by Brad Thor
Now the Troll understood why the file had taken so long to load. Embedded within that annoying, hopping Norseman icon was a message.
It was an invitation to a private chat room from none other than Scot Harvath. The Troll shut down his computer.
This was going to take some brainpower. He resisted the urge to pour another brandy. Instead, he brewed a small copper pot of potent Turkish coffee and returned to the living room.
As he watched the brightly colored fish below the glass floor, he considered his options. This would be a fight for his very survival, and though he guessed himself to be far beyond Harvath in the brains department, there was no telling what kind of resources the American had at his disposal. The gravest error he could make here would be to underestimate the man.
Since there was no clock ticking on the offer to enter the chat room, the Troll decided to take his time and research his adversary first.
CHAPTER 16
ELK MOUNTAIN RESORT
MONTROSE, COLORADO
You’re positive he saw the link?” asked Harvath.
Morgan nodded. “We loaded the icon with a program designed to ping us back once he clicked on it and then erase itself. He saw it. Believe me.”
“I still don’t like how long this is taking,” said Ron Parker as he paced along one side of the long table. They had all gathered in the Sargasso Intelligence Program’s conference room, which also doubled as its War Room when sensitive operations required monitoring. “We should have set a time limit on him.”
Tim Finney held up his hand. “Gentlemen, he’ll come. Don’t worry. He doesn’t have a choice. He’s taking his time because he can. Making us wait is the only power he has at this point, and he knows it.”
Parker stopped pacing and poured himself a cup of coffee from the machine on top of a low-slung credenza. Above it was a large oil painting of a bugling elk in a lush mountain valley. “He could also walk away.”
Harvath had always appreciated Parker’s keen, tactical mind. Only fools refused to consider retreat when it was the best option. But in this case, Harvath knew his opponent better than Parker did. The Troll might try to double-cross them, but he wasn’t going to simply disappear.
“There’s too much at stake for him here,” said Harvath, signaling to Parker that he wanted a cup of coffee too. “He can’t afford to walk away. He’ll want to get back what we took from him.”
“Fat chance of that happening,” replied Parker as he handed Harvath a mug and sat down next to him. “Have you got any idea what you’re going to say when he does appear in that chat room?”
“How about, In addition to your data and your bank accounts, we also revoked your membership in the lollipop guild, asshole?” offered Finney as he bellied up to the credenza.
Though he didn’t much feel like it, Harvath smiled. “I hadn’t thought of that one. I’ll throw it in the pot and see what moves me when the time comes.”
“It’s come,” said Tom Morgan as he punched a button on his laptop and pushed it across the table to Harvath.
Flat-panel monitors at the front of the conference room sprang to life with a real-time view of the chat room. A message indicated that a new chatter had entered. As this was a private chat room that had been created solely for this exchange, they all knew they were looking at the digital presence of the man known only as the Troll.
Harvath’s fingers hovered above the keyboard, but Finney shook his head no. “He made us wait. Now let’s return the favor. We’ve got the upper hand here. Let’s make it clear.”
Though he wasn’t sure he agreed with his friend, Harvath waited. Moments later, the Troll fired the opening shot.
You have taken things that do not belong to you, he typed.
Harvath didn’t need any coaching. So have you, he replied.
I want my bank accounts and my data restored, immediately.
And I want to know who shot Tracy Hastings, Harvath responded.
There was a long pause. Finally, the Troll responded, So that is what this is all about? There was another pause before the dwarf added, Perhaps we can come to an arrangement.
Finney looked ready to make a suggestion, but Harvath held up his hand to stop him. He knew what he was doing. If you cooperate, I’ll let you live.
The Troll typed :) followed by, I have been threatened by more powerful men than you and yet here I am. You will have to offer me something more.
You killed a very good friend of mine in New York, replied Harvath. You are lucky that I am offering as much as I am.
You are referring to Master Sergeant Robert Herrington. His death was most regrettable, but it should be noted that it was Al Qaeda who killed him. I was nowhere near New York when the attack took place.
The Troll knew way too much about Harvath, and it made him very uncomfortable. How did you find out where I lived?
It was not difficult.
Humor me, Harvath fired back.
I conducted a simple credit check.
My name is not on my new house. None of the utilities are in my name. I don’t even receive mail there.
I know you don’t, answered the Troll. It all goes to a local pack-and-ship store in Alexandria. Your last known address before you got smart and switched to the pack-and-ship was an apartment several blocks away. I hired someone to ascertain whether you still lived there. The day my source showed up you were moving to the house. He simply followed you to your new domicile. From what he tells me, Bishop’s Gate is quite lovely.
Harvath was done dancing. Did you order the hit on Tracy Hastings?
The Troll took his time. Finally he typed, No. I did not.
Do you know who did?
Maybe.
It took everything Harvath had to keep his temper in check.
CHAPTER 17
Moments later, the Troll responded, Agent Harvath, you have taken everything I have. Unless you put something more than threats against my life on the table, there really isn’t anything in this for me and I don’t see any point in continuing our conversation.
