by Brad Thor
Harvath tried to calm him down. “Kevin, come on.”
“No, you come on,” he replied. “You’re asking me to turn over control of DOD computers to a figure renowned for stealing intelligence from government organizations.”
“So firewall off any sensitive areas.”
“Am I talking to myself here? These are D-O-D computers. All their areas are sensitive. It’s one thing to ask me to pull imagery, Scot, but it’s another thing entirely to ask me to open up the door and give you an all-access pass …”
“I’m not asking you for an all-access pass. I just need enough capacity to—”
“To launch a denial-of-service attack from U.S. government computers on several banking networks so you can more effectively hack your way inside.”
That was the crux of the request right there, and Harvath couldn’t blame McCauliff for his reluctance. Everything he’d asked the NGA operative to do for him in the past paled in comparison to this. McCauliff was going to need a bigger reason than just their friendship to put his career and possibly more on the line.
Harvath decided to fill him in on what had happened.
When he was finished, there was silence from the other end of the line. McCauliff had no idea Harvath had been through so much since the New York City attacks. “If the banks found out where the attacks came from, the fallout for the U.S. would be beyond radioactive,” he said.
Harvath had been expecting this answer, and the Troll had made extensive notes for him on what he wanted to do. “What if there was a way this could be done without a trail leading back to the U.S.?” asked Harvath.
“What do you have in mind?”
Harvath explained their plan as McCauliff listened.
“On the surface,” the NGA operative replied, “it makes sense. It’s probably even doable that way, but there’s still one wild card that kills the deal.”
“The Troll,” said Harvath despondently.
“Exactly,” replied McCauliff. “I’m not saying you would ever intentionally do your country harm, but this could be the mother of all Trojan Horses and I am not going to be the dumb son of a bitch remembered for having swung open the gates so it could be wheeled inside.”
Harvath couldn’t argue with McCauliff’s reasoning. Allowing the Troll access to those computers was akin to handing a professional mugger a loaded gun and sending him into a dimly lit parking garage full of bejeweled society matrons. You couldn’t trust either of them to be on their best behavior.
Though McCauliff felt for Harvath’s predicament and genuinely wanted to help, boosting an enemy of the United States over the government’s firewall was out of the question.
The image, though, gave Harvath an idea. “What if we leave the Troll out of this?” he asked.
McCauliff laughed. “And I’m supposed to feign idiocy when I get questioned? I know you’re with him right now. If I even open up one socket for you, it’s the same as opening it for him.”
“But what if you didn’t open anything for either of us?” asked Harvath.
“Who would I be opening things for? If it’s not you, and not the Troll, who are you going to get to carry out this hack?”
Harvath paused for a minute and then replied, “You.”
“Me?” replied McCauliff. “Now I know you’re nuts.”
McCauliff disliked the idea of carrying out a hack against a host of financial institutions just as much as allowing Harvath and the Troll inside the DOD network to run the operation themselves. Either way he looked at it, there was no upside.
It wasn’t that McCauliff couldn’t do it. His talents at breaching complicated networks weren’t in question. The problem was that he actually enjoyed his job. He liked the NGA. He liked his bosses and he liked the people he worked with. This time, Harvath was simply asking for too much.
The list of things that could happen to McCauliff if he got caught was just too long. He wanted to help Harvath out, but he couldn’t find a way to do it without putting himself in serious jeopardy.
Harvath must have known exactly what he was thinking because he said, “I’m sending you an email,” and moments later, there was a chime as something arrived in Kevin McCauliff’s inbox.
The email was from Harvath’s official DHS account and provided the NGA operative with the one thing he needed to strip away his reservations and come to Scot Harvath’s aid—plausible deniability.
In the email, Harvath stated that he was working under direct orders from President Jack Rutledge and that McCauliff’s assistance, as it had been in the New York City attacks, was necessary in a matter of urgent national security.
Harvath specifically noted that McCauliff’s discretion was of paramount importance and that he was not to inform his superiors or anyone else that he worked with about what he was doing. The email assured him that the president was well aware of McCauliff’s role and was appreciative of his undertaking any and all tasks that might be assigned to him by Harvath.
Plain and simple, it was an insurance policy. As soon as McCauliff finished reading it, he printed out two copies. One he locked in his upper desk drawer and the other he placed in an envelope, which he addressed to himself at home.
The content of the email was bullshit and Kevin McCauliff knew it, but he liked Harvath a lot and wanted to help him. The last time he’d broken the rules, and the law, for Harvath he’d received a commendation from the president for his efforts.
McCauliff figured that if this time his bacon landed in the fire, the right attorney could probably use the email from Harvath to save him from getting fried.
That, of course, presupposed his getting caught, which was something Kevin McCauliff didn’t plan on letting happen.
“So are you in?” asked Harvath.
“Seeing as how I’ve been informed that this is a direct request from the president of the United States,” replied McCauliff, “how can I say no?”
CHAPTER 99
THE BUCKET OF BLOOD
VIRGINIA BEACH, VIRGINIA
LATER THAT NIGHT
Technically, the bar on the outskirts of Virginia Beach, Virginia, had no name—at least none that could be seen on the outside of the ramshackle structure or on any illuminated signs rising from its dirt parking lot. Like its clientele, this was the kind of place that didn’t want to draw attention to itself.
