The First Commandment (18 page)

There was a storm of emotion raging inside Harvath. Instead of being able to climb out of the blackness of the mystery he’d been dumped in, he found the hole getting deeper.

There weren’t four men released from Guantanamo that night, there were five. Could the Troll have not known about the fifth prisoner? Harvath doubted it. The Troll was like no one he’d ever seen when it came to getting his hands on the most sensitive of intelligence. No, Harvath was certain he knew all about the fifth passenger that night.

Harvath wrung as much information about the flight as he could from Najib and then proceeded to the close of his plan.

He dragged Najib into the spare bedroom and showed him Al-Tal’s nurse, wife, and son bound, but still very much alive. He then dragged him to Al-Tal’s bedroom, where he pulled back the blankets and showed that the man hadn’t been harmed and was sleeping peacefully.

“I have one more question for you,” said Harvath.

Najib looked at him. “What is it?”

“The bombing of the Marine compound in Beirut in 1983. Asef Khashan was one of Al-Tal’s operatives. We know Khashan was involved in planning and helping to carry out the bombing.”

“That was a long time ago,” said Najib, his suspicion that the man in the mask holding him captive was an American agent now confirmed.

Harvath ignored the remark. “Did Al-Tal have direct knowledge in advance of the attack? Did he help Khashan plan and carry it out?”

Najib had no desire to help the hangman fit his noose around his mentor’s neck. After more than twenty years of trying to identify those involved, the Americans still had no evidence on Al-Tal. If they had, he would have been taken out just like Asef.

“I want an answer,” stated Harvath, sick of the sight of this monster who had butchered so many American troops.

“No,” said Najib. “Asef had been free to plan and coordinate Hezbollah actions in Lebanon as he saw fit.”

Then Harvath saw it-the tell, a small cue that indicated Najib wasn’t telling the truth. “I’m going to ask you one more time,” he said. “Think very carefully before you answer. Did Al-Tal know of, or was he involved with the 1983 attack on the Marine compound in Beirut?”

Najib paused for several moments, and then smiled. He knew the American knew he was lying and he knew that he was going to die. “No,” he stated, “Tammam Al-Tal was not involved and he had no advance knowledge whatsoever of the glorious attack upon your 220 precious Marines.”

There it was again-the tell. There was no question in Harvath’s mind. Najib was definitely lying.

Harvath drew his silenced Taurus pistol and shot him point-blank in the forehead. “You forgot the eighteen Navy personnel and three Army soldiers who were also killed there that day, asshole.”

He then turned the pistol on Al-Tal and shot him once in the head and four times in the chest. It was overkill, but it felt good.

Repacking his duffel, Harvath took the stairs down to the lobby, removed his mask, and left the building.

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

Though Secret Service agents were supposed to eschew predictability and routine, in their off-time Kate Palmer and Carolyn Leonard were dedicated creatures of habit.

As residents of the same northern Virginia neighborhood and two of the few women on President Jack Rutledge’s protective detail, Kate and Carolyn had become good friends early on. While Carolyn was technically Kate’s boss, their professional roles made no difference when they were away from work.

Unless the president was traveling, Saturday was a day off for them. Carolyn’s children visited their grandmother every Saturday, so the women always had the day to themselves to do whatever they wanted.

Their Saturdays started with a group cycle class at Regency Sport amp; Health Club on Old Meadow Road, and then they did an hour in the club’s strength-training center. By then they were spent. After a lengthy steam followed by a quick shower, the friends were ready for their next favorite Saturday activity, shopping.

In a career world that demanded they compete at the same physical level and be judged by the same performance standards as men, Kate and Carolyn enjoyed their weekend opportunities to reaffirm their femininity. Shopping might have been viewed as a stereotypical female pursuit, but neither of them cared. It was refreshing to be out with a girlfriend and not have to worry for the entire day about being one of the boys.

Though Leonard was still working off her husband’s debts, she was a smart saver and an even smarter investor. All work and no play could make Jill a dull girl, so she made sure to keep a little extra money squirreled away for her outings with Kate.

Their routine at Tysons Galleria was always the same. They surfed shops like Salvatore Ferragamo, Chanel, and Versace first, looking for any sales or bargains. Then it was off to Nicole Miller, Ralph Lauren, and Burberry, where they seldom left without at least a shopping bag each.

Lunch was at one of three spots-Legal Seafoods of Boston, P. F. Chang’s, or the Cheesecake Factory. Today it was P. F. Chang’s.

After a lunch of lettuce wraps, crab wonton, lemon scallops, and Cantonese roasted duck, the women paid the check, emptied their wineglasses, and headed for the parking lot.

Cutting through Macy’s, they were approached by one of the most gorgeous men either of them had ever seen. He was at least six feet tall with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He looked Italian and was wearing an impeccably tailored gray suit.

Despite being an accomplished sniper, Philippe Roussard also enjoyed engaging his targets up close. He liked to take his time, to listen to them beg for their lives and then watch them die. Sometimes, though, he didn’t get his way. In this case, he would have to read about the women’s deaths in the paper-if the news was ever published at all.

