The First Commandment (34 page)

As Harvath left Leif Realty, he knew he had uncovered a major part of how Philippe Roussard planned on carrying out his attack. It was going to come from the water.

Scenes of a USS
Cole
-style ramming attack briefly flashed through Harvath’s mind, but he discounted them. Roussard did not strike him as suicidal, and when it came to the Lake Geneva Country Club, there was nothing to ram. The club was perched high at the water’s edge and almost impossible to get significantly close to because of a series of wooden piers and boat slips.

There was a chance that Roussard could pack his boat full of explosives and try to leave it in one of the slips closest to the clubhouse, but it would be next to impossible for the craft to avoid Secret Service scrutiny. Well before the president had arrived they would have checked each boat over completely and matched it with its rightful owner, upon whom a thorough background investigation would have already been completed along with background checks of all the other members of the club.

Harvath backed out of his parking space and followed the directions Nancy Erikson had given him for the rental property. As he drove, he gave play to every conceivable scenario that might involve Meg’s wedding and Roussard’s access to a high-powered speedboat.

The SEAL team that accompanied the president whenever he visited marine environments would be on, under, and all around the water during the wedding. In addition, there would be numerous support craft keeping boaters a good distance away from the area. A straight kamikaze-style run by Roussard would certainly fail.

Reaching Highway 50, Harvath turned left and headed west, parallel to the lake’s north shore. There had to be something he wasn’t seeing; something about the boat, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

With a hard perimeter established around the country club, the only way it could be breached was with an attack that, once launched, couldn’t be stopped. Again, Harvath returned to the idea of a projectile of some sort, along the lines of a Stinger missile or an RPG.

Consulting his map, Harvath noticed that he was coming up on the turnoff for Roussard’s lakefront rental. When he saw the road sign, he eased off the gas and applied his turn signal.

Moments later, he was driving down a paved lane shaded by a canopy of tall oaks that had been planted at equal intervals along both sides of the road.

As Harvath drove, he focused on what lay ahead of him. Most important, he focused on the need to keep Roussard alive until he uncovered what the man had planned.

For all Harvath knew, the boat might have nothing to do with Roussard’s attack and everything to do with his getaway. He couldn’t close his mind off to any options.

As Harvath followed a gentle bend in the road, he was unable to see the dark SUV that had just turned off the highway behind him.

About a half mile before Roussard’s, Harvath came upon a small home undergoing extensive renovation. As it was nearing five o’clock, all the construction workers had gone. He pulled into the gravel drive and parked. He’d cover the rest of the distance on foot.

Roussard’s rental property was bordered on three sides by thick wood? Harvath decided to approach from the far side, opposite the road.

He moved as quickly as he could without making too much noise. Nothing moved save for a cloud of gnats that seemed to follow him every step of the way.

At the edge of the woods, Harvath stopped. From where he sat, he could make out the entire rear and one side of the French château-style home.

Roussard had registered a Lincoln Mark VII with the real estate office, but the driveway was empty.

There were no interior lights and none of the windows were open. Only the hum of the air conditioning unit hinted at the possibility of human life inside. It was time to make his move.

Maneuvering through the woods to a spot nearest the garage, Harvath located the side door off the garage and removed the set of keys the realtor had given him from his pocket.

Crouching low, he pulled his H amp;K, counted to three, and made a break for it.

He moved fast, making sure his approach wouldn’t be seen from any of the windows. At the door, he slid the key into the lock and opened it slowly.

The first thing he noticed was Roussard’s Lincoln. Harvath walked over and placed his hand on the hood to see if it had been driven recently. It hadn’t.

Skirting a collection of brightly colored beach toys, he headed for a short flight of steps and the door that led into the house. He didn’t expect it to be locked and it wasn’t. Roussard was like most people who trusted the overhead garage door to be a sufficient line of defense.

The air inside the home was much cooler than that in the garage. It washed over Harvath as he slipped inside and silently shut the door behind him. He was in a mudroom area just off the kitchen.

He stood for what felt like an eternity and quieted his breathing to focus solely on listening. His ears strained for any sound that would tell him where in the house Roussard might be, but no such sound came.

Tightening his grip on his pistol, Harvath began to systematically clear the structure. He moved with practiced efficiency as he swept into each room with his H amp;K at the ready.

Room after room was empty. There was no sign of Roussard anywhere on the first floor. Reaching a grand staircase, Harvath took the carpeted steps two at a time as he raced upward, eager to confront Roussard and end the chase that had begun the moment Tracy had been shot.

Harvath buttonhooked into each bedroom, checking closets, bathrooms, and under beds. Nothing, no sign of Roussard anywhere.

