The First Commandment (24 page)

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.

They talked for about ten minutes and then Harvath explained to her that he had to go. He promised he’d call her back as soon as he could.

Next, he called Tracy ’s team. The lead detail agent explained that while Tracy ’s parents were relatively polite, it was obvious they didn’t want them there. Harvath thanked the man for what he and his colleagues were doing. Tracy ’s parents might not be crazy about all the muscle hanging around the ICU, but if anything happened, they’d be darn glad to have them there.

As Harvath had with the team on the West Coast, he gave the team leader a physical description and a full rundown on Philippe Roussard and told him to expect photographs from Finney and Parker soon.

The guard passed his phone to Tracy ’s father, Bill. It was an awkward conversation. There was nothing new to report on Tracy ’s condition. They’d run several more tests, but unless they could wean her off the ventilator, there was no way they could perform an MRI. As it was now, her EEG showed significantly reduced brainwave activity, which the neurology team felt was an indication of permanent brain damage.

The lack of progress didn’t surprise Harvath, but it still wasn’t what he’d hoped to hear. He spoke briefly with Tracy ’s mother, Barbara, and then asked if she’d hold the phone up to Tracy ’s ear for a couple of minutes.

When he was sure the phone was in place, he began speaking. Soon he forgot all about the fatigue that had worked its way into every corner of his body. All he cared about was Tracy and being strong for her. He told her how much he loved her and how much he was looking forward to her getting out of the hospital so that they could pick up where they had left off.

He ran through all the things they were going to do together-the fishing trip to Jackson Hole, Tracy ’s favorite pastime of seeing the fall colors in New England, and going to Greece, where Harvath couldn’t wait to introduce her to the islands of Paros and Antiparos, as well as all his friends.

Finally, Harvath ran out of things to say. Some people might have been ashamed by it, but he and Tracy had realized early on that it was a sign of their compatibility. They were able to enjoy being with each other without saying anything at all.

He told her once more that he loved her and reminded her that she was one of the greatest warriors he knew. She needed to remain strong. She was fighting for her life and she’d make it as long as she remained focused on nothing short of complete and total recovery.

Whether she could hear him, he had no idea. Harvath liked to think she could. He had read enough articles about coma patients to believe that many of them could hear and comprehend what was being said to them. If nothing else, it was a sign of how much he loved and respected her. As long as she was drawing breath, even if it was with the assistance of a machine, he was going to treat her the same way he’d always treated her.

When Tracy ’s mother took the phone back, Harvath said good-night to her and hung up.

Dialing room service, Harvath ordered dinner. Tomorrow was going to be a rough day, and he was going to need every ounce of strength he could muster.

The sleek Mercedes sedan dropped Harvath at the heliport, where a bright blue Colibri EC 120B helicopter was ready and waiting for him.

After a look at the maps he’d pulled and a discussion of what Harvath wanted, the pilot nodded, gave Harvath the thumbs-up, and helped stow his gear.

They buckled themselves in, placed their headsets on, and the pilot fired up the sweeping rotors. Minutes later they were airborne.

He flew them over Corcovado Mountain with the towering statue of Christ, the Cristo Redentor with its enormous outstretched arms. There was something about it that reminded Harvath of Atlas, holding up the earth.

Harvath supposed there were parallels between Christ and Atlas. Judeo-Christian values were one of the few things holding up the modern civilized world against the barbaric hordes of Muslim extremists.

Harvath had to laugh to himself. The term Muslim extremist was starting to wear on him. It was PC-speak, something he loathed in others and absolutely despised in himself. The term was meant to draw a distinction between good Muslims and bad, but as far as he was concerned every single day that good Muslims did absolutely nothing about the atrocities being committed in their name, the line between good Muslim and bad Muslim became even more blurred.

All that was necessary for evil to triumph was for good people to do nothing. Harvath saw it every day, and he was determined that his nation would not be overrun by Islam. The French were already a lost cause and many other nations were following suit by allowing Islamic courts of law, banning historically significant symbols, icons, and pastimes as innocent as coed swimming to appease their rapidly growing and ever more vociferous Muslim minorities. Multiculturalism was bullshit. It was political correctness run amok and it made him sick. If these people wanted things to be exactly as they were in their countries of origin, why didn’t they just remain there?

Many of Harvath’s opinions may have sounded xenophobic, but he’d earned the right to them. He’d been on the front lines of the war on terror and had seen what the extremists were capable of. Radical Islam was as much about carefully and deliberately applied creativity and ideas as it was about bombs and bullets.

In America, expertly organized cells of so called “moderate Muslims” were waging an ideological jihad, working to undermine everything that the country stood for. They were a patient and determined enemy bent upon turning the nation into the United States of Islam, and many people responsible for protecting America were not paying attention.

Between the tidal wave of illegal immigration and the radical Islamic agenda in America, there were times Harvath felt like weeping for his nation.

They flew over Guanabara Bay and the Pão de Açúcar. The pilot then buzzed both Copacabana and Ipanema beaches before putting the chopper on course for their ultimate destination, the bay of Angra dos Reis forty-five minutes south of Rio by air.

They passed some incredible scenery along the way, most of it coastal villages and thick, lush forests. The ocean sparkled like countless shards of broken glass while enormous superyachts plowed through the water leaving foamy white trails of phosphorescence in their wakes.

