The First Commandment

by Brad Thor

  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.”

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  A nd you expect me to sit on this?” asked Sheppard.

  “Yes,” replied Vaile. “Your story would be devastating to the public trust.”

  This time, the reporter couldn’t stifle his laugh. “Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you dreamed this whole thing up.”

  The DCI was quickly coming to the end of his patience. Before he could say anything, though, Sheppard asked, “Are you going to arrange an accident for me the way you did with Frank Aposhian and Sally Rutherford?”

  “For the record, Mr. Sheppard, their deaths were an accident. The U. S. government is not in the business of murdering its own citizens.”

  “Then I have nothing to worry about, do I?”

  “That depends on if you’re going to cooperate or not.”

  The reporter had received so many threats over the years that he didn’t spook that easily. “Really? And if I don’t?”

  “Your story is tentatively entitled ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’—” began Vaile.

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  “Shut up and listen,” ordered the DCI. “You have it in a password-protected file. The password is Romero. Open it.”

  Sheppard did as he was told. Inside, he saw that a subfolder named candy cane had been added. Instinctively, he clicked on it and was greeted by a page of images in thumbnail. He maximized one at random and his breathing stopped.

  “You fucking assholes,” said the reporter as he realized what they were planning on doing to him. “It’ll never work.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Vaile. “Guilty or not, the stigma of pedophilia is almost impossible to scrub away.”

  “Good thing I recorded this conversation, then,” crowed Sheppard.

  Vaile laughed. “I suggest you try to play it back first before you stake your career and the rest of your life on it.”

  His shockproof bullshit detector was telling him his caller wasn’t playing games. “You make me ashamed to be an American,” said Sheppard.

  “Don’t you dare wrap yourself in the flag now,” chided the DCI. “You had your chance. We are at war and wars involve secrets. This is about doing the right thing for your country and you passed on it. In spite of that fact, I’m going to give you one more chance.”

  “What’s to stop me from deleting them?” asked Sheppard, sounding determined to remain faithful to his journalistic integrity, but already losing his resolve.

  “You can’t delete these images. Even if you could, there are more on both your laptop and desktop at home. We also have several convicted pedophiles who are willing to testify to numerous unsavory proclivities of yours. It’s a hole so deep you’ll never climb out of it.

  “The newspaper will be the first to distance itself from you. Your body snatcher story will never see the light of day. You’ll be absolutely discredited. Next, your friends will disappear and even your family will start to fade away. And then there are all those children you so nobly mentored. You think anything you ever said or taught them will matter after they all figure out the only reason you were there was to get in their pants? Probably not, but that won’t be the end of your problems.

  “A conviction on the child porn discovered on your computers and in your house will be a slam dunk. You’ll go to prison, and as you’re a crime reporter, I don’t need to tell you what they do to guys in your situation. Once the rumors get around that you’re a pedophile who pled to lesser charges of possession of child porn for a reduced sentence, if you’re not killed in the first couple of days, they’ll make your life such hell that you’ll wish you were dead.”

  Sheppard had sat through the entire diatribe stunned. They had him. It was disgusting, but there was absolutely nothing he could do. His mind raced for answers, but he knew his only option was capitulation. Finally, he asked, “What do you want me to do?”

  Vaile instructed him to gather any and all of the materials he’d assembled in putting together his story, including his notes, photographs, and tape recordings, and bring them in a small duffel bag to an abandoned warehouse just outside D. C.

  Three hours later, the DCI contacted the president and shared with him the good news. After digging a bit deeper, the reporter from the Baltimore Sun had discovered that his sources were not as reliable as he had originally thought. Subsequently, he had decided not to pursue his story.

  Jack Rutledge was relieved to hear it. That was one problem down. Now, they needed to refocus all of their resources on stopping Harvath.

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  ANGRA DOS REIS, BRAZIL

  E ven in the limited moonlight, Harvath’s small boat appeared more to hover than float atop the amazingly clear water.

  He slipped the anchor quietly beneath the surface and slowly played out the rope. When the boat was secure, he gave his gear one last check and slipped over the side.

  Harvath swam with the confidence of a man who’d spent all of his life near an ocean. His strong, sure strokes propelled him forward through the warm waters of Angra dos Reis Bay.

  With a set of night vision goggles and a specially illuminated compass, he navigated his way through the darkness toward the private island known as Algodão.