Harvath reached the master bedroom and finally began to see evidence that Roussard had actually been staying in the house. The bed was unmade and the bathroom sink and shower were slightly wet. As recently as that morning, Roussard had been there, but the walk-in closet was empty, not a suitcase, backpack, or bag to be seen anywhere. Roussard was already prepared to disappear, but it didn’t make any sense, the wedding wasn’t until tomorrow.
Why pack up your clothes, your toiletries, and everything else a day early?

Looking out the French doors that led to the master bedroom’s private balcony, Harvath had an unimpeded view of the lake. His eyes were immediately drawn to the pier and the conspicuous absence of the Cobalt speedboat Nancy Erikson had arranged for Roussard.

A bad feeling was growing in the pit of Harvath’s stomach.

He backtracked the way he’d come, rechecking everything along the way. When he got to the garage, he opened the driver’s-side door of Roussard’s Lincoln and popped the trunk.

Smiling back at him was a bright blue Kiva duffle. “Gotcha,” said Harvath.

But after opening it and sifting through all its mundane contents, he realized he hadn’t gotten anything. Clothes, toiletries, it was all run-of-the-mill stuff. Not only was there nothing incriminating inside the bag, there was nothing at all pointing to what Roussard was planning to do.

Harvath slammed the trunk closed and was about to go back inside when he noticed a large plastic garbage can by the garage door.

He ran to it and threw back the lid. At the bottom was a white garbage bag. Harvath pulled it out and took it back inside the house.

Clearing off the dining-room table, he ripped open the bag and emptied its contents. Illuminated by the shafts of waning afternoon light, he picked through the few bits and pieces of trash that had accumulated over Roussard’s short stay.

There were empty mineral water bottles, microwavable entrée packages, ashes, butts, and a couple of empty packs of Gitanes. Mixed in among everything was a brochure for the grand yachts of the Lake Geneva Cruise Line company.

Harvath took a dish towel and wiped the brochure clean. Rental homes the world over were filled with local magazines, as well as brochures on sights and things to do. It was no surprise that the owners of this house would have done the same for their renters. But what was it about this brochure that warranted Roussard’s throwing it out?

Harvath rapidly flipped through the pages, trying to discern its significance. It wasn’t until he neared the end that he noticed a dog-eared page, and his heart stopped cold in his chest.

The text at the top read “The Grand Yacht
Polaris
was built in 1898 for Otto Young, one of the first millionaires on Geneva Lake. Experience the luxurious lifestyle of this time period while surrounded by the original mahogany and brass aboard the
Polaris.
Her deck is open to the lake breeze and the cabin area contains a beautiful brass-top bar. Perfect for private tours, or treat your guests to a one-of-a-kind cocktail party.”

Harvath had been wrong. Roussard’s target wasn’t Meg’s wedding,
it was her rehearsal dinner.

As he dropped the brochure on the table he heard the distinct sound of a hammer being cocked behind him. It was followed by Rick Morrell’s voice from the other side of the kitchen saying, “Don’t move, Scot. Don’t even breathe.”

A million and one things sped through Harvath’s mind, chief among them being,
How
the hell had they found him?

Harvath knew that any attempt to negotiate with Morrell would be futile. He didn’t care how close he was to nailing Roussard and he wouldn’t care that Roussard was at this very moment about to carry out another attack. Morrell’s sole purpose was to put a hood over Harvath’s head and throw him into a dark hole for a long time.

If there was one thing that Harvath knew about life, it was that it was all about timing, and Morrell’s just plain sucked.

Without warning, Harvath dropped to the floor and out of sight of Rick Morrell and his men. As he scrambled on his hands and knees into the living room, the dining area erupted in a hail of silenced weapons fire. Morrell’s marching orders were clear-Harvath was to be taken dead or alive.

The front door exploded inward and Harvath fired a volley of booming rounds into the frame, which scattered an additional contingent of Morrell’s men and sent them scurrying for cover outside.

Firing several more rounds as he ran, Harvath made it to the grand staircase and charged up the steps. Reaching the master bedroom, he could hear men pounding up the stairs behind him.

There was no time to slow them down by barricading the door. Harvath needed to maintain his lead.

Racing through the bedroom, he shut the doors to the walk-in closet and the bathroom and let himself out the French doors onto the small balcony.

Checking first for any signs of Morrell’s men on the ground below, Harvath hopped up onto the stone balustrade and pulled himself onto the steeply sloped roof.

The slate tiles were almost impossible to get traction on. Harvath’s feet kept slipping as he moved his way down the roofline. His goal was to drop onto the garage and from there to the ground where he could make his way back into the woods. However, it didn’t turn out exactly the way he had planned.

Ten feet away from the garage, Harvath’s foot caught a loose tile and he lost his balance-this time for good.

He went down hard, hitting the edge of the roof before being launched into the open air. Harvath tried to right himself, but he was traveling at too great a rate of speed.