Harvath had expected this and was prepared to bargain. I’m prepared to purchase the information from you.
Using my own money, of course.
Of course.
I want it all, stated the Troll. Half as a show of good faith now, the rest upon delivery of the information.
Harvath typed slowly and deliberately. You’ll get one million if and when you provide me proof of the shooter’s identity. And as far as good faith goes, you’re going to demonstrate yours by giving me the name of the person who followed me to Bishop’s Gate.
I never reveal my sources, replied the Troll. Not even for one million dollars, which by the way is a mere pittance considering what you took from me.
Then there is no deal.
Agent Harvath, what happened to Ms. Hastings was indeed unfortunate. When I heard about it, I questioned my source, in detail, but he neither saw nor heard anything that could be of value to you. He followed you and early the next morning he placed my gift upon your doorstep.
Harvath had figured whoever it was had been nothing more than a courier, probably some cut-rate private eye the Troll had hired on the cheap. It was a concession he was willing to make, and he let it drop.
Before he could type a response, the Troll added, I heard they found lamb’s blood above your front door.
The man’s sources were scarily good. It sickened Harvath that such a person could worm his tentacles in wherever he pleased, even a highly sensitive federal investigation. So what?
So, very biblical, wouldn’t you say?
Can you help me or not? asked Harvath.
I want a show of good faith from you first.
I already told you I’ll let you live.
A rather empty threat considering that you have no idea where I am.
Harvath nodded to Tom Morgan and then typed, Just so you know, I don’t make empty threats.
A fraction of a second later, an infrared survei
llance image appeared on the screen and Harvath narrated. This satellite footage was taken over your location in Angra dos Reis less than ten minutes ago. From what I can tell, that’s you near the front of the structure, and the two hot spots on your left would be the dogs. Am I correct?
The Troll didn’t respond. Harvath figured he had to be shocked. Having an adversary discover where you live is an incredibly unsettling violation. It was nice to be able to dish out a little of the Troll’s own medicine.
So now you have my show of good faith, added Harvath. I’m a man of my word. If I had wanted you dead, you’d be dead.
Minutes passed as the Troll tried to piece together how they had tracked him down. Finally, he typed, It was the wire transfer to the property management company.
Now it was Harvath’s turn to post a smiley face. :) With Finney’s help, he had stripped the Troll of everything and had knocked him completely off-balance.
A few minutes later, as he finished his instructions to the newly acquiescent Troll, Harvath left the man with one final warning, You are not to leave the island. If you do, I will hunt you down and kill you myself.
CHAPTER 18
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
The call from Philippe Roussard’s handler came in the middle of the night. “Do you have everything in place?”
Roussard sat up in bed and propped a thin pillow between his head and the cheap stucco wall. “Yes,” he responded, sliding a Gitanes from the pack on the nightstand and lighting it up.
“Those things will kill you,” warned his handler as he heard Roussard’s Zippo clank shut and the operative took a deep drag.
Philippe swept his dark hair back from his face and replied, “Your concern for my well-being is quite touching.”
The caller refused to rise to the bait. Their relationship had been much too contentious of late. They needed to work together if they were going to succeed. Taking a deep breath, the handler said, “When you are finished, the boat will be waiting. Make sure no one sees you get on it.”
Roussard snorted in response. No one was going to see him. No one ever did. He was like a phantom, a shadow. In fact, he was so elusive that many people didn’t even believe he existed. The U.S. government, though, was a different matter.
Until his capture, no one had ever seen him. No one knew his name or nationality. The American soldiers in Iraq called him Juba and had lived in abject terror of being his next victim.
All of his shots came from at least two hundred meters and as far away as thirteen hundred. Almost every one was perfect. He had an intimate understanding of body armor and knew right where to place his shots—the lower spine, the ribs, or just above the chest.
Sometimes, as in the case of the four-strong Marine scout sniper team in Ramadi, he dispatched his targets with absolutely pristine shots to the head. With well over a hundred kills to his credit, Roussard was a hero to those Iraqis who resented the American occupation and an avenging angel to his brethren among the insurgency.
The Americans had hunted him relentlessly and eventually they caught him. He was shipped to Guantanamo where he endured months of torture. Then, just over six months ago, he had been miraculously delivered out of captivity. He and four other prisoners had been loaded aboard a plane and flown back to their homes. Only Roussard knew why it had happened or who their benefactor was.
Now, as he slipped his powerful, six-foot frame into a pair of Servpro coveralls, the irony of his situation wasn’t lost on him. America had secretly agreed to his release along with the four others in order to protect its citizens against further terrorism. Yet here he was, inside America itself, ready to carry out his next attack.
CHAPTER 19
Regardless of the distasteful habits Roussard had cultivated in order to blend into Western society, he was still a true mujahideen at heart. His nature ran quite contrary to that of his handler, who was all too comfortable with Western excesses, especially rich food and expensive spirits.
