Brad Thor - The First Commandment

Harvath pushed the chair back out with his foot for Kirkland to sit back down. “Don’t be such an ass. I’m here because a credible threat exists. This guy is serious and he’s going to be gunning for your wedding.”

Meg’s fiancé wasn’t interested in sitting. “Something tells me that with the president attending our wedding, if there was a real credible threat you’d be working with the Secret Service to stop it, not trying to meet up with my wife in the middle of the night at some bar.”

Kirkland fished a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and threw it on the table. “And just for the record, the only reason Meg sent you an invitation to our wedding was that she wanted to show you she had moved on with her life. Maybe you should think about doing the same.”

Todd Kirkland climbed back into his Bentley Azure feeling pretty damn good about himself. He’d longed to tell off that prick Harvath once and for all and he’d done it. A huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Dropping the Azure’s top, he adjusted the rearview mirror and smiled at himself.

Harvath had been the one thing about his wedding day that had really bothered him. He’d argued repeatedly with Meg about her reasons for inviting him, but none of that mattered now. Based upon the look on Harvath’s face when he’d told him off, Kirkland doubted he’d have the balls to show up at the ceremony. With Harvath out of the picture, he could focus on enjoying the rest of the weekend and the rest of his life with Meg Cassidy. After all, he’d won. He had Meg and Harvath didn’t. That’s what it all boiled down to.

Kirkland pulled out of the parking lot and turned on to south Lake Shore Drive for the quick jaunt back to Meg’s cottage. As he was thinking about how good he had it, he felt something eating away at him. He tried to push it from his mind, but it refused to go away. What if Harvath was telling the truth?

Kirkland never really knew what Harvath did for a living other than that he was employed by DHS and that Meg couldn’t talk about it. It was one of those secrets that she shared with her ex-beau that really burned him up. Could there be a threat the Secret Service wasn’t aware of? Could Meg be in greater danger than anyone knew?

As he reached the turn-off for Meg’s cottage, Todd Kirkland decided it would be in everybody’s best interest if he had a little chat with the Secret Service agents who were standing guard outside.

An hour and a half later, Rick Morrell’s cell phone rang. After taking down all the information, he alerted the members of his Omega Team. They’d located Harvath. He was in Wisconsin.

When the Federal Express truck pulled beneath the Abbey Resort’s porte cochere, Harvath was ready and waiting for it.

Presenting his Hans Brauner ID, he signed for his package and gave the valet the ticket for the pilots’ rental car.

Powering up the onboard navigation system, he entered the address for U. S. Bank in Lake Geneva and got on the road.

He removed his Heckler amp; Koch USP compact tactical pistol, his Benchmade knife, his BlackBerry as well as his DHS credentials and two spare clips of ammunition Ron Parker had thrown in out of courtesy and then tossed the empty Fed Ex box into the backseat. As he drove, he asked himself what the hell he had been thinking when he had attempted to set up a rendezvous with Meg.

What could he possibly have achieved? Was he hoping that she would call off her wedding? Or was he hoping that somehow she would speak with the president on his behalf and everything would be made all right?

As the answers raced through his mind he knew none of them were correct. What he had wanted to do was to warn her.

Harvath wanted to give Meg the chance that Tracy, his mother, and all of Roussard’s other victims hadn’t had. But it was more than that. Looking deeply into himself, Harvath discovered that what he wanted more than anything else was to alleviate the guilt he was feeling that he still had not been able to stop Roussard. If anything happened to Meg, at least he would have known he had warned her. What bullshit.

No matter what he did or didn’t tell Meg Cassidy, if anything happened to her, it would fall squarely upon his shoulders, and he knew his guilt would be just as great as the guilt he carried over what had happened to Tracy Hastings.

He was the only person at this point who could stop Roussard.

That said, it didn’t mean the Secret Service shouldn’t be aware of what he had discovered. Todd Kirkland had been right about that, and Harvath had contacted Gary Lawlor and had filled him in.

Gary would see to it that the Secret Service was informed, but Harvath knew there was only so much they could do with the information.

Harvath emailed Lawlor the full dossier he had on Philippe Roussard, including the photographs. He trusted his boss to scan it and pass along all of the pertinent details. The Secret Service would make sure all of their agents were carrying Roussard’s photos.

The Secret Service in turn would ask their local and state law enforcement contacts to be on the lookout for him. But that’s where it would end. If any of them happened across Roussard, it would most likely not be until it was too late.

The cops had gotten lucky with Roussard in Virginia Beach. Harvath doubted it would happen again.

The Lake Geneva branch of U. S. Bank was located on the east side of the lake in the town of Lake Geneva near the intersection of Geneva and Center streets.

Carrying a plain manila envelope, Harvath entered the bank, presented his DHS creds to one of the loan officers, and asked to speak with the branch manager.

He was shown into a private office, where an attractive woman in her late forties stood and introduced herself as Peggy Evans.

“How can we be of service to the Department of Homeland Security?” she asked once her visitor was seated and she had finished looking at his ID.

Harvath reached into his envelope and pulled out the pictures of Philippe Roussard he’d printed at his hotel’s business center. “Do you recognize this man?” he said as he handed them to Evans.

The woman studied them for a few minutes and then asked, “What is this in regard to?”

“The man in those photos is a wanted terrorist. We have records indicating that he received funds via wire transfer at this bank two days ago.”

“Are you suggesting the bank has done something wrong? Because I can assure you that-”

Harvath held up his hand and shook his head. “Not at all. We’re just trying to gather as much information as we can about him.”

“Do you have any specific information about the transaction?”

Harvath handed her copies of what Claudia had emailed him from the Wegelin amp; Company bank in Switzerland.

Evans studied the records, then picked up her phone and dialed an extension. “Arty, will you come in here, please?”

Moments later, a heavyset Hispanic man in his early thirties knocked and entered the office. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I did,” said Evans as she introduced the man to Harvath. “Arturo Ramirez, this is Agent Scot Harvath from the Department of Homeland Security. He has a few questions he’d like to ask about a customer we had in the bank two days ago.”

Harvath rose and shook the man’s hand.

“Arturo handles all the wires,” the woman continued. “He also never forgets a face. Do you, Arty?”

Ramirez smiled politely at his manager and accepted the series of photographs. “Yes, I remember him,” he said after studying the pictures. “Peter Boesiger was his name, I believe. Nice guy. Swiss.”