where her career is. She’s not going to leave that. Not even for me.”

  Harvath was going to respond when Tom Morgan snapped his fingers and pointed to one of the screens. The Troll was back.

  Chapter 29

  I t seemed an odd request at first, but Harvath wasn’t the world’s fastest typist either, and Morgan had assured him that they wouldn’t be putting themselves at risk.

  With his headset on and a nod from Morgan that it was safe to proceed, Harvath said, “Okay, I’m here.”

  “Agent Harvath, how nice to hear your voice,” replied the Troll over their encrypted voice-chat link.

  “Yours, too. It’s a lot deeper than I expected.”

  The Troll laughed. “All the better to prevent you from building an accurate voiceprint of me. That Echelon listening program your government has is quite good, you know.”

  Harvath tried to place the man’s accent. He spoke the Queen’s English with an exceptional British accent, but there was something beneath it. Czech, maybe? Or was it Russian? Harvath spoke passable Russian and knew many native Russian speakers. This man sounded more like he came from outside mother Russia proper. Perhaps Georgia.

  That fact notwithstanding, Harvath still had no desire to make small talk, so he got to the point. “Your last transmission said you had something for me. What is it?”

  “Through a couple of sources I still have access to, I was able to secure a list of names. Four, to be exact,” lied the Troll. “All released en masse from the U. S. naval detention facility at Guantanamo Bay.”

  “And why would I be interested in them?” asked Harvath.

  The Troll paused for effect and then said, “Because one of those men is the person you’re looking for.”

  Harvath looked at Finney, Parker, and Morgan, who were all quietly listening in on the exchange. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  The Troll laughed. “As it turns out, Agent Harvath, there is quite a bit your government is keeping from you. Quite a bit they do not wish for you, or anyone else, for that matter, to find out.”

  “Like what?” asked Harvath.

  “Like the fact that these four men released from Guantanamo were very nefarious characters. All of them bona-fide terrorists with multiple confirmed kills against American soldiers, as well as intelligence operatives and private contractors.”

  A million questions raced through Harvath’s mind, not the least of which was why the hell four bona-fide terrorists would have been released. It didn’t make any sense. “Your information must be off.”

  “I thought so too at first,” replied the Troll. “But there’s more. The four men had their blood tainted with a radioactive isotope shortly before they were released. It was part of a top-secret project your government uses occasionally to track operatives who are going into dangerous areas, as well as prisoners it wants to release back into the wild.”

  At that moment, a series of realizations began crashing down upon Harvath.

  “The only problem,” continued the Troll, “was that whoever sent the plane to pick the men up knew about the top-secret program. The aircraft had been outfitted with equipment capable of conducting full blood transfusions.”

  As Harvath tried to focus his mind, he asked, “How do you know all this?”

  “It was part of a report filed after your government lost track of these four men when the plane landed overseas. Containers with their tainted blood were taken in four different directions and discarded. They were eventually recovered by the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  “I still don’t see what this has to do with—”

  “The blood painted above your doorway,” interrupted the Troll with impatience. “It contained the same unique radioisotope used on the four men released from Guantanamo.”

  Chapter 30

  W e don’t have much choice,” offered Finney, trying to be the voice of reason in the group. “If you say no, or if you miss his deadline, he’ll bolt. I know it.”

  “So what?” replied Parker. “If he runs, we’ll find him. It may take a while, but we’ll track him down eventually. Besides, he’s got zero bank balances across the board. Maybe he’s got some hard currency stashed here and there, but how long is that going to last him? Not long.”

  “And if he decides to use the money to take out a contract on Scot?”

  It was a scenario Parker had considered, but didn’t deem plausible. “Then he’d really be in trouble. If he killed Scot he’d never get his data or his money back.”

  “But he could start over,” said Finney. “Maybe he could even extort protection money from the four men on his list. He could offer to get rid of Harvath for them.”

  “He’d have to find them first, and based on what we’ve been told,” countered Parker, “that’s not something even the United States government has been able to do. Right?”

  Parker was speaking to him, but Harvath had only half heard him. His mind was still replaying the conversation he’d had with Gary Lawlor shortly after hanging up with the Troll.

  Everything the dwarf had told him made sense. He had been right about the radioisotope program and the fact that the blood over Harvath’s doorframe had been tainted with it. He had little reason to suspect the information about the men released from Gu
antanamo was anything but accurate as well.

  That was what really bothered him. If these four detainees were as bad as the Troll claimed, they never should have seen the light of day again. So why were they free? What possible reason could there have been for letting them go?

  This line of questioning led Harvath to something even more disturbing. These men could never have been released from Gitmo without the president’s knowledge. Suddenly, he knew why the president had wanted to sideline him. For some reason, Rutledge was protecting these men. But why?

  Protecting them made about as much sense as releasing them. Harvath shared his shock and disappointment at the president with Lawlor, but his boss had little sympathy for him. He reminded Harvath that he was under direct orders from Rutledge to back off and let the president and his people handle it. Lawlor then demanded that he come home.

  If anyone knew that there were times not to play by the rules, it was Lawlor. His refusal to acknowledge that now was definitely one of those times not only pissed Harvath off, but left him feeling strangely abandoned.

  Parker snapped his fingers in front of Harvath’s face to get his attention. “Am I talking solely for my own benefit here?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry,” replied Harvath, bringing himself back to the present. “What were we talking about?”

  Parker rolled his eyes. “The Troll. Are we going to agree to his deal or not?”

  Harvath thought about it a moment and then replied, “I’m inclined to pay him.”

  “You gotta be kidding me,” moaned Parker as he threw his hands into the air. “Jesus, Harvath.”

  “Tim’s right. He knows better than to put a hit on me. If he does, he’ll never get back any of what we took from him.”

  “But—” attempted Parker.

  “And I know if anything does happen to me,” continued Harvath, “I’ve got two friends who will make sure he pays.”

  Finney looked over both of his shoulders trying to spot the friends Harvath was referring to, then exclaimed, “Oh! You mean us.”