by Brad Thor
“Funny,” said Roussard. “I thought I was the one holding the gun.”
“For all the Marines you killed in Iraq,” replied Harvath, “as well as everything you have done to the people I love and care about, I am going to watch you die.”
The smile returned to Roussard’s face. “Revenge is indeed a noble motive. A pity that it won’t be possible for you.”
Roussard snugged the weapon up against his shoulder and prepared to fire. “You see, the only one of us who’s going to die here today is you.”
Harvath’s eyes darted left and then right looking for a rock, a branch, anything he could use against his captors. There was nothing. On top of that, neither of the two men was standing close enough so that he could sweep their legs out from under them. He had absolutely no options.
Harvath looked Roussard in the face and was about to speak when the killer’s finger tightened around his trigger and Harvath saw a blinding flash of light.
Chapter 94
T he white phosphorous flare lodged in the chest of Roussard’s accomplice and lit him up like a lighthouse beacon.
When Harvath’s vision returned, he saw the Troll waddling toward him, a spent flare gun dangling in his hand.
The accomplice was dead. His smoking body lay on the ground several feet away. Harvath looked around for Roussard, but couldn’t find him.
The moment he stood up, his legs threatened to give out beneath him. The blows to his head had been worse than he’d thought.
“Slowly, slowly,” cautioned the Troll as he ran up to Harvath to help steady him.
“Where’s Roussard?”
“He took off toward the helipad.”
“Why didn’t you stop him?” Harvath demanded as he reached for the dead man’s submachine gun and his two extra clips.
“Stop him? I did stop him…from killing you. You ungrateful arsehole.”
Harvath was on the footpath, running for the helipad, before the Troll even finished his sentence. The sounds of the spinning helicopter rotors were growing in intensity. It was already lifting off.
By the time Harvath got to the pad, the chopper had already cleared the trees and was heading out over the water. Harvath tore through the forest to the beach on the other side of the island.
When he got there, he raised the Goblin and opened fire. He saw at least two rounds connect near the tail rotor, but not seriously enough to bring the aircraft down or force it back for a landing. Harvath blew through his other two magazines even though he knew the helicopter was at the very far end of his range, if not already beyond it.
With the Troll’s house fully ablaze, help would be coming soon. They needed to be gone before anyone got there.
Harvath left the beach and threaded his way back through the forest. When he got back to the charred body of Roussard’s henchman, the Troll was gone, as were the rest of his weapons, including Harvath’s Beretta.
He heard a noise near the generator shack and quietly crept forward to investigate.
The Troll was on his hands and knees, the weapons stacked along with Harvath’s dry bag next to him.
“Did you get him?” asked the Troll without turning around.
“No,” replied Harvath as he pointed the empty automatic weapon at him.
“I only had one shot, you know,” continued the Troll. “I shot the man closest to me, and even then I was afraid I was going to miss.”
“I want you to move three steps to your right, away from those weapons.”
“These?” said the Troll as he gestured to the pile and stood up to face Harvath. “I collected them for you. Consider it a thank you for running the hose for the dogs.”
“Just step away.”
The Troll did as he was told.
As Harvath moved in to collect the items, the dwarf grinned and said, “You don’t trust me, do you?”
Harvath half-laughed as he checked to make sure a round was chambered in his Beretta and then placed the other items into his dry bag.
“It’s not my fault the man I shot wasn’t Roussard. All you tall people look alike from behind.”
“All the more reason I’ll be sure never to turn my back on you,” replied Harvath as he picked up the bag and slung it over his shoulder.
“Why did you lie to Roussard?” asked the Troll, changing the subject. “If you’d told him where I was, you might have saved your own life.”
“Roussard was going to kill me either way. I didn’t tell him where you were because I’ve got a thing about not helping bad people get ahead in life.”
“Touché.”
“By the way,” asked Harvath, “why’d you come back? You were supposed to tie off the boat’s steering wheel, send it out into the bay, and wait for me.”
“When I didn’t hear the helicopter take off, I figured you’d been successful in the first part of your plan, but I still had a few reservations about the rest of it.”
“I suppose I should be glad.”
“No,” answered the Troll, “just grateful. If only a little bit.”
Harvath didn’t know how he felt about owing his life to such a man, so to avoid thinking about it he took his turn at changing the subject. “What made you take the flare gun?”
The Troll looked at Harvath and replied, “In life, even the smallest advantage is better than no advantage at all.”
Chapter 95
I nstead of going north toward Rio, they headed south along the coast to Paraty, a small eighteenth-century Portuguese fishing village. Set against the forested slopes of the Serra do Mar, Paraty looked out over a bay of hundreds of uninhabited islands. It was similar to Angra dos Reis, but much lower key.
Residents and visitors alike were more discreet here, preferring to own or rent a refurbished fisherman’s cottage or one of the town’s diminutive terracotta-roofed villas. It was completely different from the jet-set style of Angra, and that suited Harvath just fine.
He swam back out to his boat and returned to the island to pick up the Troll as well as his two dogs, Argos and Draco. It was a colossal pain in the ass, but the Troll had refused to leave without them.
