Brad Thor - The First Commandment

“I don’t know.”

“Who was powerful enough to do that for you?” demanded Harvath.

“I don’t know,” replied Najib.

“Of all the prisoners at Guantanamo, why did this magical benefactor choose you?”

Najib felt the drill bit pushing against his kneecap. He watched as the tip broke the skin. “I swear I don’t know,” he screamed. “I don’t know. I don’t know!”

Harvath pulled the drill bit back. “The other men who were released with you that night, tell me about them. Had you ever seen them before?”

“No,” answered Najib. “I had been kept in isolation. When I was allowed to exercise, it was in an enclosed area. I never saw any of the other prisoners.”

“I know about your time in Iraq,” replied Harvath, tempted to shove the drill bit through the man’s throat to avenge every U. S. serviceperson he’d been responsible for killing. “Were these men affiliated with people you knew in Iraq?”

“We were all concerned that the plane might be bugged, so we did not speak of associates or what we had done prior to being imprisoned at Guantanamo.”

“What did you talk about, then?”

“Besides our hatred of America?”

Once again, Harvath was tempted to ram the drill bit through the man’s throat, but he kept his rage under control. “Don’t push me.”

Najib glowered at Harvath. Finally he said, “We talked about home.”

“ Home? ”

“Home. Where we lived. Syria, Morocco, Australia, Mexico, France.”

“Wait a second,” interrupted Harvath. “ Syria, Morocco, Australia, Mexico, and France ? ”

Najib nodded.

Harvath couldn’t believe it. “I thought there were only four of you on that flight out of Guantanamo that night. Are you telling me there was a fifth prisoner released with you?”

Once more, Najib slowly nodded.

There was a storm of emotion raging inside Harvath. Instead of being able to climb out of the blackness of the mystery he’d been dumped in, he found the hole getting deeper.

There weren’t four men released from Guantanamo that night, there were five. Could the Troll have not known about the fifth prisoner? Harvath doubted it. The Troll was like no one he’d ever seen when it came to getting his hands on the most sensitive of intelligence. No, Harvath was certain he knew all about the fifth passenger that night.

Harvath wrung as much information about the flight as he could from Najib and then proceeded to the close of his plan.

He dragged Najib into the spare bedroom and showed him Al-Tal’s nurse, wife, and son bound, but still very much alive. He then dragged him to Al-Tal’s bedroom, where he pulled back the blankets and showed that the man hadn’t been harmed and was sleeping peacefully.

“I have one more question for you,” said Harvath.

Najib looked at him. “What is it?”

“The bombing of the Marine compound in Beirut in 1983. Asef Khashan was one of Al-Tal’s operatives. We know Khashan was involved in planning and helping to carry out the bombing.”

“That was a long time ago,” said Najib, his suspicion that the man in the mask holding him captive was an American agent now confirmed.

Harvath ignored the remark. “Did Al-Tal have direct knowledge in advance of the attack? Did he help Khashan plan and carry it out?”

Najib had no desire to help the hangman fit his noose around his mentor’s neck. After more than twenty years of trying to identify those involved, the Americans still had no evidence on Al-Tal. If they had, he would have been taken out just like Asef.

“I want an answer,” stated Harvath, sick of the sight of this monster who had butchered so many American troops.

“No,” said Najib. “Asef had been free to plan and coordinate Hezbollah actions in Lebanon as he saw fit.”

Then Harvath saw it-the tell, a small cue that indicated Najib wasn’t telling the truth. “I’m going to ask you one more time,” he said. “Think very carefully before you answer. Did Al-Tal know of, or was he involved with the 1983 attack on the Marine compound in Beirut?”

Najib paused for several moments, and then smiled. He knew the American knew he was lying and he knew that he was going to die. “No,” he stated, “Tammam Al-Tal was not involved and he had no advance knowledge whatsoever of the glorious attack upon your 220 precious Marines.”

There it was again-the tell. There was no question in Harvath’s mind. Najib was definitely lying.

Harvath drew his silenced Taurus pistol and shot him point-blank in the forehead. “You forgot the eighteen Navy personnel and three Army soldiers who were also killed there that day, asshole.”

He then turned the pistol on Al-Tal and shot him once in the head and four times in the chest. It was overkill, but it felt good.

Repacking his duffel, Harvath took the stairs down to the lobby, removed his mask, and left the building.

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

Though Secret Service agents were supposed to eschew predictability and routine, in their off-time Kate Palmer and Carolyn Leonard were dedicated creatures of habit.

As residents of the same northern Virginia neighborhood and two of the few women on President Jack Rutledge’s protective detail, Kate and Carolyn had become good friends early on. While Carolyn was technically Kate’s boss, their professional roles made no difference when they were away from work.

Unless the president was traveling, Saturday was a day off for them. Carolyn’s children visited their grandmother every Saturday, so the women always had the day to themselves to do whatever they wanted.

Their Saturdays started with a group cycle class at Regency Sport amp; Health Club on Old Meadow Road, and then they did an hour in the club’s strength-training center. By then they were spent. After a lengthy steam followed by a quick shower, the friends were ready for their next favorite Saturday activity, shopping.

In a career world that demanded they compete at the same physical level and be judged by the same performance standards as men, Kate and Carolyn enjoyed their weekend opportunities to reaffirm their femininity. Shopping might have been viewed as a stereotypical female pursuit, but neither of them cared. It was refreshing to be out with a girlfriend and not have to worry for the entire day about being one of the boys.

Though Leonard was still working off her husband’s debts, she was a smart saver and an even smarter investor. All work and no play could make Jill a dull girl, so she made sure to keep a little extra money squirreled away for her outings with Kate.

Their routine at Tysons Galleria was always the same. They surfed shops like Salvatore Ferragamo, Chanel, and Versace first, looking for any sales or bargains. Then it was off to Nicole Miller, Ralph Lauren, and Burberry, where they seldom left without at least a shopping bag each.

Lunch was at one of three spots-Legal Seafoods of Boston, P. F. Chang’s, or the Cheesecake Factory. Today it was P. F. Chang’s.

After a lunch of lettuce wraps, crab wonton, lemon scallops, and Cantonese roasted duck, the women paid the check, emptied their wineglasses, and headed for the parking lot.

Cutting through Macy’s, they were approached by one of the most gorgeous men either of them had ever seen. He was at least six feet tall with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He looked Italian and was wearing an impeccably tailored gray suit.

Despite being an accomplished sniper, Philippe Roussard also enjoyed engaging his targets up close. He liked to take his time, to listen to them beg for their lives and then watch them die. Sometimes, though, he didn’t get his way. In this case, he would have to read about the women’s deaths in the paper-if the news was ever published at all.