Hidden Order: A Thriller

by Brad Thor

  “That bad, huh?” said Harvath, picking up on what a hot-button issue this was for the security chief.

  “Was there a certain degree of secrecy around the meetings, of course there was. Considering the sensitivity of what they were trying to do, why would that be strange? If I had been their security director back then, I would have advised them to do exactly what they did and stay as far under the radar as possible. We keep a lot of the day-to-day stuff here quiet because we have to, for security reasons, but that just fuels the crazies. You have no idea what a colossal pain in the ass those people are. Not a day goes by that we’re not dealing with something they’re stirring up.”

  “I can imagine,” said the Old Man, who followed up with another question. “Have there been any ransom demands?”

  “We’re not sure,” he replied, sliding another picture across the table. “This was also found at the scene.”

  It was a picture of Claire Marcourt’s severed ears, propped up and bracketing an odd note that read Today is already the tomorrow which the bad economist yesterday urged us to ignore.

  Harvath lined up the photo of the ears and note alongside the tight shot of the sign. The writing was exactly the same. “Any idea what it’s supposed to mean?”

  “I assume it means someone doesn’t like how the Fed is handling the economy. It’s just a quote from some dead economist named Henry Hazlitt.”

  Harvath doubted it was “just a quote.” It obviously held significance for whoever had written it. Placing the crime scene photo of Claire Marcourt’s body with the other two pictures, he remarked, “How about the local police, do they have any clues to go on? Witnesses? CCTV footage?”

  “Nothing,” the security chief replied. “Whoever did this went to great lengths to make sure they didn’t leave any evidence behind.”

  He found that hard to believe, too. There was always evidence. It was just a matter of how well trained you were to look for it. Harvath studied the photos for a few more moments before saying, “I’m not exactly sure why we’re here. The FBI must already be all over this.”

  He could feel the Old Man bristle next to him, but he didn’t care. The question needed to be asked.

  “Yes,” Lewis offered. “The FBI is already involved, but we want to make sure we’re bringing in every resource we can to prevent anyone else from being killed.”

  Jacobson added, “I have contacts at the Bureau and I know how it works. If we have any hope of bringing this to a rapid resolution, we need to have someone familiar with the system who, how do I say this delicately? Someone who’s not afraid to work outside it.”

  Harvath didn’t reply. He let Jacobson’s words float in the air above the conference room table.

  “We also need someone who can keep quiet,” Lewis stated.

  Now we’re getting to the heart of what this is really about, thought Harvath.

  “You need to understand,” Lewis continued, “that there are several forces arrayed against the Federal Reserve who want to see us gone, and it’s not just citizens. There are members of Congress as well. Granted they’re not very powerful or very well organized, but a scandal of this magnitude could help put some wind in their sails and we don’t want that.”

  “With all due respect, how are you going to hide it? You’ve already got five kidnappings, one of which has turned into a murder.”

  “We’re trying very hard to keep it out of the press. So far, we’ve been successful.”

  “There’s no way that’ll hold,” Harvath replied.

  “We’ve asked the families and law enforcement for their cooperation, and so far they’ve been on board, but now with a murder things are going to be different,” Jacobson said. “We’ve got maybe forty-eight hours, seventy-two tops before this story is everywhere.”

  Lewis nodded and Jacobson pulled a sheet of paper from his file and pushed it across to their guests. “This is a list of the missing candidates.”

  Harvath and the Old Man studied it together.

  Marcourt, Claire—New York City

  Mitchell, Betsy—Seattle

  Penning, Herman—Boston

  Renner, Jonathan—San Francisco

  Whalen, Peter—Chicago

  “I’ve never heard of any of these people,” Harvath finally said.

  “Me neither,” the Old Man replied. “Who are they?”

  “Private sector people. Investment banking mostly,” said Lewis. “Because of the trouble the economy has been having and the way fingers have been pointed at us, we were considering bringing our next chairman or chairwoman from outside of the Federal Reserve. Sort of a breath of fresh air as it were.”

  Harvath looked at him. “How many people knew these were your top picks?”

  “It was quietly known inside the organization.”

  “And outside of it?”

  “The candidates themselves knew, and there were some financial reporters who had speculated on who might be on our list, though as far as we know, no one had come close to winnowing it down to our five.”

  “And the Bureau is aware of all of this?”

  “All of it,” said Jacobson. “They’ve already begun interviewing everyone here who had any knowledge of things. Our number-one goal is getting the kidnap victims recovered and making sure the perpetrators are dealt with. That’s why we’re having this meeting with you.”

  “Dealt with?” Harvath repeated. “I’m sorry, but what exactly is it that you think we do?”

  The Old Man put his hand on Harvath’s forearm. “They came to us because of our kidnap and ransom expertise.”

  Harvath knew that wealthy companies and individuals often brought in kidnapping specialists to augment the efforts of the FBI. “There are plenty of people who do K-and-R,” he stated. “Why us specifically?”

  “Because,” said Lewis. “We want the best and you came very highly recommended.”

  “By whom?”

  “I think the response you’re searching for,” the Old Man corrected Harvath, “is thank you.”

