Brad Thor - The First Commandment

“Even if it means you’re putting countless American lives on the line?”

Harvath was tempted to tell the DCI what he’d learned from Tammam Al-Tal in Jordan -that his operative, Najib, had been sprung from Gitmo in exchange for Al-Tal relinquishing his contract on Harvath, but at this point he was in no mood to share intelligence with anyone, especially the director of the CIA. Instead he said, “Whoever this guy is, he came looking for me. I didn’t start this.”

“Either way,” replied Vaile, “the president gave his word that we wouldn’t go after these men once they were released from Guantanamo.”

“One of them has attacked Americans on American soil. That right there should invalidate any deal the president made. As far as I’m concerned, these five shouldn’t be handed a get out of jail free card for the rest of their lives.”

“I agree with you,” said the DCI. “They shouldn’t, but there’s only one left now.”

Harvath didn’t understand. “One?”

“You killed Palmera and Najib, and we’ve recently located two others.”

“Which two?” asked Harvath. “Where are they?”

“ Morocco and Australia,” said Vaile. “They’re under surveillance and are very close to being picked up by those countries for engaging in terrorist activity since their release from Gitmo. Which leaves-”

“The fifth detainee released that night. The Frenchman.”

The DCI nodded. “His name is Philippe Roussard. A sniper by training, he was also known as Juba. Before we caught him, he’d made quite a name for himself in Iraq; over one hundred confirmed kills of American service personnel.”

“That’s who’s killing my friends and family?” responded Harvath, searching his memory banks for the names and coming up empty.

Vaile nodded again.

Harvath’s anger was rising once more. “I can’t fucking believe this. You know who the hell this guy is and still you’re not doing anything to nail his ass to the wall.”

Vaile didn’t want to get into a pissing match with Harvath, so he changed the subject. “Did you know that I had a nephew who was killed in Iraq?”

“No, I didn’t,” replied Harvath, trying to get his temper under control. “I’m sorry.”

“For obvious reasons, our family and the Marines kept the relationship secret. As it turns out, Roussard was the one who killed him. He had no idea, of course. My nephew was just another infidel crusader to that scumbag; another American notch on his rifle butt.

“Even in death we kept my nephew’s relationship to me hidden. The last thing we wanted to do was hand the insurgency such a high-profile victory, especially since Juba, or Roussard, had reached almost mythical status for being untouchable and able to kill anyone he wanted.”

“Of course not,” said Harvath, sorry for the man’s loss, “but at the risk of sounding insensitive, where do I and the people I care about fit into all of this?”

“The name Roussard doesn’t ring any bells with you, does it?” asked Vaile.

Harvath shook his head.

“I guess it makes no difference. As long as the president intends to honor his side of the bargain, I have no choice but to bring you in.”

“But what if I can get to the people responsible for all of this before you do?”

“Personally,” said Vaile as he stood, “I don’t think any of this is about kids, school buses, or conditions at Gitmo. I think somehow it is all about you, and I’d like nothing more than for you to hunt down and kill every last one of the people responsible.”

There was a long pause in which Harvath sensed there was something else the DCI wanted to say.

A moment later, the man spoke. “But my personal opinions don’t really matter much in this case. Professionally, I’m bound to carry out the orders given to me by the president of the United States. I’d recommend you start doing the same, but something tells me we’re well beyond the point of that doing any good.”

“We are,” replied Harvath.

Vaile walked the couple of steps to the steam room door and then, with his hand upon it, turned to look back at Harvath. “In that case, there’s something you need to see.”

SOMEWHERE OVER THE CARIBBEAN SEA

The flight to Rio should have been restful, but Harvath didn’t get a wink of sleep. Vaile had promised to email him Roussard’s dossier, but Harvath doubted there’d be much in it of any use.

He still had one slimy little rock to overturn.

Harvath kept thinking about his past in general and one person in particular. Meg Cassidy was the last person he’d been involved with before meeting Tracy.

Brazil was one of those magical places Meg had always wanted to take him to, but Harvath had never been able to find, or never wanted to find, the time to go. As his commercial flight roared south, he thought what an idiot he’d been to lose Meg and how lucky he’d been to find Tracy. If Tracy died, he knew his status as damaged goods would be permanently cast in stone. One was rarely given second chances in life. He’d managed to get his second chance at happiness put on a life support system. It was an ironic metaphor, as his love life had always been in critical condition.

Harvath tried to shake the morbid thoughts, but couldn’t. Across the aisle from him was a young, newlywed couple. By the looks of their hand-holding, kissing, and repeated requests for more champagne, they were off to Brazil or points further afield for their honeymoon.

He hadn’t been keeping track of the date at all. Glancing down at his Kobold chronograph, he realized Meg Cassidy’s wedding was just days away. He made a mental note to contact Gary to ask him to arrange a special security detail for her, effective immediately. While he and Meg were no longer romantically involved, Harvath still cared deeply for her and wouldn’t want to see anything happen to her, especially because of him.

Lawlor had gotten to know Meg very well and liked her immensely. The president had also grown quite fond of her and visited her summer cottage each year when he vacationed in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin.

Meg had done her country an invaluable service in helping Harvath to track down the heirs to Abu Nidal’s terrorist organization several years ago. Lawlor would have no problem getting President Rutledge to agree to assigning her a special detail for the next few days.

That was the window of time Harvath was most worried about. Despite the attack on New York, the last Harvath had heard the president was still planning on attending Meg’s wedding. Security would be beyond tight at that point. It was the run-up he was concerned about.

Like Tracy, Meg was an amazing woman. Though it had probably created more than a little friction between her and her fiancé, Meg had sent Harvath an invitation.

When it had arrived, the beautifully engraved note card had hit him like a hammer in the center of his chest. He’d never realized it, but it became apparent at that moment that he still carried a torch for Meg and harbored a hidden desire that things might one day work out between them. Seeing the invitation with her name and that of her fiancé, made him realize that some sort of spontaneous reconciliation cast down from the gods was no longer a possibility.

Not knowing how to reply to the invitation, Harvath simply set it aside and politely changed the subject the one time the president brought it up.

Now, speeding ever closer to Brazil -a country Meg had been so passionate about having him visit-Harvath couldn’t help but think of her and also of himself. God, was he really that screwed up? It seemed like everything he touched turned to dust.