To the initiated, it was known as the Bucket of Blood, or simply “the Bucket.” How it got the nickname was anyone’s guess. The low profile had been designed to keep out persons who didn’t belong there, be they townies or tourists. The Bucket was a bar for warriors, period.
Specifically, the bar served the local men and women of the United States Navy’s Special Operations community, but its doors were open to any Spec Ops community personnel regardless of which branch of the military they served in.
The Bucket was also a popular watering hole with another group who were every bit the warrior—the off-duty members of the Virginia Beach PD.
It was open seven days a week, and there really was no such thing as a bad night to visit the Bucket.
In spite of its somewhat narrow membership focus, it was packed with regulars at the time.
As it was owned, managed, and run by Andre Dall’au and Kevin Dockery, two retired members of SEAL Team Two, the Bucket was considered the Team’s de facto home away from home.
As far as décor, the usual tavern trappings of neon beer signs and liquor-company-sponsored pieces of swag were abundant, but what made the Bucket unique were the items contributed by its customers.
Like the Venetian doge who commanded the merchants of Venice to bring back treasures to enhance the city’s basilica, Dall’au and Dockery made it clear that they expected their patrons to bring back items from missions abroad that would help contribute to the glory of the Bucket.
The challenge was so taken to heart that the Bucket had become a mini museum, displaying souvenirs from operations all around the world. From the radio Saddam Hussein had
been listening to when he was captured, to the knife Navy SEAL Neil Roberts had used in Afghanistan once he’d run out of ammo and hand grenades. The Bucket’s collection was extraordinary.
In fact, the proprietors had put the director of the Navy SEAL museum on retainer to help record and catalog all of the pieces. The mini museum had quite a reputation and was the envy of the nation’s most prestigious war colleges.
Because it was a SEAL establishment, a lot of the items were heavily slanted in that direction. On one wall was a mural from former UDT Frogman Pete “The Pirate” Carolan, of SEALs in action from Vietnam through the present bringing freedom to the far reaches of the globe.
One corner was reserved as a place of deep respect. A UDT/vest, swimmer’s mask, and MK3 dive knife on a guard belt stood behind a small round table with a sailor’s cap, place setting, and empty chair standing in memory of fallen comrades. On the wall were photos of every SEAL killed in action since the beginning of the War on Terror.
Elsewhere, an Iraqi bayonet, an Afghan AK-47, and movie posters from Navy SEALs and The Rock kept company alongside a life-sized Creature from the Black Lagoon and a full color photo of Zarqawi after the bomb had been dropped on his head.
There was a collection of paper money from the Philippines, multiple Middle Eastern countries, Africa, South America, and everywhere else the SEALs had been deployed over the years.
Next to that were pictures from the Apollo Space Program with the UDT Frogmen who were used to recover astronauts after they splashed down into the ocean.
Both the men’s and ladies’ restrooms were adorned with Navy recruiting posters, and above the Bucket’s main doorway, visible only as customers exited, was the motto, “The Only Easy Day Was Yesterday.”
The Bucket’s latest acquisition was something that was bittersweet for Dockery and Dall’au to put on display. It had arrived via DHL from Colorado and it took reading Scot Harvath’s letter to understand what they were looking at.
Two of the men tortured and killed in Afghanistan by Ronaldo Palmera had been Bucket customers. Though the proprietors of the Bucket would have much preferred to have Palmera’s pickled head on display, a photo of him lying dead in a Mexican street along with the TASER used to help put him there and his hideous boots were the next best things.
As a former member of SEAL Team Two, Harvath had been a longtime supporter of the Bucket. The items he contributed to the bar’s museum were legendary. Dockery and Dall’au had often joked that if he kept it up at the current pace, they’d need to build a wing and name it after him.
Outside, in the Bucket’s parking lot, Philippe Roussard closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt the familiar sensation radiating from the farthest points of his body. It was the indescribable excitement that he’d once heard referred to as “the quickening.”
His reverie, though, was short-lived. The scent from the Vicks VapoRub swabbed beneath his nose was almost as bad as the odor rising from the bags of fertilizer stacked behind him. He thanked Allah that he’d stopped noticing the fumes from the fifty-five-gallon drums of diesel fuel and reminded himself that it would all be over soon.
Climbing out of the RV, he closed the door and locked it. He walked around to the rear and smiled at the Save water, shower with a SEAL sticker he’d affixed to the bumper. There was one remembering MIAs and one that read My RV Loves Iraqi Gas. Anyone who doubted that Philippe Roussard’s RV belonged in the parking lot of the Bucket of Blood probably would have changed his mind upon seeing his bumper stickers.
Not that it mattered much. Roussard didn’t plan on being there for too long. In fact, he had just pulled a newly acquired motorbike off the platform attached to the rear of the RV when he was approached by two off-duty Virginia Beach PD officers. Though they weren’t in uniform, they had a distinct law enforcement bearing about them that convinced Roussard they were cops.