They beached the boat a mile outside town, and Harvath hiked back to secure transportation for them. There were plenty of cars to choose from—most of their owners having left them in one of two public parking areas specifically set aside for island dwellers who had no need of their vehicles until they drove back home to Rio.
Harvath chose the first one he saw, a white Toyota Sequoia SUV with tinted windows.
When they arrived in Paraty, it was still dark. They purchased more water for the dogs and some food for themselves at an all-night gas station and then parked along a quiet agricultural road to eat and rest. But first, Harvath had a question. “Why would Roussard want to kill you?”
“I’ve been wondering about that too,” said the Troll as he sank his spoon into a Styrofoam cup of thick bean and sausage stew known as feijoada. “For some reason, he’s been keeping tabs on me. He used me to find you and now that he knows I’m helping you try to stop him, he wants me dead. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
The man was right. It was the only explanation that made sense. The Troll was good at covering his trail, but he wasn’t exactly perfect. If he had been, Tom Morgan and his people at Sargasso never would have been able to track him down.
“My friends call me Nicholas,” said the Troll after a long silence.
Harvath was in no mood to cozy up with him and ignored the remark as he unwrapped his sandwich.
The Troll was undeterred. “It’s a nickname of sorts. I’ve always been fond of children, and Saint Nicholas is their patron saint.”
“As well as the patron saint of prostitutes, robbers, and thieves.”
The Troll smiled. “Strangely appropriate for a boy who grew up in a brothel, wouldn’t you say?”
This guy is a real chatterbox, thought Harvath as he went to work on his food.
“How about you?” asked the
Troll. “How is it you only spell Scot with one T?”
Harvath took a swig of his water. He knew he was going to have to say something. “My mother chose the spelling,” he said, setting the water down. “My middle name is Thomas and she didn’t like the way it looked to have three Ts all run together when my name was written out. So, she lopped off one of the Ts.”
“I am sorry for what Roussard did to her.”
“If it’s all the same to you,” replied Harvath. “I’d rather not discuss my personal life with you.”
The Troll put up his hands in defeat. “Of course. I understand. No one can blame you for feeling that way. The people you care about have been through an incredible amount.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Harvath grunted.
“You don’t like me very much, do you, Mr. Harvath?”
Harvath slammed his water bottle down, spooking his passenger and raising the ire of the dogs in the back, who started growling.
Looking into the rearview mirror, Harvath ordered the dogs to be quiet and they immediately fell silent.
Turning back to the Troll, Harvath said, “One of my best friends was killed in New York because of you. Running off Roussard with that flare gun isn’t going to make us even.”
The Troll was quiet for several moments. The entire time, Harvath’s eyes drilled into him. Finally, he spoke. “I know there is nothing I can say or do to bring your friend back to you. If it’s any consolation, Al Qaeda still would have hit Manhattan, even without the intelligence I provided them.”
“New York never would have been a target if it wasn’t for your intelligence,” snapped Harvath.
“That’s not true. The individual in your government who sold me that information was offering it to the highest bidder. I just happened to have the most readily available checkbook. If it hadn’t been me, some other broker would have purchased it, and the information would have still found its way to Al Qaeda.”
“And you think that makes what you did okay?”
“No,” said the Troll. “It doesn’t. I want you to know it’s not easy to live with.”
Harvath glared at him. “Thousands of Americans died in an attack worse than 9/11 and you find your role in that difficult to live with. Well, I’m glad to know you at least have a subtle pang of conscience.”
“And you expect me to believe that you’ve never done anything you are ashamed of?”
“Believe what you want,” replied Harvath. “My conscience is clear.”
“Every single time you pulled a trigger, you knew the person on the receiving end deserved to die? You did it for America. Mom and apple pie, so to speak. Right? Never questioned if what you were doing was the right thing. Never questioned if maybe your superiors had made a mistake. You were simply following orders.”
Harvath held the steering wheel in a death grip. “Let’s get something straight. The only reason you are sitting next to me and still breathing is that I think you still can be useful.”
They spent the rest of their time in silence. Harvath’s thoughts were occupied with stopping Roussard, while the Troll’s were occupied with the thought that his fate was now inexorably entwined with Harvath’s. Roussard wouldn’t stop stalking either of them until they were dead, or the terrorist himself had been killed. Like it or not, the Troll understood that he and Harvath now shared a very dangerous enemy. He also understood that Harvath represented his best chance of neutralizing Roussard, permanently.
The stakes at this point were well beyond getting his money and data back. His life, in more ways than one, was in Harvath’s hands.
When the shops and businesses finally opened the next morning, Harvath used his Brauner alias to rent a small, walled villa overlooking the ocean outside town. The less attention they drew to themselves, the better.
When Harvath returned from purchasing supplies, he found the Troll in the grassy courtyard playing fetch with the dogs.
As Harvath approached, one of the two dogs began growling. The other trotted over and dropped the stick he’d been playing with at Harvath’s feet. The animal then sat obediently down and waited to see what Harvath would do.