  “That’s all right,” Lewis said. “Mr. Harvath, Stephanie Gallo has been a personal friend of mine for many years. She was also a friend of Chairman Sawyer’s before he passed away. When her daughter was kidnapped while doing aid work in Afghanistan, you were the person the President personally recommended she hire to cut through all the red tape and bring her back alive, which is exactly what you did.”

  Harvath remembered the case. The Taliban had captured Gallo’s daughter Julia and were holding her hostage in exchange for the release of a very dangerous Al-Qaeda operative. Not many people knew of Harvath’s involvement, much less that the President had quietly recommended him to the Gallo family.

  “We don’t discuss our clients or any of our operations,” he replied.

  “And I respect that,” Lewis stated. “Like I said, we need someone who can keep quiet.”

  The Old Man tapped Harvath on the forearm again. “It’s okay. The Gallo family knows that we’re meeting with Mr. Lewis.”

  “Even so,” said Harvath, “that was Afghanistan. This is the United States. The rules are different, a lot different. I’m not saying we can’t help, but without a ransom demand this is almost entirely a law enforcement function. There’s only so much a K-and-R team will be allowed to do.”

  “You’ll have all of our resources at your disposal,” said Lewis, “including the aircraft, which is being held at Reagan with a fresh crew standing by.”

  Harvath wasn’t exactly sure how to respond. He had several more questions, none of which were appropriate to ask in front of Lewis and Jacobson. He needed to speak with the Old Man privately. The prospective clients, though, were not content to afford him that opportunity.

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have the luxury of time for you to think this over,” Lewis stated. “I need to know now, whether you’re in or you’re out.”

  Before Harvath could respond, Reed Carlton answered for both of them. “We’re in.”

  C
HAPTER 11

  “They’re a client with a license to print their own money,” said Carlton as he drove toward Harvath’s home on the outskirts of Alexandria, Virginia. He was in a much better mood now that their meeting was over and they had the assignment. “That’s not something that falls into your lap every day.”

  “Technically,” Harvath replied, “they don’t print their own money. And, as a wise man once told me, they don’t make ice cream, either.”

  “What’s the matter with you all of a sudden?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, snap out of it. Between this job and once we get paid on the Sienna Star, we’ll be back in the black.”

  “What are you charging Monroe Lewis?”

  “I’m not charging him, I’m charging the Federal Reserve. I came in high because I expected him to negotiate us down on our fee, but he didn’t. He’s even wiring us half of everything up front. You, though, for some reason seemed bound and determined to kill this deal. If I’d had my weapon, I might have put a bullet in you right there myself.”

  Harvath shook his head. “None of this bothers you?”

  “Of course it bothers me. Every assignment we take bothers me. Each one has its share of headaches and blind alleys. That’s why people call us. But despite all the problems, we always find a way through. It’s what we do.”

  It’s what I do, thought Harvath. And while he didn’t discount the Old Man’s genius, Carlton didn’t do much if any fieldwork anymore. It was always Harvath who was being sent into shitholes around the world having to face danger on a regular basis. There was a ton of it he loved, but there was some he was starting to dislike.

  “Listen, for Monroe Lewis and his crew money is literally no object. At some point, someone in the press is going to connect the dots and this is going to be a huge story. In fact, I don’t even know how long they’ll be able to keep the murder down in Georgia quiet. When this thing does go supernova on them, they’re going to want to appear to have done everything they could, which includes bringing in a K-and-R team to assist the FBI. They’re hedging their bets.”

  The Old Man was right. Harvath didn’t want to dwell on it. “Where do we begin?” he asked.

  Carlton signaled and merged into a faster-moving lane. “Jacobson gave us his file with everything on the kidnappings plus what they have on the murder. I think we ought to start there.”

  “Speaking of which, did you notice how her body was laid out?”

  “On the bed of logs? Weird, huh?”

  “Not so much weird as purposeful,” Harvath replied.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because whoever killed her was sending a very specific message.”

  “Of course they were,” the Old Man stated. “They’re some wacko group that thinks the Fed is comprised of a bunch of tyrants.”

  “It’s not just the line from Jefferson about the tree of liberty. It’s also the skull and crossbones with the crown above it. And there’s something with those logs that bothers me, too.”

  “Like what?”

  “I want to double-check it when we get back to the house. It may not be anything.”

  • • •

  Harvath’s property sat above the Potomac, just south of George Washington’s Mount Vernon. The modest estate, called Bishop’s Gate, was a former Anglican church dating back to the Revolutionary War and was one of hundreds of properties owned by the United States Navy. Out of gratitude for his service to the United States, a previous president had arranged a ninety-nine-year lease for Harvath. All that was required was that he restore and maintain the property in a manner befitting its historic value. His rent was established at one dollar per annum.

  With all of the places he had lived as an adult, nothing had ever felt truly like home to him until Bishop’s Gate. Not someone particularly given to a belief in fate, he made a discovery on the day he took possession of the property that caused him to wonder if his tenancy wasn’t somehow preordained.

