Brad Thor - The First Commandment

Instead of going north toward Rio, they headed south along the coast to Paraty, a small eighteenth-century Portuguese fishing village. Set against the forested slopes of the Serra do Mar, Paraty looked out over a bay of hundreds of uninhabited islands. It was similar to Angra dos Reis, but much lower key.

Residents and visitors alike were more discreet here, preferring to own or rent a refurbished fisherman’s cottage or one of the town’s diminutive terracotta-roofed villas. It was completely different from the jet-set style of Angra, and that suited Harvath just fine.

He swam back out to his boat and returned to the island to pick up the Troll as well as his two dogs, Argos and Draco. It was a colossal pain in the ass, but the Troll had refused to leave without them.

They beached the boat a mile outside town, and Harvath hiked back to secure transportation for them. There were plenty of cars to choose from-most of their owners having left them in one of two public parking areas specifically set aside for island dwellers who had no need of their vehicles until they drove back home to Rio.

Harvath chose the first one he saw, a white Toyota Sequoia SUV with tinted windows.

When they arrived in Paraty, it was still dark. They purchased more water for the dogs and some food for themselves at an all-night gas station and then parked along a quiet agricultural road to eat and rest. But first, Harvath had a question. “Why would Roussard want to kill you?”

“I’ve been wondering about that too,” said the Troll as he sank his spoon into a Styrofoam cup of thick bean and sausage stew known as feijoada. “For some reason, he’s been keeping tabs on me. He used me to find you and now that he knows I’m helping you try to stop him, he wants me dead. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

The man was right. It was the only explanation that made sense. The Troll was good at covering his trail, but he wasn’t exactly perfect. If he had been, Tom Morgan and his people at Sargasso never would have been able to track him down.

“My friends call me Nicholas,” said the Troll after a long silence.

Harvath was in no mood to cozy up with him and ignored the remark as he unwrapped his sandwich.

The Troll was undeterred. “It’s a nickname of sorts. I’ve always been fond of children, and Saint Nicholas is their patron saint.”

“As well as the patron saint of prostitutes, robbers, and thieves.”

The Troll smiled. “Strangely appropriate for a boy who grew up in a brothel, wouldn’t you say?”

This guy is a real chatterbox, thought Harvath as he went to work on his food.

“How about you?” asked the Troll. “How is it you only spell Scot with one T?”

Harvath took a swig of his water. He knew he was going to have to say something. “My mother chose the spelling,” he said, setting the water down. “My middle name is Thomas and she didn’t like the way it looked to have three Ts all run together when my name was written out. So, she lopped off one of the Ts.”

“I am sorry for what Roussard did to her.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” replied Harvath. “I’d rather not discuss my personal life with you.”

The Troll put up his hands in defeat. “Of course. I understand. No one can blame you for feeling that way. The people you care about have been through an incredible amount.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Harvath grunted.

“You don’t like me very much, do you, Mr. Harvath?”

Harvath slammed his water bottle down, spooking his passenger and raising the ire of the dogs in the back, who started growling.

Looking into the rearview mirror, Harvath ordered the dogs to be quiet and they immediately fell silent.

Turning back to the Troll, Harvath said, “One of my best friends was killed in New York because of you. Running off Roussard with that flare gun isn’t going to make us even.”

The Troll was quiet for several moments. The entire time, Harvath’s eyes drilled into him. Finally, he spoke. “I know there is nothing I can say or do to bring your friend back to you. If it’s any consolation, Al Qaeda still would have hit Manhattan, even without the intelligence I provided them.”

“ New York never would have been a target if it wasn’t for your intelligence,” snapped Harvath.

“That’s not true. The individual in your government who sold me that information was offering it to the highest bidder. I just happened to have the most readily available checkbook. If it hadn’t been me, some other broker would have purchased it, and the information would have still found its way to Al Qaeda.”

“And you think that makes what you did okay?”

“No,” said the Troll. “It doesn’t. I want you to know it’s not easy to live with.”

Harvath glared at him. “Thousands of Americans died in an attack worse than 9/11 and you find your role in that difficult to live with. Well, I’m glad to know you at least have a subtle pang of conscience.”

“And you expect me to believe that you’ve never done anything you are ashamed of?”

“Believe what you want,” replied Harvath. “My conscience is clear.”

“Every single time you pulled a trigger, you knew the person on the receiving end deserved to die? You did it for America. Mom and apple pie, so to speak. Right? Never questioned if what you were doing was the right thing. Never questioned if maybe your superiors had made a mistake. You were simply following orders.”

Harvath held the steering wheel in a death grip. “Let’s get something straight. The only reason you are sitting next to me and still breathing is that I think you still can be useful.”

They spent the rest of their time in silence. Harvath’s thoughts were occupied with stopping Roussard, while the Troll’s were occupied with the thought that his fate was now inexorably entwined with Harvath’s. Roussard wouldn’t stop stalking either of them until they were dead, or the terrorist himself had been killed. Like it or not, the Troll understood that he and Harvath now shared a very dangerous enemy. He also understood that Harvath represented his best chance of neutralizing Roussard, permanently.

The stakes at this point were well beyond getting his money and data back. His life, in more ways than one, was in Harvath’s hands.

When the shops and businesses finally opened the next morning, Harvath used his Brauner alias to rent a small, walled villa overlooking the ocean outside town. The less attention they drew to themselves, the better.

When Harvath returned from purchasing supplies, he found the Troll in the grassy courtyard playing fetch with the dogs.

As Harvath approached, one of the two dogs began growling. The other trotted over and dropped the stick he’d been playing with at Harvath’s feet. The animal then sat obediently down and waited to see what Harvath would do.

“I think Argos remembers you,” said the Troll as he came across the courtyard. Nodding at the box Harvath was carrying, he asked, “Do you need any help unloading?”

“Yeah,” he replied, tilting his head toward the road. “There’s a bunch of stuff still in the truck.”

As the Troll headed for the vehicle, Draco followed, but Argos remained right where he was.

Once they were out of sight, Harvath sighed, balanced the box in his left arm, and bent over to pick up the stick.

The villa Harvath had selected was outfitted with all the creature comforts: high-speed internet, plasma television with satellite hookup, an impressive stereo system, and a kitchen worthy of a master chef.

The Troll was standing near the stereo with his laptop as Harvath put the rest of the groceries away.