Brad Thor - The First Commandment

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 extremely 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.”

“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.”