The First Commandment (2 page)

In the hospital room’s private bath were a toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, deodorant, and shaving cream. Laverna, the night nurse, had dropped them off shortly after Harvath had arrived on the morning of Tracy ’s shooting. It had been quite obvious that he had no intention of leaving. He was ready to stay for as long as it took to get her better.

Closing the door, Harvath took off his clothes and turned on the shower. When the water was good and hot, he climbed inside and let it pound against his body. When he closed his eyes, pieces of his nightmare came back and he fought to banish them to the far reaches of his psyche. Scrubbing himself with a tiny bar of courtesy soap, he tried to think of something else.

It was working, but he knew the demons would be back. They’d been hovering over him every day and night since Tracy had been shot.

One of the doctors who’d been standing in the room when Harvath came out of a particularly bad version of the dream suggested that he seek some therapy, but Harvath politely laughed him off. The doctor obviously didn’t know who he was talking to. Men in Scot’s line of work didn’t seek therapy. Who in the world could ever begin to comprehend the life he led, much less the incredible toll it had taken on him over the years?

Throwing the temperature selector all the way to cold, Harvath shocked his body awake and climbed out.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he leaned against the sink and wiped a patch of fog from the mirror. For once in his life, he actually looked the way he felt-horrible. His normally bright blue eyes were dull and bloodshot, his handsome face drawn and haggard. His sandy brown hair, though not long by any stretch, was in need of a haircut. And though his taut, muscular five-foot-ten frame would have been the envy of men half his age, he’d barely eaten in the last five days and it was sadly undernourished.

Only once before had Harvath ever been filled with as much doubt and self-loathing as he was now.

Eighteen years ago, he had defied his father, a SEAL instructor at the Naval Special Warfare School near their home in Coronado, California. He had tried out for and been accepted to the U. S. Freestyle Ski Team. Though his father knew his son was an exceptional skier, he had wanted him to go to college after high school, not enter the world of professional athletics. Father and son were equally stubborn, and neither talked to the other for a long time afterward. It was Scot’s mother, Maureen, who managed to keep the family together. And though there was some communication between the two men, things were never really the same again. Father and son were more alike than either cared to admit, which was what made the tragedy of the elder Harvath’s death even more unbearable.

When Michael Harvath was killed in a training accident, Scot was never the same again. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get his head back into competitive skiing. As much as he loved the sport, it didn’t seem that important to him anymore.

With a portion of his substantial winnings, he bought a backpack and traveled through Europe, eventually settling in Greece on a small island called Paros. There he found a job as a bartender, working for two mismatched, expat Brits. One was a former driver for a south London crime family, the other a disgruntled ex-SAS soldier. After a year, Harvath knew what he wanted to do.

He returned home and enrolled at the University of Southern California, where he studied political science and military history. Upon graduating three years later, cum laude, he joined the Navy, eventually trying out for and being accepted to Basic Underwater Demolition SEAL school (BUD/S) and a specialized program known as SQT or SEAL Qualification Training. Though the selection process and subsequent training were grueling beyond measure, his mental and physical conditioning as a world-class athlete, his refusal to ever give up on anything, and the belief that he had finally found his true calling in life propelled him forward and earned him the honor of being counted as one of the world’s most elite warriors-a U. S. Navy SEAL.

With his exceptional skiing ability, Harvath was tasked to the SEALs’ cold-weather experts, SEAL Team Two. There, despite a tragic loss on one of his first assignments, Harvath had excelled.

Eventually, he caught the attention of the members of the Navy’s famed SEAL Team Six, who helped hone his skills not only as a warrior, but also as a linguist, improving upon his rudimentary knowledge of French and teaching him Arabic.

It was while he was with Team Six that Harvath assisted a presidential security detail in Maine and caught the eye of the Secret Service. Wanting to bolster their antiterrorism expertise at the White House, they eventually succeeded in wooing him away from the Navy and up to D. C. Harvath soon distinguished himself even further, and after a short time was recommended for an above-top-secret program at the Department of Homeland Security being spearheaded by an old family friend and former deputy director of the FBI named Gary Lawlor.