It was absolutely pristine and Harvath was developing a keen appreciation for why so many people fell so in love with Brazil.

As they neared the Bay of Angra dos Reis, some forty-odd minutes later, the pilot brought the helicopter so low to the water its skis were almost touching the tops of the waves. Harvath had to look at him twice to make sure he wasn’t the same cab driver who had brought him in from the airport the day before.

Like the quick tour upon takeoff of Rio ’s most scenic sights, this little trick was probably meant as a way for the pilot to endear himself to his clients in order to get an extra-big tip. Harvath didn’t care for the man’s acrobatics and told him to knock it off. Helicopters drew enough attention as it was.

Sufficiently cowed, the pilot increased his altitude and proceeded as instructed.

From the satellite footage he had studied, Harvath knew that the island the Troll had rented for himself was particularly small. Nevertheless, he wanted to get as close a look at it as he could.

Since an overhead hover was definitely out of the question, Harvath had opted for a straight traverse at a relatively good clip. He’d have to process a lot of information in a short period of time, but it was the only way he could see the island with his own eyes from above without drawing the suspicion of its current inhabitant.

Angra was composed of 365 different islands. The pilot pointed to a tiny speck of land on the near horizon. As they got closer, Harvath studied his map, along with the size and shape of the other islands around the Troll’s, and realized the pilot was correct.

He took it from exactly the approach Harvath had asked for. Leaning against the door, Harvath strained to take in as much of it as he could, burning the entire picture into his mind-the main building and its cottages, the helipad, the speedboat at the dock, the shape and layout of the island, all of it.

He’d be coming back tonight, but by then it would be very dark, and the darkness would only contribute to the danger of what he planned to do.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

James Vaile’s tenure at the CIA had not been marked by a particularly good relationship with the press. The devastating stories about the CIA’s secret prisons abroad and how the United States tracked terrorists through their banking habits still weighed heavily on him. And while the stories had come from asinine members of his own agency who put their dislike of the president’s policies above their loyalty to their country, all of his attempts to prevent those stories from being run had failed.

He had quickly learned that many newspapers had far more pride in their circulation than they did in their patriotism. That they were hobbling America and empowering her terrorist enemies made absolutely no difference to them. It was no wonder he held out little hope for being able to appeal to Mark Sheppard as an American.

If patriotism couldn’t motivate a reporter, sometimes he or she could be swayed by a promise of an exclusive on an even bigger story. But as in the cases of the secret prisons and the terrorist banking programs, Vaile didn’t have anything bigger to bargain with. He was going to have to find another way, and he’d have to do it in such a way that the
Baltimore Sun
reporter had no idea that the CIA was involved.

One of the first things Vaile did was to look into the man’s background. He’d met very few people in his life who didn’t have at least one skeleton in their closet. Unfortunately, though, Sheppard was clean. In fact, he was beyond clean. The man was practically a saint. Outside of a couple of speeding tickets back when he was in college, the reporter hadn’t so much as crossed against a light or faked the throw at an unmanned toll both.

Scanning his extracurricular activities, Vaile was further disenchanted as he discovered Sheppard donated a significant portion of his time helping underprivileged children throughout the Metropolitan Baltimore area. He even sat on one organization’s board.

Though Vaile didn’t want to do it, he quickly realized the only way to dissuade Sheppard from running his story was to threaten to go nuclear on him. If he didn’t cooperate, nothing would be left of the man’s former life but scorched earth.

A few hours later, once it was confirmed that everything was in place, the DCI picked up his phone and made the call.

The reporter picked up the phone on the first ring. “Mark Sheppard,” he sang, coming off a bit too eager. The DCI wondered if the journalist had already cleared space on his desk for his Pulitzer.

Any reporter worth his salt would have a recording device hooked up to his phone, so in addition to making sure his call was untraceable, James Vaile employed a new piece of technology that would render any recording inaudible when played back. He also used a modulator to disguise his voice. One could never be too careful, and what’s more, the computerized voice carried with it an added gravitas that often had a very unsettling affect on the receiving party. “Mr. Sheppard, we need to talk,” he said.

There was a pause as the reporter fiddled around for his
record
button, and then he said, “Who am I speaking with?”

“Who I am is not as important as what I have to say.”

“How do I know you’re for real then?”

“You called the White House press office for comment on a story you want to run,” said Vaile via the deep, computerized voice.

“And from what I’m hearing,” said Sheppard, “I’m going to guess that you’ve called to scare me into burying it.”

“I’ve called to give you a chance to do the right thing.”

“Really? What would that be?”

“There are serious national security issues at play here, which you don’t understand.”

“So as a patriotic American, I should kill the article, right? Forget it. I don’t buy it.”

Vaile decided to give the man one more chance. “Mr. Sheppard, the people of Charleston needed closure on that bus hijacking and closure was provided.”

The reporter stifled a laugh. “So the U. S. government is now in the business of making crime victims and their families feel better? Tens of thousands of crimes go unsolved every year. What makes this one so special?”

“This was a particularly heinous crime against children-” began Vaile before he was interrupted.

“That had national security implications,” said Sheppard as his mind put it all together. “Jesus Christ, this wasn’t some lone nut job. It was a terrorist act.”