“Hey, you can’t park that thing here,” said the taller of the two.
Reflexively, Roussard’s hand began to reach for the 9mm Glock hidden beneath his jacket, but he stopped himself.
“Especially not when it smells like that,” replied his female partner. “When was the last time you emptied the holding tank on that thing?”
“It’s been a while,” said Roussard as he forced a smile.
“I’m just kidding you,” said the male cop as he pointed at the motorbike. “That’s a nice Kawasaki you got there.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re living the dream, aren’t you? Nothing but you and the slab. Boy if the guys from BUDs could see you now, eh?”
Roussard politely nodded his head and pulled the motorbike the rest of the way from its carrier platform.
“You haven’t been drinking, have you?” asked the female officer as Roussard removed a set of keys from his front pocket.
“Not at all,” he replied. “I just have a few errands to run. I’ll be back soon.”
There was something about this guy she didn’t like. Sure, he was well-built and good-looking, but those characteristics alone didn’t make a SEAL. “Doc sure is generous when it comes to you guys parking your rigs here.”
“He sure is,” said Roussard, beginning to sense that something might be wrong.
“How long you staying?” the woman asked.
“What difference does it make,” asked her partner. “You interested in this guy or something?”
“Maybe,” the female officer replied. Turning back to Roussard, she asked, “So are you going to be around for a couple of days?”
“No,” said Roussard. “I have to leave tomorrow.”
The woman looked disappointed. “Too bad.”
“Don’t mind her,” replied her partner. “When you come back, we’ll be inside. We’ll buy you a beer.”
Climbing onto the motorcycle, Roussard said, “Sounds good.”
With the bike started, he slipped on his helmet and was about to pull away when the woman placed her hand on his handlebars and said, “What’s your purge procedure?”
“Excuse me?” he responded, anxious to get going.
“Your purge procedure,” the female officer responded.
Roussard’s mind raced for an appropriate answer to the question. He had no idea what the woman was talking about. The way she was touching his handlebars, it had to have something to do with the motorcycle. Having been taught that the simplest lie was always the best, Roussard admitted his ignorance. “I’ve only had this thing about a week. I’m still learning its ins and outs.”
The female Virginia Beach PD officer smiled and stepped away from the motorbike.
As Roussard drove away, her partner asked, “What the hell was that all about? Purge procedure? You don’t really know anything about motorcycles, do you?”
“No, but I know something about SEALs, and that guy wasn’t one. If he was, he’d have known what I was talking about.”
“C’mon,” replied the other cop. “You’re off-duty. Give it a rest.”
The woman looked at him. “That guy didn’t bother you at all?”
“I was in the Army. And judging from his bumper stickers he was or is a squid, so of course he bothers me, but as a resident of Virginia Beach, I’ve learned to live with them.”
The woman shook her head. “What about him parking his van here? Dockery hates RVs. He and Dall’au never let anyone park here overnight. If you’re dumb enough to get shit-faced in their joint, you’d better have come with a plan to get yourself and your car the hell outta here.”
“So what?”
“So something isn’t right.”
The woman’s partner shook his head. “I’m going inside to get a beer.”
“Well, while you’re there,” she said, “find Doc and tell him to come outside. I want to talk with him.”
“And in the meantime what are you going to be doing?”
Pulling a lockpick set from her coat pocket, the female officer replied, “I’m just going to take a little look around.�
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CHAPTER 100
Though Kevin McCauliff was emboldened by the email Harvath had sent him, he still had qualms about carrying out the hack in the light of day. He decided to do it that night when there was lighter traffic on their servers, as well as fewer personnel around who might stumble on to what he was doing and begin asking questions.
The Troll had done the hardest work of all, narrowing in on who had set up the operation in Brazil. He’d even gone so far as to provide a list of banks and a date range as well as an approximate amount of money that McCauliff should be looking for.
It wasn’t easy by any stretch, but the NGA operative eventually found it. The payments had been broken up and wired through a series of intermediary banks in Malta, the Caymans, and the Isle of Man, but they all had one thing in common. Each payment could be traced back to a single account number at Wegelin & Company, the oldest private bank in Switzerland.
That was as far as McCauliff got. Wherever Wegelin & Company kept its records, they weren’t on any of their servers, at least not any that could be accessed from outside. McCauliff tried every trick he knew to no avail. Whoever these people were Harvath was hunting, they were extremely careful about covering their tracks. Extremely careful, but not perfect. It was nearly impossible to move large sums of money without leaving some sort of trail.
The only problem for Harvath at this point was that the trail dead-ended at Wegelin & Company, the archetype for Swiss banking discretion. If he wanted answers, he was going to have to go to Wegelin & Company directly.
Harvath thanked McCauliff for the information and logged off their call. Removing the ear bud from his ear, he turned to the Troll and shared with him the news that the funds had been traced back to a bank outside Zurich called Wegelin & Company.
The minute the name was out of his mouth, a pall fell across the Troll’s face and he held up his index finger.
His stubby fingers rattled across his laptop. When he found what he was looking for, he recited a string of numbers. They were a perfect match for the account McCauliff had just identified.