The program was called the Apex Project. It was buried in a little-known branch of DHS called the Office of International Investigative Assistance, or OIIA for short. The OIIA’s overt mission was to assist foreign police, military, and intelligence agencies in helping prevent attacks against Americans and American interests abroad. In that sense, Harvath’s mission was partly in step with the official OIIA mandate. In reality, he was a very secretive dog of war enlisted post-9/11 to be unleashed by the president upon the enemies of the United States to help prevent any future terrorist attacks on America.

The rationale was that if the terrorists weren’t playing by any rules, then neither would the U. S. But because of sensitive PC biases that existed in America, which seemed to suggest our nation was the only one that should abide by the rules, the president realized that Harvath’s true mission could only be known by a key few, namely the president himself and Harvath’s boss, Gary Lawlor.

Harvath was to be backed with the full weight of the Oval Office, as well as the collective might of the U. S. military and the combined assets of the U. S. intelligence community. The program sounded fantastic on paper, but reality, especially in bureaucratic Washington, often turned out to be something else entirely.

Harvath didn’t want to think about his job now. It was because of it, because of
him,
that Tracy had been shot. He didn’t need the results of any investigation to tell him that. He knew it as surely as he knew that the woman lying in that hospital bed didn’t deserve any of what had happened to her.

The FBI had been able to piece together some of what had happened. They had discovered the hiding spot the shooter had used in the woods at the edge of his property. Their assessment was that whoever the assassin was, he’d dug himself in sometime during the evening, probably several hours before daylight.

The killer had left behind a shell casing with the message-
That
which has been taken in blood, can only be answered in blood.

There had also been the bizarre act of painting his doorframe with blood. The first run of analyses ruled out its being Tracy ’s. It had been painted there sometime during the night and had already dried before Tracy was shot.

Then there was the dog that had been placed on the doorstep as a gift in a picnic basket. Harvath had only to take one look at the
thank you
note that had been left with it to know who it was from. But if someone was going to target him or Tracy, why leave such a blatant calling card?

Weeks earlier, on a covert operation in Gibraltar, Harvath had saved the life of an enormous dog known as a Caucasian Ovcharka-the same breed as the one that had been left on his doorstep. The owner of the dog in Gibraltar was a contemptible little man-a dwarf, actually, who dealt in the purchase and sale of highly classified information. He had also helped plan the attack on New York. He was known simply as the Troll.

But how had the Troll found him?
Only a handful of people knew about the historic church and grounds named Bishop’s Gate that Harvath now called home. He found it hard to believe that the Troll would be so careless or stupid as to announce that he was behind Tracy ’s shooting.

The timing, though, stank, and Harvath wasn’t a person who believed in coincidences. There had to be a connection, and he was determined to find out what it was.

When Harvath came back into the hospital room, Tracy ’s parents, Bill and Barbara Hastings, were sitting on either side of her bed.

Bill Hastings was a large man, about six-foot-four and over two hundred pounds. He’d played football at Yale and looked like he could still play. His hair was gray and Harvath put him in his mid to late sixties. Seeing Harvath enter the room, he looked up and asked, “Any change?”

“No, sir,” replied Harvath.

Barbara smiled at him. “You were here all night again, weren’t you?”

Harvath didn’t reply. He simply nodded. Having to deal with Tracy ’s parents was one of the more difficult aspects of keeping vigil at her bedside. He felt so damn responsible for what had happened to her. He couldn’t believe how kind they were to him. If they blamed him at all for what had happened to their daughter, they didn’t show it.

“How’s the hotel?” Harvath managed. The silences in the room could be unbearable, and he knew he had to start carrying some of the conversational weight.

“It’s fine,” replied Barbara as she reached for Tracy ’s hand and began stroking her forearm. Tracy ’s mother was a stunningly elegant woman. Her deep red hair was perfectly coifed and her fingernails were perfectly manicured. She wore a silk blouse, an Armani skirt cut just above the knee, stockings, and expensive pumps.

Though Harvath would never have uttered such a trite line, it was obvious where Tracy got her good looks.

The Hastings made a very attractive pair. With the fortune that Bill Hastings had amassed in the hedge fund arena, it was no surprise that they were almost permanent fixtures on the Manhattan society pages.

After the July 3 attack on New York City, they had debated cutting their summer in the south of France short, but Tracy had convinced them to stay. Manhattan was going to be a nightmare to get back to and to get around in for some time to come, so the longer they could delay their return, the better. Their plans had changed the minute Tracy had been shot. They had chartered a private plane and rushed to Washington to be by their daughter’s side.

