Brad Thor - The First Commandment

Two of the men tortured and killed in Afghanistan by Ronaldo Palmera had been Bucket customers. Though the proprietors of the Bucket would have much preferred to have Palmera’s pickled head on display, a photo of him lying dead in a Mexican street along with the Taser used to help put him there and his hideous boots were the next best things.

As a former member of SEAL Team Two, Harvath had been a longtime supporter of the Bucket. The items he contributed to the bar’s museum were legendary. Dockery and Dall’au had often joked that if he kept it up at the current pace, they’d need to build a wing and name it after him.

Outside, in the Bucket’s parking lot, Philippe Roussard closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt the familiar sensation radiating from the farthest points of his body. It was the indescribable excitement that he’d once heard referred to as “the quickening.”

His reverie, though, was short-lived. The scent from the Vicks VapoRub swabbed beneath his nose was almost as bad as the odor rising from the bags of fertilizer stacked behind him. He thanked Allah that he’d stopped noticing the fumes from the fifty-five-gallon drums of diesel fuel and reminded himself that it would all be over soon.

Climbing out of the RV, he closed the door and locked it. He walked around to the rear and smiled at the Save water, shower with a SEAL sticker he’d affixed to the bumper. There was one remembering MIAs and one that read My RV Loves Iraqi Gas. Anyone who doubted that Philippe Roussard’s RV belonged in the parking lot of the Bucket of Blood probably would have changed his mind upon seeing his bumper stickers.

Not that it mattered much. Roussard didn’t plan on being there for too long. In fact, he had just pulled a newly acquired motorbike off the platform attached to the rear of the RV when he was approached by two off-duty Virginia Beach PD officers. Though they weren’t in uniform, they had a distinct law enforcement bearing about them that convinced Roussard they were cops.

“Hey, you can’t park that thing here,” said the taller of the two.

Reflexively, Roussard’s hand began to reach for the 9mm Glock hidden beneath his jacket, but he stopped himself.

“Especially not when it smells like that,” replied his female partner. “When was the last time you emptied the holding tank on that thing?”

“It’s been a while,” said Roussard as he forced a smile.

“I’m just kidding you,” said the male cop as he pointed at the motorbike. “That’s a nice Kawasaki you got there.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re living the dream, aren’t you? Nothing but you and the slab. Boy if the guys from BUDs could see you now, eh?”

Roussard politely nodded his head and pulled the motorbike the rest of the way from its carrier platform.

“You haven’t been drinking, have you?” asked the female officer as Roussard removed a set of keys from his front pocket.

“Not at all,” he replied. “I just have a few errands to run. I’ll be back soon.”

There was something about this guy she didn’t like. Sure, he was well-built and good-looking, but those characteristics alone didn’t make a SEAL. “Doc sure is generous when it comes to you guys parking your rigs here.”

“He sure is,” said Roussard, beginning to sense that something might be wrong.

“How long you staying?” the woman asked.

“What difference does it make,” asked her partner. “You interested in this guy or something?”

“Maybe,” the female officer replied. Turning back to Roussard, she asked, “So are you going to be around for a couple of days?”

“No,” said Roussard. “I have to leave tomorrow.”

The woman looked disappointed. “Too bad.”

“Don’t mind her,” replied her partner. “When you come back, we’ll be inside. We’ll buy you a beer.”

Climbing onto the motorcycle, Roussard said, “Sounds good.”

With the bike started, he slipped on his helmet and was about to pull away when the woman placed her hand on his handlebars and said, “What’s your purge procedure?”

“Excuse me?” he responded, anxious to get going.

“Your purge procedure, ” the female officer responded.

Roussard’s mind raced for an appropriate answer to the question. He had no idea what the woman was talking about. The way she was touching his handlebars, it had to have something to do with the motorcycle. Having been taught that the simplest lie was always the best, Roussard admitted his ignorance. “I’ve only had this thing about a week. I’m still learning its ins and outs.”

The female Virginia Beach PD officer smiled and stepped away from the motorbike.

As Roussard drove away, her partner asked, “What the hell was that all about? Purge procedure? You don’t really know anything about motorcycles, do you?”

“No, but I know something about SEALs, and that guy wasn’t one. If he was, he’d have known what I was talking about.”

“C’mon,” replied the other cop. “You’re off-duty. Give it a rest.”

The woman looked at him. “That guy didn’t bother you at all?”

“I was in the Army. And judging from his bumper stickers he was or is a squid, so of course he bothers me, but as a resident of Virginia Beach, I’ve learned to live with them.”

The woman shook her head. “What about him parking his van here? Dockery hates RVs. He and Dall’au never let anyone park here overnight. If you’re dumb enough to get shit-faced in their joint, you’d better have come with a plan to get yourself and your car the hell outta here.”

“So what?”

“So something isn’t right.”

The woman’s partner shook his head. “I’m going inside to get a beer.”

“Well, while you’re there,” she said, “find Doc and tell him to come outside. I want to talk with him.”

“And in the meantime what are you going to be doing?”

Pulling a lockpick set from her coat pocket, the female officer replied, “I’m just going to take a little look around.”

Though Kevin McCauliff was emboldened by the email Harvath had sent him, he still had qualms about carrying out the hack in the light of day. He decided to do it that night when there was lighter traffic on their servers, as well as fewer personnel around who might stumble on to what he was doing and begin asking questions.

The Troll had done the hardest work of all, narrowing in on who had set up the operation in Brazil. He’d even gone so far as to provide a list of banks and a date range as well as an approximate amount of money that McCauliff should be looking for.

It wasn’t easy by any stretch, but the NGA operative eventually found it. The payments had been broken up and wired through a series of intermediary banks in Malta, the Caymans, and the Isle of Man, but they all had one thing in common. Each payment could be traced back to a single account number at Wegelin amp; Company, the oldest private bank in Switzerland.

That was as far as McCauliff got. Wherever Wegelin amp; Company kept its records, they weren’t on any of their servers, at least not any that could be accessed from outside. McCauliff tried every trick he knew to no avail. Whoever these people were Harvath was hunting, they were extremely careful about covering their tracks. Extremely careful, but not perfect. It was nearly impossible to move large sums of money without leaving some sort of trail.

The only problem for Harvath at this point was that the trail dead-ended at Wegelin amp; Company, the archetype for Swiss banking discretion. If he wanted answers, he was going to have to go to Wegelin amp; Company directly.

Harvath thanked McCauliff for the information and logged off their call. Removing the ear bud from his ear, he turned to the Troll and shared with him the news that the funds had been traced back to a bank outside Zurich called Wegelin amp; Company.