  On the leeward side, he low-crawled out of the water and unclipped from around his waist the rope that he’d used to pull a small dry bag behind him.

  From the bag, Harvath removed the 9mm Beretta pistol that he had sent to himself via FedEx priority internat
ional shipping.

  Harvath checked the weapon and then set it aside as he removed a change of clothes and got dressed. He pulled out a flashlight, his Benchmade Auto Axis folding knife, some Flexicuffs, and a few other items and shoved them into his pockets. He buried his swim gear near a large rock on the beach and checked the remaining contents of his dry bag.

  The dogs the Troll kept were one of his biggest concerns. Since rescuing one of them in Gibraltar, he had done a little research on them. Caucasian Ovcharkas were amazing animals—swift, agile, ferocious when need be, and fiercely loyal. It was obvious why they’d been the breed of choice for both the Russian military and the East German border patrol. It was also obvious why the Troll had selected them.

  Harvath thought about his own Caucasian Ovcharka, or rather the poor dog he had asked Emily Hawkins to take care of while he made up his mind about what he wanted to do with it. He had a big problem with keeping a “gift” from a man who’d been complicit in the slaying of countless Americans, including one of Scot Harvath’s best friends.

  To be honest, with Tracy in the hospital and everything else that had happened, he hadn’t really thought much about the puppy until Gary shared with him the animal’s grisly torture. It was a horrible picture that Harvath forced from his mind. He needed to focus.

  Harvath listened long and hard before slinging the bag over his shoulder and creeping into the island’s interior. Except for the narrow spits of sand on each side, the island was nothing but trees and luxuriant vegetation. The Troll’s lair was at the tip of the island, built outward on stilts above the water.

  Harvath had thought hard about how he wanted to handle the dogs. A tranquilizer gun would have been the easiest method, but he didn’t have one. The only things he had access to for this trip were those in his safety-deposit box, as well as a small storage locker he kept in Alexandria. It wasn’t a lot to choose from.

  Though he had his Beretta, he didn’t have a silencer for it, and therefore killing the dogs was out of the question. It would make too much noise. He had to find another way to incapacitate them. But to do that, he’d have to isolate them without arousing suspicion in their master—something easier said than done.

  The dogs were the Troll’s own private security force. They never left his side—except when they went outside to relieve themselves. That was their moment of greatest vulnerability. And that was when Harvath planned to strike.

  Based on satellite imagery he’d studied, Harvath had noticed that the Troll let the animals out a final time around ten o’clock in the evening. It was now just after nine-fifteen, which meant that Harvath had less than forty-five minutes to lay his trap and get himself into position.

  Dogs in general, and the Ovcharkas in particular, excelled at night vision and the detection of movement, so it was imperative that Harvath be nowhere near the bait when they came outside.

  Opening his dry bag he removed a football-sized object wrapped in paper. He’d had it prepared especially for this situation. It was ten kilograms of freshly ground beef into which Harvath had the butcher in Angra dos Reis grind a kilo of fresh bacon for added irresistibility.

  Then, once safely away from shore, Harvath added his own special ingredient, a high-powered laxative from the pharmacy he’d visited in Rio.

  Picking his spot now on the narrow trail that led from the Troll’s retreat, Harvath divided the meat into two sections and placed them close enough together that the dogs would be able to smell them, but far enough apart so that whichever dog got to the meat first, wouldn’t be able to wolf down his portion and then beat his partner to the other.

  With the bait set, Harvath stepped into the brush, making sure he stayed downwind as he crept toward the house.

  He found a perfect vantage spot among some large boulders near the shoreline. The house glowed with soft lighting and all of its window walls were retracted to let in the evening air. Harvath could hear classical music coming from inside. It was Pachelbel’s Canon in D, and he recognized it immediately. It was one of Tracy’s favorites. She had it on her iPod and played it on the audio station in his kitchen when she cooked breakfast.

  Harvath wondered if she’d been playing it on the morning she was shot.

  Drawing his pistol, Harvath pulled back the slide to make sure the weapon was charged and said into the warm night air, “This one will be for you, honey.”

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  S ince Harvath hadn’t skimped on the drug, it didn’t take long for the laxative-laden meat to work its magic. Both dogs began howling almost in unison. The rumbling tearing through their bowels had to have been horrible.

  The music was turned off, and Harvath caught his first glimpse of the Troll. It brought the memories of their first encounter in Gibraltar flooding back to him.

