Brad Thor - The First Commandment

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.

Moments 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 federal 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.

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

The call from Philippe Roussard’s handler came in the middle of the night. “Do you have everything in place?” Roussard sat up in bed and propped a thin pillow between his head and the cheap stucco wall. “Yes,” he responded, sliding a Gitanes from the pack on the nightstand and lighting it up.

“Those things will kill you,” warned his handler as he heard Roussard’s Zippo clank shut and the operative took a deep drag.

Philippe swept his dark hair back from his face and replied, “Your concern for my well-being is quite touching.”

The caller refused to rise to the bait. Their relationship had been much too contentious of late. They needed to work together if they were going to succeed. Taking a deep breath, the handler said, “When you are finished, the boat will be waiting. Make sure no one sees you get on it.”

Roussard snorted in response. No one was going to see him. No one ever did. He was like a phantom, a shadow. In fact, he was so elusive that many people didn’t even believe he existed. The U. S. government, though, was a different matter.

Until his capture, no one had ever seen him. No one knew his name or nationality. The American soldiers in Iraq called him Juba and had lived in abject terror of being his next victim.

All of his shots came from at least two hundred meters and as far away as thirteen hundred. Almost every one was perfect. He had an intimate understanding of body armor and knew right where to place his shots-the lower spine, the ribs, or just above the chest.

Sometimes, as in the case of the four-strong Marine scout sniper team in Ramadi, he dispatched his targets with absolutely pristine shots to the head. With well over a hundred kills to his credit, Roussard was a hero to those Iraqis who resented the American occupation and an avenging angel to his brethren among the insurgency.

The Americans had hunted him relentlessly and eventually they caught him. He was shipped to Guantanamo where he endured months of torture. Then, just over six months ago, he had been miraculously delivered out of captivity. He and four other prisoners had been loaded aboard a plane and flown back to their homes. Only Roussard knew why it had happened or who their benefactor was.

Now, as he slipped his powerful, six-foot frame into a pair of Servpro coveralls, the irony of his situation wasn’t lost on him. America had secretly agreed to his release along with the four others in order to protect its citizens against further terrorism. Yet here he was, inside America itself, ready to carry out his next attack.

Regardless of the distasteful habits Roussard had cultivated in order to blend into Western society, he was still a true mujahideen at heart. His nature ran quite contrary to that of his handler, who was all too comfortable with Western excesses, especially rich food and expensive spirits.

The French boarding school in which Roussard had been raised had had little influence on him beyond teaching him how to comfortably blend in among his Western enemies. His true education had come from years spent at a nearby mosque and then later at several secret camps throughout Pakistan and Afghanistan.

It was there that he learned that “Al Qaeda” didn’t translate to “the base,” as most Western media outlets had so ignorantly reported, but rather, “the database.” It referred to the original computer file of the thousands of mujahideen who were recruited and trained with the help of the CIA to defeat the Russians in Afghanistan.