by Brad Thor
The dogs the Troll kept were one of his biggest concerns. Since rescuing one of them in Gibraltar, he had done a little research on them. Caucasian Ovcharkas were amazing animals—swift, agile, ferocious when need be, and fiercely loyal. It was obvious why they’d been the breed of choice for both the Russian military and the East German border patrol. It was also obvious why the Troll had selected them.
Harvath thought about his own Caucasian Ovcharka, or rather the poor dog he had asked Emily Hawkins to take care of while he made up his mind about what he wanted to do with it. He had a big problem with keeping a “gift” from a man who’d been complicit in the slaying of countless Americans, including one of Scot Harvath’s best friends.
To be honest, with Tracy in the hospital and everything else that had happened, he hadn’t really thought much about the puppy until Gary shared with him the animal’s grisly torture. It was a horrible picture that Harvath forced from his mind. He needed to focus.
Harvath listened long and hard before slinging the bag over his shoulder and creeping into the island’s interior. Except for the narrow spits of sand on each side, the island was nothing but trees and luxuriant vegetation. The Troll’s lair was at the tip of the island, built outward on stilts above the water.
Harvath had thought hard about how he wanted to handle the dogs. A tranquilizer gun would have been the easiest method, but he didn’t have one. The only things he had access to for this trip were those in his safety-deposit box, as well as a small storage locker he kept in Alexandria. It wasn’t a lot to choose from.
Though he had his Beretta, he didn’t have a sound suppressor for it, and therefore killing the dogs was out of the question. It would make too much noise. He had to find another way to incapacitate them. But to do that, he’d have to isolate them without arousing suspicion in their master—something easier said than done.
The dogs were the Troll’s own private security force. They never left his side—except when they went outside to relieve themselves. That was their moment of greatest vulnerability. And that was when Harvath planned to strike.
Based on satellite imagery he’d studied, Harvath had noticed that the Troll let the animals out a final time around ten o’clock in the evening. It was now just after nine-fifteen, which meant that Harvath had less than forty-five minutes to lay his trap and get himself into position.
Dogs in general, and the Ovcharkas in particular, excelled at night vision and the detection of movement, so it was imperative that Harvath be nowhere near the bait when they came outside.
Opening his dry bag he removed a football-sized object wrapped in paper. He’d had it prepared especially for this situation. It was ten kilograms of freshly ground beef into which Harvath had the butcher in Angra dos Reis grind a kilo of fresh bacon for added irresistibility.
Then, once safely away from shore, Harvath added his own special ingredient, a high-powered laxative from the pharmacy he’d visited in Rio.
Picking his spot now on the narrow trail that led from the Troll’s retreat, Harvath divided the meat into two sections and placed them close enough together that the dogs would be able to smell them, but far enough apart so that whichever dog got to the meat first, wouldn’t be able to wolf down his portion and then beat his partner to the other.
With the bait set, Harvath stepped into the brush, making sure he stayed downwind as he crept toward the house.
He found a perfect vantage spot among some large boulders near the shoreline. The house glowed with soft lighting and all of its window walls were retracted to let in the evening air. Harvath could hear classical music coming from inside. It was Pachelbel’s Canon in D, and he recognized it immediately. It was one of Tracy’s favorites. She had it on her iPod and played it on the audio station in his kitchen when she cooked breakfast.
Harvath wondered if she’d been playing it on the morning she was shot.
Drawing his pistol, Harvath pulled back the slide to make sure the weapon was charged and said into the warm night air, “This one will be for you, honey.”
CHAPTER 84
Since Harvath hadn’t skimped on the drug, it didn’t take long for the laxative-laden meat to work its magic. Both dogs began howling almost in unison. The rumbling tearing through their bowels had to have been horrible.
The music was turned off, and Harvath caught his first glimpse of the Troll. It brought the memories of their first encounter in Gibraltar flooding back to him.
The Troll’s pure white dogs, which were well over forty-one inches high at the shoulder, towered above the little man. Where the animals had to weigh close to two hundred pounds apiece, the Troll couldn’t have weighed more than seventy-five. Harvath placed his height at just under three feet tall. That said, he knew the man’s size was absolutely no indication of his cunning.
The Troll opened the front doors of his rustic villa, and the dogs knocked their master out of the way as they tore out of the house. If the Troll had any idea what was wrong with them, he certainly didn’t show it. Harvath’s guess was that the man had absolutely no idea what was going on. All he knew was that his animals were acting strangely and out of character.
Harvath watched as the Troll followed the dogs outside. It was time.
Stepping out from behind the rocks, Harvath moved quickly up the beach. As he neared the house, he cut around back and hopped a wooden fence that surrounded a lushly planted, open-air bath.
He crossed the fragrant courtyard, and after climbing a small flight of stone steps, entered the house through the wide-open French doors.
Passing through the kitchen area, Harvath dropped a stack of bone-shaped packages on the counter and cupboards and continued in.