  The Troll’s pure white dogs, which were well over forty-one inches high at the shoulder, towered above the little man. Where the animals had to weigh close to two hundred pounds apiece, the Troll couldn’t have weighed more than seventy-five. Harvath placed his height at just under three feet tall. That said, he knew the man’s size was absolutely no indication of his cunning.

  The Troll opened the front doors of his rustic villa, and the dogs knocked their master out of the way as they tore out of the house. If the Troll had any idea what was wrong with them, he certainly didn’t show it. Harvath’s guess was that the man had absolutely no idea what was going on. All he knew was that his animals were acting extremely strangely and out of character.

  Harvath watched as the Troll followed the dogs outside. It was time.

  Stepping out from behind the rocks, Harvath moved quickly up the beach. As he neared the house, he cut around back and hopped a wooden fence that surrounded a lushly planted, open-air bath.

  He crossed the fragrant courtyard, and after climbing a small flight of stone steps, entered the house through the wide-open French doors.

  Passing through the kitchen area, Harvath dropped a stack of bone-shaped packages on the counter and cupboards and continued in.

  Halfway through the living room he noticed a small alcove that must have been used as a reading nook. It had two upholstered chairs, a lamp, and a small side table. Harvath unslung his dry bag, pulled his pistol, and sat down.

  To say the Troll was surprised to see him was an understatement. He pulled up short so quickly, he lost his balance. Harvath might have laughed if he hadn’t harbored such an intense hatred for the man.

  To his credit, the Troll had a very agile mind. Seeing Harvath and his gun, the man summed up the situation very quickly.

  “What have you done to my dogs?” he demanded.

  “They’ll be fine,” said Harvath. “It’s only temporary.”

  “You bloody bastard,” roared the little man. “How dare you hurt those animals? They have done absolutely nothing to you.”

  “And I want to keep it that way.”

  The Troll burned holes into Harvath with his eyes. “So help me. If anything happens to them, I will make it my life’s work to see to it that you pay with your very last breath.”

  His demeanor had switched from agitated, almost panicked, to an icy calm. There was no question that he meant what he said and that he fully believed he could carry out the threat.

  “I left two packets in the kitchen,” said Harvath, referring to the product known as K-9 Quencher he’d picked up at the same strip mall at which he’d bought his computer before leaving D. C.

  “What are they?” asked the Troll, the apprehension obvious in his voice.

  “Don’t worry. If I’d wanted your dogs dead, they’d be dead. Those packets contain an electrolyte powder specially formulated for rehydrating canines.”

  “What did you do to them?”

  “It’s just a laxative. They’ll be fine in a few hours. Pour each packet into a bowl of water and leave them outside where the dogs can get to them.” As the Troll glared at him, Harvath added, “And make sure you stay where I can see you.”

  Af
ter placing the bowls upon the threshold, the Troll closed the front door, came back to the reading nook, and climbed into the chair next to Harvath. “I knew you’d come for me,” he said. “I just didn’t think it would be this soon. So this is it, then.”

  “Maybe,” replied Harvath. “It depends on whether you can be of any further use to me.”

  “So you’re not a man of your word after all.”

  Harvath knew what he was alluding to, but he let the question hang in the air between them.

  “You promised I wouldn’t be killed,” said the Troll in his tainted British accent. His dark hair was cut short and he sported a well-kept beard.

  Harvath grinned. “I made that promise to you when I thought you were cooperating with me.”

  The Troll’s eyes shifted. It was an ever-so-subtle tell. Harvath knew he had him. “There should have been another name on that list you gave me. Five men were released from Gitmo that night. Not four.”

  The Troll smiled. “Agent Harvath, if there’s one thing I’ve learned during my lifetime, it’s how to read people, and I can tell that you already know who this fifth person is.”

  Harvath leaned forward, his face a mask of deadly determination. “If you’re such a good reader of people then you should already know that if you do not cooperate, I will kill you with my own bare hands, right here. Do we understand each other?”

  If the Troll was intimidated by Harvath’s threat, he didn’t show it. “It’s been a very long day,” he said. “Why don’t we adjourn to the living room and have a drink?”

  When Harvath hesitated, he added, “If you’re worried about me trying to poison you, you don’t have to join me. I’m quite used to drinking alone.”

  Either way, Harvath wasn’t about to let his guard down. Pointing at the bar with the barrel of his Beretta he said, “Be my guest.”

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