“I think Argos remembers you,” said the Troll as he came across the courtyard. Nodding at the box Harvath was carrying, he asked, “Do you need any help unloading?”
“Yeah,” he replied, tilting his head toward the road. “There’s a bunch of stuff still in the truck.”
As the Troll headed for the vehicle, Draco followed, but Argos remained right where he was.
Once they were out of sight, Harvath sighed, balanced the box in his left arm, and bent over to pick up the stick.
Chapter 96
T he villa Harvath had selected was outfitted with all the creature comforts: high-speed internet, plasma television with satellite hookup, an impressive stereo system, and a kitchen worthy of a master chef.
The Troll was standing near the stereo with his laptop as Harvath put the rest of the groceries away.
“Do you mind?” he asked. “I like to play music when I cook.”
Harvath shrugged and continued to unpack the bags and boxes as the Troll connected his laptop to the stereo and uploaded one of his digital playlists.
“Since you went to the store,” announced the Troll as he shoved his way past Harvath into the kitchen, “the least I can do is cook lunch.”
“You don’t have to do that,” replied Harvath.
“Yes, I do,” he said as he took a stepladder from the broom closet and dragged it over to the sink, where he washed his hands. “Done with a focused mind, cooking can be a Zenlike experience. I find it helps relax me. Besides, I don’t get to cook for other people that often.”
Pulling a Brahma beer from its six-pack, the Troll held it out as a peace offering.
Harvath needed the beer more than the little man knew and reached out and accepted the bottle. He found a church key, popped the top, and sat down on a bar stool at the kitchen island. His mind was racing. He needed to check in on his mom and Tracy. He also needed to check in on Kate Palmer and Carolyn Leonard, as well as Emily Hawkins and the dog. Jesus, he thought. It was no wonder he felt he needed a drink before getting into all that.
He took a long pull. It tasted good. Cold, the way beer was supposed to be. It was a small pleasure, but one of the very few he’d allowed himself in a long while. The monastic life did not agree with him.
As the Troll’s music began playing, he removed the wafer-thin stereo remote from his pocket and punched up the volume. “Cooking is all about the ingredients,” he remarked. “Even the music.”
Harvath shook his head. What an eccentric, he thought to himself as he took another sip of beer. The liquid was halfway down his throat when he realized what they were listening to. “Is this Bootsy Collins?”
“Yes. The song is called ‘Rubber Duckie.’ Why?”
“Just curious,” replied Harvath, who owned the Ahh…The Name Is Bootsy, Baby! album, from whence “Rubber Duckie” came, on vinyl and CD.
“What?” asked the Troll, a dish towel over his left shoulder and a chopping knife in his right hand as he prepared lunch. “You don’t think a guy like me can appreciate classic American funk music?”
Harvath held up his hands in mock self-defense. “I just don’t meet a lot of people who are into Pachelbel and funk.”
“Good music is good music, and when it comes to funk, Bootsy is one of the best. In fact, without Bootsy and his brother Catfish, there’d be no funk music at all. At least not like we know it today. James Brown never could have become the Godfather of Soul without the Pacesetters shaping his sound. And don’t even get me started on what they did for George Clinton and Funkadelic.”
Harvath was impressed. “I’ll drink to that,” he said, raising his beer. There was a lot more to the Troll than met the eye.
It was like watching a magician. Harvath considered himself a good cook, but he was far outside the Troll’s league. The little man had taken a small amou
nt of fish, a little bit of bread, and a few other ingredients and had created an amazing fish soup with bread and rouille.
As Harvath cleared the table, he picked up the remote and muted the music. “Something is still bothering me about all of this,” he said. “In all your dealings with Adara Nidal, you never asked her what her son was up to?”
The Troll pushed himself back from the table and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Out of courtesy, of course I asked. She wasn’t very forthcoming when it came to matters regarding Philippe. I think she was extremely disappointed in him. She would say things like, He’s working for the cause, or, He continues to show great promise as one of Allah’s most noble soldiers.”
“Which was all bullshit, right?” stated Harvath as he set their dishes near the sink and turned around. “I mean, she never struck me as a devout Muslim. She drank and did a whole bunch of other stuff I think Allah would have frowned on.”
The Troll laughed. “Despite the many habits she had developed to better blend into Western society, I feel she was still a true mujahideen at heart.”
Harvath pulled another beer from the fridge and sat back down at the table with the opener. “So who’s running Roussard then? He didn’t spring himself from Gitmo. With Hashim and Adara dead, the Abu Nidal organization effectively fell apart. It wasn’t a many-headed hydra like Al Qaeda. We cut off two heads and the monster died.”
“Or so your intelligence told you.”
“Do you know something different?”
“No,” said the Troll as he got up to make coffee. “Everything I have seen is in line with your assessment.”
“So then Roussard became a free agent. Somebody had to have picked him up. The question is who?”
The Troll slid the stepladder over to the stove and climbed up. “If we knew what kind of leverage was used to get the U. S. to release Philippe and his four fellow prisoners from Guantanamo, maybe we could begin to piece together who he was working for. But we don’t have that, and without it, I really don’t think we have very much to go on.”