Halfway through the living room he noticed a small alcove that must have been used as a reading nook. It had two upholstered chairs, a lamp, and a small side table. Harvath unslung his dry bag, pulled his pistol, and sat down.
To say the Troll was surprised to see him was an understatement. He pulled up short so quickly, he lost his balance. Harvath might have laughed if he hadn’t harbored such an intense hatred for the man.
To his credit, the Troll had a very agile mind. Seeing Harvath and his gun, the man summed up the situation very quickly.
“What have you done to my dogs?” he demanded.
“They’ll be fine,” said Harvath. “It’s only temporary.”
“You bloody bastard,” roared the little man. “How dare you hurt those animals? They have done absolutely nothing to you.”
“And I want to keep it that way.”
The Troll burned holes into Harvath with his eyes. “So help me. If anything happens to them, I will make it my life’s work to see to it that you pay with your very last breath.”
His demeanor had switched from agitated, almost panicked, to an icy calm. There was no question that he meant what he said and that he fully believed he could carry out the threat.
“I left two packets in the kitchen,” said Harvath, referring to the product known as K-9 Quencher he’d picked up at the same strip mall at which he’d bought his computer before leaving D.C.
“What are they?” asked the Troll, the apprehension obvious in his voice.
“Don’t worry. If I’d wanted your dogs dead, they’d be dead. Those packets contain an electrolyte powder specially formulated for rehydrating canines.”
“What did you do to them?”
“It’s just a laxative. They’ll be fine in a few hours. Pour each packet into a bowl of water and leave them outside where the dogs can get to them.” As the Troll glared at him, Harvath added, “And make sure you stay where I can see you.”
After placing the bowls upon the threshold, the Troll closed the front door, came back to the reading nook, and climbed into the chair next to Harvath. “I knew you’d come for me,” he said. “I just didn’t think it would be this soon. So this is it, then.”
“Maybe,” replied Harvath. “It depends on whether you can be of any further use to me.”
“So you’re not a man of your word after all.”
Harvath knew what he was alluding to, but he let the question hang in the air between them.
“You promised I wouldn’t be killed,” said the Troll in his tainted British accent. His dark hair was cut short and he sported a well-kept beard.
Harvath grinned. “I made that promise to you when I thought you were cooperating with me.”
The Troll’s eyes shifted. It was an ever-so-subtle tell. Harvath knew he had him. “There should have been another name on that list you gave me. Five men were released from Gitmo that night. Not four.”
The Troll smiled. “Agent Harvath, if there’s one thing I’ve learned during my lifetime, it’s how to read people, and I can tell that you already know who this fifth person is.”
Harvath leaned forward, his face a mask of deadly determination. “If you’re such a good reader of people then you should already know that if you do not cooperate, I will kill you with my own bare hands, right here. Do we understand each other?”
If the Troll was intimidated by Harvath’s threat, he didn’t show it. “It’s been a very long day,” he said. “Why don’t we adjourn to the living room and have a drink?”
When Harvath hesitated, he added, “If you’re worried about me trying to poison you, you don’t have to join me. I’m quite used to drinking alone.”
Either way, Harvath wasn’t about to let his guard down. Pointing at the bar with the barrel of his Beretta he said, “Be my guest.”
CHAPTER 85
So, Agent Harvath,” said the Troll as he scooted up onto the couch with a snifter of Germain-Robin XO and made himself comfortable, “what is it I can do for you?”
Sitting face-to-face with the smug little bastard like this, Harvath’s trigger finger began to itch. He was seriously weighing the merits of killing him. If the Troll didn’t come up with something of value, he was going to put a bullet in him and toss his body into the bay. “Why did you leave Philippe Roussard’s name off the list?” demanded Harvath.
The Troll didn’t know what to say. He was angry at himself for underestimating Harvath. He was also angry at Roussard. His foolishness had put the Troll in a very difficult position.
The little man seemed to be a million miles away, so Harvath fired a round into the pillow he was leaning on. “Tick tock.”
The booming noise startled the Troll. It was not only extremely aggressive, it was also rude.
Though none of Harvath’s behavior should have come as a shock to the Troll, he had felt as if they had developed a partnership of sorts, or at the very least a détente. He felt a professional respect for Harvath, but it was obvious that it was not reciprocated.
Puffing his cheeks full of air, the Troll exhaled and said, “I have not seen or spoken with Roussard in many years.”
“So you do know him.”
“Yes,” replied the Troll. It was hopeless to lie, and he knew it. Harvath held all the cards in his hand—his fortune, his livelihood, even his life.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Five, maybe ten years ago. I can’t remember exactly.”
“But you knew he was one of the five released from Guantanamo,” asserted Harvath.
“Yes, I did.”
“And yet you purposely left his name off the list you gave to me. Why? Were you two hoping to kill me before I could stop you? Is that it?” demanded Harvath as he raised his pistol for emphasis.
It was the most logical conclusion for Harvath to come to, but it was absurd. “The last time I saw Philippe, he was nothing more than a very troubled young man.”