Harvath was struggling to come up with something else to say when a nurse stuck her head in the door and said, “Agent Harvath? There is a gentleman here to see you. He’s waiting in the lounge.”

“Okay, I’ll be right out,” replied Harvath. He was happy to give the Hastingses some time alone with their daughter.

Stepping around Mr. Hastings, Harvath bent down and whispered in Tracy ’s ear that he’d be back in a little bit. He gave her hand a loving squeeze, then headed for the door.

Just as he was reaching for the handle, Bill Hastings said, “If that’s the fellow from the Bureau again, make sure you tell him that we never did find Tracy ’s ID in her personal effects.”

Harvath nodded and exited. Outside the room, he slid Tracy ’s driver’s license from his pocket and looked at it.
God she was beautiful.
He didn’t have the heart to tell Bill Hastings that he was the reason her ID was missing. In the short amount of time he and Tracy had been together, they’d never stopped to take any photos.

Though he felt guilty for deceiving her parents, Harvath had no intention of giving it up. It was one of the few reminders he had of the way she was, the way
they
were, before they had been torn apart.

Entering the lounge, Harvath found his longtime friend and boss, Gary Lawlor, waiting for him. “How’s she doing?” he asked.

“Still the same,” replied Harvath. “Anything new on the investigation?”

Gary motioned for him to sit down. It was a windowless room with a television mounted on a wall bracket in the corner. Harvath took a seat and waited for the man who had become like a second father to him to close the door and sit down.

When Gary took his seat, his expression was all business. “We may have gotten a break in the case.”

Harvath leaned forward in his chair. “What kind of break?”

“It has to do with the blood that was painted above your doorframe.”

“What about it?”

“The forensics people now know it wasn’t human.”

“What was it?”

“Lamb’s blood.”

Harvath was confused. “
Lamb’s blood?
That’s doesn’t make any sense.”

“No,” replied Gary, “but it’s what they found
mixed with
the blood that I want to talk to you about.”

Harvath didn’t say anything. He just waited.

Leaning forward, Lawlor lowered his voice and said, “After Bob Herrington’s funeral, the secretary of defense took you for a ride and asked if you were up to taking out his killer. Do you remember him telling you that they were planning on letting him escape so that they could track him back to the people he was working with?”

“Yes, so?”

“So, do you remember
how
they planned on tracking him?” asked Lawlor.

Harvath thought about it a moment. “They spiked his blood with some sort of radioisotope that created a signature they could follow via satellite.”

Lawlor leaned back in his chair and watched as Harvath processed the information.

“The lamb’s blood contained a radioisotope.”

Lawlor nodded.

“That’s impossible. I took care of Bob’s killer myself.” Harvath was about to add
and I watched him die
when he realized he hadn’t actually witnessed the terrorist check out.

Though Harvath doubted anyone could have survived what he had done to Mohammed bin Mohammed, the fact remained that he hadn’t actually confirmed that the man was dead.

“They don’t believe it was Mohammed,” said Lawlor. “From what I have been able to gather, this is a completely different radioisotope.”

“Purposely put into the lamb’s blood and painted over the front door of my house?” asked Harvath.

Once again, Lawlor nodded.

“Why?”

“Somebody is sending you a message.”

“Obviously, but who? If it’s a radioisotope, even if it’s a different one than what was used on Mohammed, it shouldn’t be that hard to figure out where it came from. We’ll start there.”

“It’s not going to be that easy,” said Lawlor.

“Why not? The whole thing is a DOD program. They keep records like anyone else. Contact the Def Sec’s office and let him know we need access.”

“I already tried.”

“And?” Harvath asked impatiently.

“No go.”

“
No go?
You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Lawlor shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m not kidding.”

“Then we’ll go to the president. Even the defense secretary answers to someone. If President Rutledge tells him to open his files, believe me, he’ll open his files,” said Harvath.

“I already spoke with President Rutledge. It’s a no go.”

Harvath couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I want to talk to the president myself.”

“He knew you’d say that,” said Lawlor. “And he feels he owes it to you. There’s a car waiting for us downstairs.”