The French boarding school in which Roussard had been raised had had little influence on him beyond teaching him how to comfortably blend in among his Western enemies. His true education had come from years spent at a nearby mosque and then later at several secret camps throughout Pakistan and Afghanistan.
It was there that he learned that “Al Qaeda” didn’t translate to “the base,” as most Western media outlets had so ignorantly reported, but rather, “the database.” It referred to the original computer file of the thousands of mujahideen who were recruited and trained with the help of the CIA to defeat the Russians in Afghanistan.
To this file, said to be one of the most closely guarded secrets of the Al Qaeda leadership, had been added thousands upon thousands of more names since the 1990s. These mujahideen were from all walks of life and were drawn from more ethnic and socioeconomic backgrounds than any Western government would ever admit. They had been recruited, indoctrinated, trained, and dispersed around the world to wait until they were called to battle.
As Roussard drove his van across the San Diego-Coronado Bridge he reflected on what might happen to him if he was apprehended. This was America, after all, and it had already done its worst to him in Guantanamo. Catching him here on their own soil, they would do even less. That’s how easy they were to exploit. They passed convoluted laws that served to protect their enemies better than their own people.
When America caught its so-called terrorist enemies, it lacked the courage to put them to death. Zacarias Moussaoui, the blind cleric Sheik Omar Abdel-Rahman, and even Ramzi Yousef were all given life sentences. They were a testament to America’s cowardice and weakness, and the fact that it would inevitably fall to the true followers of Islam.
Merging onto Third Street, Roussard made several turns and doubled back twice to make sure he wasn’t being followed. When he got to the address on Encino Lane, he parked the van at the base of the driveway and placed an orange cone both in front of and behind the vehicle. While he doubted anyone was going to notice anything at this time of night, a home disaster restoration truck might pique a neighbor’s interest, but it wouldn’t warrant a call to police.
As he approached the front door, Roussard removed a lockpick gun from his pocket and hid it beneath his box-style metal notebook. As he reached the door, he pretended to ring the bell. Quietly, he worked the lock, knowing the woman inside did not have a home alarm system.
When the lock released, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Roussard paused in the entryway until his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. The house smelled like furniture polish, mixed with the scent of the nearby sea.
Once his night vision was established, he moved quietly down the hallway toward the master bedroom. The hall was lined with family photographs, most of them from many years ago.
At the bedroom, Roussard found the door wide open and his victim fast asleep upon her bed. Crossing over to her, he tucked the metal folder beneath his left arm and unzipped his coveralls.
For a moment, he thought he might have dropped it, but then his hand closed around the object he was searching for.
When he looked back down at his victim, he received the shock of his life. Her eyes were wide open and she was staring up at him. Her bedroom windows were open, and if she screamed, he could be done for.
Roussard’s instincts took over. He grabbed his notebook with both hands and swung—hard. He hit the woman across the left side of her head.
Her mouth opened as if to scream and Roussard hit her again. The woman’s eyes closed and she lay motionless atop her bed.
Blood ran from her nose and her ear. It matted her long gray hair and stained her nightgown. She was unconscious, but still very much alive, which was how he wanted her.
Dropping his notebook on the bed, Roussard scooped the woman up into his arms and carried her into the bathroom. There he placed her in the tub, stripped off her nightgown, and covered her body with a moist paste. Next he sealed all the bathroom vents with duct tape.
&n
bsp; He walked back outside to the van and retrieved two sealed plastic buckets and a tool belt.
Back in the bathroom, Roussard set the buckets down next to the tub and removed an atomizer from inside his coveralls.
He opened the woman’s right eye first and then the left, liberally applying the substance and making sure each eye had been completely covered. His job was almost finished.
Roussard removed a screwdriver from his tool belt and pried the lids loose on each of the buckets. He grabbed a towel from above the toilet and tossed it just outside the bathroom door. It was time.
Prying the lids off both buckets, he emptied their contents over his victim, still lying unconscious in her bath, and then hurried from the bathroom, making sure to close the door firmly behind him.
Roussard wedged the towel beneath the door and fixed it in place with more duct tape. He then removed the cordless drill from his tool belt along with a handful of screws and secured the door firmly to its frame.
He walked back outside, replaced the orange cones in the van, and slowly drove back the way he had come.
At the San Diego Marriott Hotel and Marina, Roussard changed out of his coveralls, rubbed the van down for fingerprints, and headed for his dock. The boat was right where his handler had told him it would be.
Once he had navigated his way out into the open, inky-black water, he took out a clean cell phone, dialed 911, and gave the address of a woman in need of assistance on Coronado’s Encino Lane.
When asked for his name, Roussard smiled and threw the phone overboard. They would piece together who was responsible soon enough.
CHAPTER 20
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Tom Gosse, the funeral home’s director and namesake, had told Sheppard that he’d rather not have their conversation tape-recorded. That meant that the reporter had been forced to take notes, and he was the world’s shittiest note taker.