“Funny how quickly things change.”
The Troll thought about laughing it all off, but the pistol pointed at his chest was not particularly amusing. “I have had no contact with him since then.”
“So why leave his name off the list?”
“In my line of work, a person collects enemies very quickly. Friends are much harder to come by.”
“Roussard is a friend of yours?” asked Harvath.
“You could say that.”
Tired of his obfuscation, Harvath put another round through the couch, millimeters from the Troll’s left thigh. “My patience is wearing thin.”
“My godson,” stammered the Troll. “Philippe Roussard is my godson.”
“Somebody made you a child’s godfather?”
“It was more of an honorary title bestowed on me by the family.”
“What family?” demanded Harvath as he adjusted his aim and prepared to squeeze the trigger.
A slow smile began to spread across the Troll’s face.
“What’s so funny?”
“Sometimes,” replied the Troll, “the world is an amazingly small place.”
CHAPTER 86
THE WHITE HOUSE
It was late, but the president had told his DCI that he would wait up for his assessment. When James Vaile arrived, he was taken upstairs to the residence.
The president was in his private study watching the Chicago White Sox play the Kansas City Royals. It had been a great game that had gone into extra innings.
When the DCI knocked on the study’s open door, Jack Rutledge set down his drink, turned off the TV, and waved him in.
“Are you hungry?” asked the president as the CIA chief closed the door behind him and took the empty leather club chair next to him.
“No thank you, sir.”
“How about a drink?”
Vaile shook his head and politely declined.
“Okay then,” said Rutledge, glad to be getting on with it. “You’ve had a chance to look at everything. Let’s have it.”
The DCI withdrew a folder from his briefcase and opened it. “Mark Sheppard is no Woodward or Bernstein in the writing department, but he more than makes up for it in the depth of his research.”
Vaile handed a copy of the reporter’s article to the president and continued, “The attention this piece would have brought to the Baltimore Sun would have sent their circulation through the roof. Based on Sheppard’s notes, the paper was looking for ways they could stretch the story into a series of articles. They’d already planned to re-create the car accident, as well as the takedown of the John Doe hijacker in Charleston—fake FBI agents and all.
“We’re just lucky this guy Sheppard came looking for a statement a week before he was going to press. Had he come the night before, Geoff Mitchell and the press office wouldn’t have been able to put him off while they claimed the White House was looking into it.”
“And you never would have had time to get to him,” said the president as he finished scanning the article.
“Not the way I needed to,” replied Vaile.
“Then we dodged the bullet.”
The DCI shook his head. “Right now, Sheppard’s editors have to be fuming. This story was the best thing to come along for their paper in years and now it’s been torpedoed.”
Rutledge had a feeling he knew where this was going. “You think if we put out the alert on the school buses that might trigger the Sun into running Sheppard’s story anyway?”
“It’s always possible. Though we’ve got all his original source material, they’ve got the notes they took in their editorial meetings. If they suspect Sheppard killed his story under duress, they might smell blood in the water, decide to reinterview his sources, and run it all without his name on it.”
“Then he’d better have been damn convincing when he withdrew it.”
Vaile nodded. “He definitely had the proper motivation, that’s for sure.”
“Yet, you’re still opposed to sending out any sort of Homeland Security alert.”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
The president set the article down on the table. “If an attack does happen, what then? You don’t think at that point the Sun will repackage the article in a way that’s equally damaging?”
“How could they? We’re the only ones who know the full story. What they
have is only a small piece of the puzzle, and it’s a piece we can spin. It’ll show we were engaged in a concerted effort, before the fact, to bring the terrorists to justice. Harvath’s already killed two of them, two more are about to be apprehended in their home countries, and we’ve got multitudes of agents in the field trying to track down the fifth and final one. I think we should let this play out.”
Rutledge admired Vaile’s confidence, but unfortunately he wasn’t convinced. “If we learned anything from 9/11, it’s that hindsight is always 20:20. People will demand to know why, if we knew about a threat to school buses, we didn’t put out an alert.”
“Because,” replied the DCI emphatically, “putting out an alert is an admission of guilt. It would tell our enemies that we believed we had broken our word and that we deserved to be hit, which couldn’t be further from the truth.”
The president tried to say something in response, but Vaile held up his hand in order to be allowed to finish. “Rightly or wrongly, our agreement with the terrorists was based on the assumption that the five men released from Gitmo would not use their freedom to strike against us here at home.”
“Of course,” said Rutledge. “We agreed not to hunt them.”
“That’s what’s been bothering me. The more I look at this, the more I believe the terrorists have had other plans all along.”
CHAPTER 87
What kind of other plans?” asked Rutledge.
Vaile looked at him and replied, “Those five men must have been very important for their organization to risk so much to get them released.”
“Agreed,” said the president, nodding.
“We’re also worried that they’ve remained important enough that their organization will make good on its promise to retaliate for any of their killings.”
“I don’t see where you’re going with this.”