“
Che bella donna,
” he said, as he approached, and he meant it. The ladies were both very attractive; much more so than in their surveillance photos.

Italian,
Carolyn Leonard thought to herself.
I knew it.

While she didn’t normally engage strangers, she’d had a little wine with lunch, and today, after all, was her day off. Besides, how much trouble could the guy be? He worked for Macy’s. She could see the bottle of perfume and sample strips in his hand. Sure, he was trying to get them to buy something, but he was so gorgeous. Whatever he was selling, Carolyn Leonard was in the mood to buy.

The off-duty head of the American president’s Secret Service detail smiled. She was tall, about five-foot-ten, and very lean. Her red hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and she looked like a very fit woman.

Roussard bowed his head and smiled at them both. The other agent, Kate Palmer, was shorter, about five-seven, but just as attractive, with a hard, lithe body, long brown hair, and deep green eyes.

“You are easily the most beautiful women I have seen come through the store all day,” he said in heavily accented English.

Carolyn Leonard chuckled. “It must be a very slow day.”

Roussard smiled. “I am telling you the truth.”

“Where are you from?” asked Palmer.

“ Italy.”

“You don’t say,” she teased. “
Where
in Italy?”

“San Benedetto del Tronto. It’s in the central Marche region on the Adriatic. Do you know it?”

“No,” replied Leonard. “But I think I’d like to.”

Roussard held up his perfume bottle as if he were demonstrating the newest marvel of technology. “I have to look like I am trying to sell you something. My supervisor has been watching me very closely. He says I flirt too much.”

Carolyn laughed again. “
Puh-lease,
that’s all part of sales, isn’t it?”

“Not when you mean it,” replied Roussard.

“Oh, this guy’s good,” stated Palmer with a smile. “Real good.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you,” said Carolyn, “But I don’t think either of us is in the market for any new perfume, are we?”

Palmer shook her head. “Maybe next time.”

Roussard’s lips spread into a boyish grin. “At least please try it. It’s quite nice and my supervisor won’t be able to say I’m not doing my job.”

Carolyn looked at Kate Palmer, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Why not?”

Roussard handed them the bottle and politely stepped back. The women sprayed the perfume on their wrists, rubbed their necks, and Palmer even sprayed some onto her hair.

“It doesn’t have much of a scent,” commented Carolyn Leonard.

“That’s because it works with your body’s own chemistry. Give it a little time and you’ll see. It is quite remarkable.”

Leonard gave the bottle back as Roussard handed her and Palmer a sample card with the name of the product and a phrase that looked to be Italian.

As the ladies headed out to the parking lot, neither of them had any idea of the horror they had just invited into their lives.

CIA SAFE HOUSE

COLTONS POINT, MARYLAND

The small, unremarkable home sat at the verdant end of Graves Road on St. Patrick’s Creek-a small inlet of the Potomac River, less than fifty kilometers from where the Potomac emptied into the Chesapeake.

The cars parked in the home’s driveway were equally unremarkable-a smattering of SUVs and pickups, the kind of cars one would expect to see at the weekend home of a general contractor from Baltimore.

Had the neighbors seen any of the men getting out of their vehicles and entering the house, none would have given them a second look. They were trim and of varying heights, their faces bronzed from being in the sun, signs that they were all undoubtedly engaged in the same profession as the home’s owner. Had anyone taken any notice of them they would have assumed the men had all come down for the fishing.

The fishing was one of the many reasons that the area around Coltons Point was known as one of the best-kept secrets in southern Maryland. The chamber of commerce slogan made for a wink-wink, nod-nod insider sort of joke among the select few at the CIA who knew about the Coltons Point safe house. If there was anything that the spooks at Langley loved, it was irony.

The six highly skilled men assembled inside the home were known in CIA parlance as an Omega Team. The word Omega was taken from the Greek, which referred to the last and final letter of the Greek alphabet. It also referred to the literal
end
of something. Omega Teams had not been given their name by accident. Theirs was very, very dirty work. Sometimes their missions were overt, but more often than not they were extremely covert and required surgical delicacy.

The team leader unbuckled his leather briefcase and tossed five dossiers onto the dining room table. He didn’t need one for himself. He’d already memorized the contents. “I know many of you are currently standing up other operations,” he said, “but effective immediately, this assignment is your one and only concern.”

Like most CIA field groups, Omega Teams were composed of highly intelligent and extremely patriotic individuals. One of the team members looked up from the dossier and said, “Are you sure about this?”

“Not that any of you are allowed to repeat this, but this came from DCI Vaile himself.”

“But this guy’s practically a national hero,” said another operative. “It’s like asking us to shoot fucking Lassie.”

The team leader didn’t care for what he was hearing. “What is this, a book club meeting all of a sudden? Nobody asked for your opinions. The subject is a significant threat to national security.

“He was asked repeatedly by the president to stand down and refused. He was then given a timetable within which to turn himself in and he refused again.”

“Wait a second. How’s President Rutledge involved in this? What’s this guy wanted for anyway?” asked another.

“That’s none of your business. All you need to know is that, by not complying with the president’s orders, he’s putting innocent American lives in jeopardy.”

