Brad Thor - The First Commandment

There was a part of Harvath that wondered, just for a moment, if when the plane landed he should simply disappear into the wilds of Brazil, never to be seen again.

RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL

It was in the low seventies when Harvath stepped off the plane at Rio’s Antonio Carlos Jobim International Airport. His sense of purpose had returned and his earlier desire to disappear into the wilds of Brazil faded. He was anxious to get to work.

Using the false passport he’d removed from his safe-deposit box in D. C., he cleared customs and passport control as a German national by the name of Hans Brauner. The passport was invaluable. Not only did it allow him to travel without being tracked by any American intelligence agencies, but traveling as an EU national allowed him to enter Brazil without a visa, something he wouldn’t have been able to do had he been traveling on an American passport.

Bypassing the RDE taxi desk, he headed straight to the Rio de Janeiro State Tourism desk and bought a prepaid taxi voucher. The last thing he needed right now was to deal with one of the city’s notoriously unscrupulous cab drivers.

After sliding into a cab and giving the driver his destination, Harvath leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He’d been on planes or switching between them for the last eleven hours. He was looking forward to checking into his hotel and getting a shower, as well as a little sleep, but there was work to do first.

The driver took the Linha Vermelha road toward the city. His speeding and lane changing were perfectly choreographed to the local Funk Carioca music pumping out of the boom box taped to his elaborately decorated dashboard.

The American Express office was located beneath the Copacabana Palace Hotel on Avenida Atlântica directly across from the world-famous Copacabana Beach.

Getting out of the cab, Harvath turned his back on the blue-green waters and scantily clad bronzed bodies and headed inside. He used a house phone to contact the American Express office to inquire whether his FedEx package had arrived yet. It had.

After checking in at the front desk and getting his key, he headed down to Amex to retrieve his parcel. He changed a few thousand dollars into Reais and then returned to the lobby where he asked the concierge to organize a helicopter tour for him.

Up in his room, Harvath tossed the FedEx box onto the bed and dropped his bag near the desk. He walked over to the windows, drew back the sheer curtains, and opened them up. Placing his palms against the sill, he leaned outside.

The view was amazing. The four-kilometer-long beach was covered with people. The salty smell of the ocean poured into the room. Looking at the waves as they crashed upon the beach, Harvath was almost sorry he hadn’t brought a bathing suit.

Pulling his head back inside, he crossed to the bathroom and started the shower. After hanging up his clothes, he climbed in and lost all track of time as he let the hot water pound against his body.

Normally, he would have finished his shower by turning the water all the way to cold-a maneuver he found even more refreshing than a cup of espresso-but not today. Today he needed to get caught up on his sleep.

Standing on the soft bathmat, he dried off and then headed for the king-sized bed. He put a do-not-disturb on the phone, drew back the sheets, and lay down.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the music of the cars and beachgoers below as he plunged into sleep.

Harvath awoke with a start, and it took him a few moments to realize where he was. He’d been having the nightmare again.

His body was clammy with sweat and his heart was pounding a mile a minute. Though he’d been asleep for several hours, he actually felt worse than when he’d first lain down.

It didn’t make a difference. He was awake now and knew that he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep until later on in the evening.

Harvath got back into the shower and this time finished by throwing the water lever all the way to cold.

He shaved and changed into the one clean set of clothes he’d brought along with him. Next he picked up the phone and called down to the concierge. His helicopter tour was all arranged for the next morning, and the helicopter company was even sending a private car to pick him up. Harvath thanked the concierge and after asking directions to the closest pharmacy, he hung up the phone.

The pharmacy wasn’t far, and after picking up what he needed for the next day, he returned to his room, opened up the small laptop he’d purchased before leaving D. C., and logged on to the internet. It took him an hour before he was comfortable with the safeguards he’d built to avoid detection. He’d used numerous proxy servers as well as several shareware encryption programs that were actually quite good. If the CIA or anyone else tried to pinpoint his location, they’d have a very hard time.

Harvath logged on to the account he’d given Vaile for this purpose and opened the email. Most of the file had been sterilized, but the highlights were all there. The first things Harvath looked at were the photos of Philippe Roussard.

Harvath was pretty good with names, and he was incredible with faces. Though there was something familiar about the man, Harvath was positive he’d never met him before in his life.

So, if it wasn’t Roussard who was out for Harvath, it had to be the people behind him; the people who had gotten him released from Gitmo. He continued to read through the Frenchman’s jacket for the next hour, but nothing leaped out at him. As far as Harvath was concerned, there wasn’t a single clue in there that could prove useful-other than the actual photos of the man’s face.

According to Vaile’s email, Carolyn Leonard and Kate Palmer, who were both in very serious condition, had identified Roussard as the man who had offered them the tainted perfume at Tysons Galleria on Saturday. Unfortunately, Emily Hawkins was in no condition to answer any questions at this point, but Harvath already knew that she would ID him too. So would his mother, he realized with a sharp pang, if and when her eyesight returned. In short, having the photos was a start, but a much too slow one.

Harvath logged on to the gmail account he’d established with Ron Parker and Tim Finney and opened the message waiting for him in the draft folder. It started off with a brief recap of everything Parker had already told him, along with a caution not to try to reach either of them on their cell phones as both of them believed they were being monitored. The same went for text messaging or any of their normal email accounts.

There was an intelligence brief from Tom Morgan that backed up what Vaile had said about the Moroccan and Australian terrorists’ having been recently put under surveillance in their home countries. Based on the timeline, they could not have been involved in the attacks back in the United States.

Harvath uploaded the pictures of Roussard, as well as the salient details from his dossier, and asked Finney to make sure the security details watching over Tracy and his mother were given copies.

As Parker knew Harvath would be concerned about contacting the hospitals directly, he provided cell numbers for the men watching his mother and Tracy, if he wanted to safely get updates that way.

After Harvath finished reading the balance of the message, he deleted it and logged off the account. Surfing to one of the multiple VoIP, or Voice over Internet Protocol accounts, he had, Harvath downloaded the necessary software to his computer, plugged in the headset from his BlackBerry, and called his mother’s security detail in Southern California.

He spoke briefly with the man who answered, who assured him the coast was clear before closing the door and handing the phone to Harvath’s mother.