  In the attic of the rectory, he had come across a sign. On a beautifully carved piece of wood was the Latin motto of the Anglican missionaries. It was almost as if it had been left there for him. When he read the words that so perfectly summed up what he did and who he was, Scot knew he had found his refuge—TRANSIENS ADIUVA NOS—I go overseas to give help.

  He removed the sign from the attic and hung it in his entry hall so he could read it each time he came or went.

  Stepping inside, he told Carlton to help himself to whatever he could find in the kitchen and that he would join him there in a few minutes.

  He turned and walked down the opposite hall to his study. Once he got there, he stood looking at the shelves and shelves of books. Everything was in perfect alphabetical order by author. When he had first moved in, he thought that was the best way to organize his vast library. Only now did he wish he had grouped things by subject matter.

  One of Harvath’s passions was American History, particularly the years surrounding the Revolutionary War. He had loved that piece of America’s past since he was a boy. In fact, had his two majors in college not kept him so busy, he might have considered adding an American history minor.

  It took him a few minutes to find what he was looking for, but once he had all the books stacked on his desk, he picked them up and headed for the kitchen.

  Carlton had found probably the only two food items in the entire house that seemed to weather Harvath’s long trips away without spoiling—pickled herring and Wasa Crispbread—yet another throwback to his Scandinavian-themed dating days.

  Setting the books on the kitchen table, Harvath grabbed a beer from the fridge and joined the Old Man.

  “What’s all this?” Carlton asked.

  “Research,” replied Harvath as he twisted the top off his beer and sent the cap sailing toward the sink.

  “Books? Why don’t you use the Internet like everyone else?”

  He shook his head. It was ironic that he’d be the one championing books, while the Old Man touted the Internet. “The Web’s pretty good, but it doesn’t have everything. When it comes to historical items, books are still the best bet.”

  Harvath opened the uppermost book from his stack and began leafing through it. When he figured out that it wasn’t the one he wanted, he set it aside, and opened another. Soon enough, he came to the page he was looking for.

  “Let me see the tight shot of the sign hung around Claire Marcourt’s neck,” he said without taking his eyes from the book.

  Opening the folder on the table, Reed Carlton fished out the picture and handed it to Harvath. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks,” Harvath replied as he took it and set it inside, right next to the image he was looking at. He then turned the book so the Old Man could see.

  “They’re almost a perfect match.”

  Harvath nodded. “Except Claire Marcourt’s doesn’t have the words Death to Tyranny underneath.”

  “Which would have been redundant considering the line from Jefferson.”

  “I agree. That’s probably why they left it out.”

  Carlton stared at the image. “That’s been bothering me ever since we saw it at the Fed. I know I should remember that crown over the skull and bones, but I don’t.”

  The man was a walking encyclopedia about almost everything. It wasn’t often that Harvath knew something that Carlton didn’t and when that happened, Harvath often ribbed the older man over it. Carlton may have been his boss, but he had grown to be like a second father to him. Harvath’s own father had died not long after he had graduated from high school. The two hadn’t been on good terms. Harvath’s father, also a U.S. Navy SEAL, had been against Scot’s pursuing a career in professional sports, despite his son’s success on the competition circuit and acceptance to the U.S. Ski Team.

  Like father, like son, Harvath had been bound and determined to do what he wanted to do. Ignoring his father’s wishes, he pursued his athletic career, and their relationship suffered dramat
ically because of it. They fell into a cold silence, with Harvath’s mother doing everything she could to keep the family together. The frosty détente collapsed when Harvath’s father was killed in a training accident.

  Harvath’s athletic career collapsed soon after. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get his head back into competition. The crushing guilt was more than he could bear. He knew he had let his father down. No matter how many friends and coaches spoke to him, his mind couldn’t be changed. He abandoned sports and decided to return to school.

  After graduating cum laude from the University of Southern California, he joined the Navy and was eventually accepted into BUD/S. It was the most grueling experience Harvath had ever undergone, but the idea that if his father could do it, he could do it propelled him forward.

  His athletic prowess and ironclad determination saw him excel. He graduated at the top of his class and was assigned to SEAL Team Two, also known as the Polar SEALs, where his proficiency in skiing was an exceptional asset.

  As much as he enjoyed his Team Two colleagues, he wasn’t seeing enough action with them to keep him happy and so he applied for the storied SEAL Team Six.

  Harvath had built a bit of a rep for himself, but even so, SEAL Team Six was very, very particular about whom they allowed to join their ranks. As much as the rest of the SEAL community was loath to admit it, SEAL Team Six was in a class all its own.

  It was one of the most elite organizations in the world and one of the most difficult to be accepted into. You had to prove you not only deserved to be there, but also wanted it more than anything else. The members of SEAL Six didn’t make it easy. In fact, they did everything they could to discourage Harvath. None of it worked. In the middle of an endurance exercise designed so that there was no way anyone could complete it, they realized he was either going to join their ranks or die trying and they ended the audition. Scot Harvath had won his probationary place among their ranks.

  Language proficiency was not something SEALs were particularly known for, but Harvath’s aptitude was quickly recognized and encouraged. He was sent to school for any language he showed talent for, or interest in, including Arabic and Russian.