“Bullshit,” claimed yet another member. “We’ve all read his jacket. This guy is one serious tack-driving pipe-hitter. If we’re going to go after somebody this experienced, this dangerous, I think we deserve to know what he’s really up to. Why won’t he comply with the president’s order?”

The team leader was in no mood to explain the motivations of their target, or those of the director of Central Intelligence, or those of the president of the United States to his men. “I’m going to say this once and only once, so shut up and listen. All I am going to tell you, and all you need to know, is that both DCI Vaile and the president of the United States have okayed us to take down this target. Our job is to stop Scot Harvath by any means necessary. End of story.”

Physically and emotionally, Harvath was wrung out. His nerves had been grated down to stubs and he probably shouldn’t have even been in the field. Nonetheless, all he could think about was the Troll. The man had lied to him. There weren’t four terrorists who had been released from Gitmo; there had been five. Harvath couldn’t wait to get his hands on him.

He’d used the onboard phone to fill Finney and Parker in on what he’d learned, and they immediately began strategizing. They expected to have several different options to present by the time he returned.

Harvath spent the next several hours going through his own set of scenarios. What little reserves of energy he still had were all but depleted. After the takeoff from refueling in Iceland, his fatigue won out and he fell into a heavy, dark sleep. And with the sleep came his dreams.

It was the same nightmare he’d been having about Tracy, but this time it was worse. He dreamed he was standing on a long rope bridge between two groups of people he cared for, each in imminent danger. He could only save one. But instead of making a choice, he stood paralyzed with fear.

His indecision cost him dearly. He helplessly watched as the members of each group were killed one by one, their deaths gleefully carried out by a sadistic demon bent on extracting every ounce of pain-wracked suffering he could. All the while, Harvath merely stood and watched, unsure of himself and his ability to do anything to stop the holocaust being carried out so savagely in front of him.

It was a rapid ringing of the cabin chimes that tore Harvath from his nightmare. Opening his eyes, he looked out the window and saw that they were over land, though where exactly he had no idea. He raised the handset and punched the button for the cockpit.

“What’s going on?” he asked when the copilot answered.

“We’ve got a major mechanical problem.”

“What kind?”

The copilot ignored him and said, “We’re about fifty miles out from the airport. Stay seated and make sure your seatbelt is tightly fastened.” And with that the line went dead.

From the front of the cabin, Harvath heard the bolt of the cockpit door being thrown into place. Maybe it was a legitimate safety precaution, but there was something about it that didn’t sit right with him.

Harvath looked at his watch and tried to compute where they were. He had been asleep for a long time.

Protocol dictated that private aircraft stop at the first major city they overflew upon entry into U. S. airspace to clear customs and passport control, but Tom Morgan had been able to pull some strings with people he knew to have those requirements waived for both the Mexico and Jordan trips.

They should have been somewhere over Canada or the Great Lakes, but the terrain beneath them looked more like the East Coast of the United States. Something definitely wasn’t right.

The Citation X banked sharply and there was a hurried change in altitude as the private jet raced downward. Whatever was going on, Harvath didn’t like it.

He felt the landing gear lower and he cinched his seatbelt tighter.

He looked back out the window and a sense of dread welled up from the pit of his stomach as he recognized where they were.

The jet wasn’t landing anywhere near Colorado. It was on final approach to Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport in D. C.

Now he knew why the pilots had locked the cockpit door. There was no mechanical problem. Someone had gotten to Tim Finney. Someone knew that Harvath was on this plane and that person was making it land in D. C.

He needed to plan his next move.

A lot would be based upon what kind of law enforcement presence had been sent to meet the plane on the ground.

Harvath sat glued to his window as the Citation X glided in over the runway and then touched down with a gentle bump of its tires. A string of neon fire trucks and two ambulances had been mobilized and were following the jet on a taxiway just beyond the runway.

It wasn’t the reception Harvath had expected. There wasn’t a police car or an unmarked government sedan in sight. Even so, he remained on guard.

The plane taxied off the runway into a holding area. When the aircraft came to a stop, the emergency vehicles surrounded it and their teams got to work.

Harvath unbuckled his seatbelt and moved to the other side of the jet to see what was going on.

As he did, the main cabin door opened and the high-pitched whine of the Citation’s Rolls-Royce engines filled the aircraft.

A moment later, several firefighters clambered up the airstairs and entered the cabin. Their walkie-talkies belched with orders being barked back and forth between emergency personnel. It was all just background noise to Harvath. He was focused on the men themselves.

Beneath their Nomex turnout gear, they looked like every other firefighter Harvath had ever met. They were lean and athletic, with serious, hard-set faces that communicated they had a job to do.

The only problem was that they bore the same look as many of the elite military and law enforcement personnel Harvath had met and worked with over his years in both the SEALs and the Secret Service.

Harvath stood up and started moving toward the front of the cabin. That was when he saw it. The second “firefighter” had something pressed up against the back of the man in front of him.

In the reflection from the highly polished cabinetry of the galley, Harvath could make out the unmistakable color and size of a Taser X26 pulsed energy weapon. It was the same device he’d used on Ronaldo Palmera just days before.

Harvath was trapped.