He landed hard on his left side, the force of the impact crushing the air from his lungs. Despite the thick bed of landscaping mulch, had he landed on his head, his neck would have snapped like a matchstick. Though Harvath didn’t feel very lucky at the moment he was,
extremely.

Even though his brain was scrambled from the fall and he couldn’t breathe, he knew on a primal level that he needed to get moving or he was going to be dead.

He sucked in huge gulps of air, trying to saturate his lungs with oxygen. As his chest heaved, he caught sight of his pistol lying in the dirt several feet away.

He scrambled toward it, and as his fingers closed around the slide, he felt the air returning to his lungs.

Getting to his feet, Harvath made sure to remain below the window line as he ran toward the garage. When he got there, he pulled up short, flattening his back against the cool stone wall.

Raising his H amp;K to chest height, he risked a quick peek around the corner.

Two of Morrell’s men were already on the ground looking for him, and one was headed his way. In a word, Harvath was
fucked.

The only chance Harvath had of escape was to draw Morrell and his men off his trail, and to do that, he was going to need to take one of them out of commission.

Planting his feet, Harvath crouched and gripped his pistol by the barrel, turning the butt outward. All of this would be so much easier if he were willing to kill Morrell and his team, but that was still off the table.

He quieted his breathing and listened. He knew the man was just around the corner, no more than a few feet away, yet he couldn’t hear anything.

Harvath’s legs burned and sweat was breaking out on his forehead. He was like a coiled spring that had been wound too tight. He wasn’t going to be able to hold this position much longer.

Suddenly, there was a flash of color as one of Morrell’s men did a hasty peek around the corner of the garage. That was when Harvath sprang.

Grabbing the man’s submachine gun with his left hand and pulling him off-balance, Harvath slammed the butt of his pistol into the man’s temple hard enough to make him see stars, lots of them.

Instantly, his knees buckled, and Harvath yanked him the rest of the way around the corner to his side of the house.

Keeping his own pistol trained on him, Harvath took the man’s MP5, as well as a spare magazine, and slung it over his shoulder. The man carried a.40 caliber Glock in a paddle holster at his hip, and Harvath helped himself to that too.

In the man’s ear was a Secret Service-style ear bud. Harvath checked his collar and found a microphone, which was connected to a small, Midland walkie-talkie on his belt.

“I’m going to give you one chance,” whispered Harvath. “Tell your team I’m in the woods, north of the house headed for the road. Got it?”

“Fuck you,” spat the man, his head still reeling.

Transitioning to the silenced MP5, Harvath jammed the weapon into the man’s groin. “He’s in the woods, north of the house and headed for the road,” repeated Harvath. “Do it, or I’ll blow your balls off.”

With his eyes glaring at Harvath, the man nodded.

Harvath reached over and activated the microphone.

Wincing in pain, the man stammered, “This is McCourt. Harvath’s in the woods north of the house. He’s headed for the road.”

Releasing the
transmit
button, Harvath pulled the submachine gun out of the man’s crotch and cracked him across the side of the head, knocking him unconscious.

He waited until he heard Morrell’s people go crashing through the brush at the north end of the property and then made his break for the waterfront.

As he ran, his mind replayed what Jean Stevens had said about the rehearsal dinner.
We’re getting picked up on the dock at five-thirty for a cocktail cruise and then it’s off to the club for dinner.

Harvath looked at his Kobold. It was already five-thirty-three.

No longer caring that his cell phone could allow the CIA to pinpoint his location, Harvath pulled his BlackBerry from his pocket and turned it on. As soon as it registered a signal, he dialed Meg’s cell phone. He was immediately dumped into her voicemail and realized that the phone must have been turned off.

The only other person he knew on the boat was Jean Stevens, but he had no idea if she even carried a cell phone, much less what her number was.

Harvath contemplated calling the Secret Service, so they could alert the agents on Meg’s detail, but working his way through the chain of command would take too much time.

He was the only person who could possibly stop Roussard, but to do that, he needed a way to get to the other side of the lake.

Arriving at the shore path, Harvath stopped. He could go either right or left, but whichever direction he chose it needed to have a pier in close proximity with a fast boat. If he chose wrong, Meg Cassidy, as well as her Secret Service detail and all of her guests, were going to die.

Harvath ran out to the end of Roussard’s dock to get a better view. East of his location for at least a thousand yards was nothing but shoreline, while less than two hundred yards to the west were a handful of short piers like the one he was standing on. Several of them had boats, and one even had a family that was loading theirs with food and wine as they prepared to go out for an evening cruise.

Harvath pulled his creds from his pocket and spun, ready to ID himself to the boat’s owners as he ran for their dock, but was instead greeted by the sight of Rick Morrell’s silenced MP5 pointed right at his head.