The First Commandment Read online

  When Michael Harvath was killed in a training accident, Scot was never the same again. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get his head back into competitive skiing. As much as he loved the sport, it didn’t seem that important to him anymore.

  With a portion of his substantial winnings, he bought a backpack and traveled through Europe, eventually settling in Greece on a small island called Paros. There he found a job as a bartender, working for two mismatched, expat Brits. One was a former driver for a south London crime family, the other a disgruntled ex-SAS soldier. After a year, Harvath knew what he wanted to do.

  He returned home and enrolled at the University of Southern California, where he studied political science and military history. Upon graduating three years later, cum laude, he joined the Navy, eventually trying out for and being accepted to Basic Underwater Demolition SEAL school (BUD/S) and a specialized program known as SQT or SEAL Qualification Training. Though the selection process and subsequent training were grueling beyond measure, his mental and physical conditioning as a world-class athlete, his refusal to ever give up on anything, and the belief that he had finally found his true calling in life propelled him forward and earned him the honor of being counted as one of the world’s most elite warriors—a U. S. Navy SEAL.

  With his exceptional skiing ability, Harvath was tasked to the SEALs’ cold-weather experts, SEAL Team Two. There, despite a tragic loss on one of his first assignments, Harvath had excelled.

  Eventually, he caught the attention of the members of the Navy’s famed SEAL Team Six, who helped hone his skills not only as a warrior, but also as a linguist, improving upon his rudimentary knowledge of French and teaching him Arabic.

  It was while he was with Team Six that Harvath assisted a presidential security detail in Maine and caught the eye of the Secret Service. Wanting to bolster their antiterrorism expertise at the White House, they eventually succeeded in wooing him away from the Navy and up to D. C. Harvath soon distinguished himself even further, and after a short time was recommended for an above-top-secret program at the Department of Homeland Security being spearheaded by an old family friend and former deputy director of the FBI named Gary Lawlor.

  The program was called the Apex Project. It was buried in a little-known branch of DHS called the Office of International Investigative Assistance, or OIIA for short. The OIIA’s overt mission was to assist foreign police, military, and intelligence agencies in helping prevent attacks against Americans and American interests abroad. In that sense, Harvath’s mission was partly in step with the official OIIA mandate. In reality, he was a very secretive dog of war enlisted post-9/11 to be unleashed by the president upon the enemies of the United States to help prevent any future terrorist attacks on America.

  The rationale was that if the terrorists weren’t playing by any rules, then neither would the U. S. But because of sensitive PC biases that existed in America, which seemed to suggest our nation was the only one that should abide by the rules, the president realized that Harvath’s true mission could only be known by a key few, namely the president himself and Harvath’s boss, Gary Lawlor.

  Harvath was to be backed with the full weight of the Oval Office, as well as the collective might of the U. S. military and the combined assets of the U. S. intelligence community. The program sounded fantastic on paper, but reality, especially in bureaucratic Washington, often turned out to be something else entirely.

  Harvath didn’t want to think about his job now. It was because of it, because of him, that Tracy had been shot. He didn’t need the results of any investigation to tell him that. He knew it as surely as he knew that the woman lying in that hospital bed didn’t deserve any of what had happened to her.

  The FBI had been able to piece together some of what had happened. They had discovered the hiding spot the shooter had used in the woods at the edge of his property. Their assessment was that whoever the assassin was, he’d dug himself in sometime during the evening, probably several hours before daylight.

  The killer had left behind a shell casing with the message—That which has been taken in blood, can only be answered in blood.

  There had also been the bizarre act of painting his doorframe with blood. The first run of analyses ruled out its being Tracy’s. It had been painted there sometime during the night and had already dried before Tracy was shot.

  Then there was the dog that had been placed on the doorstep as a gift in a picnic basket. Harvath had only to take one look at the thank you note that had been left with it to know who it was from. But if someone was going to target him or Tracy, why leave such a blatant calling card?

  Weeks earlier, on a covert operation in Gibraltar, Harvath had saved the life of an enormous dog known as a Caucasian Ovcharka—the same breed as the one that had been left on his doorstep. The owner of the dog in Gibraltar was a contemptible little man—a dwarf, actually, who dealt in the purchase and sale of highly classified information. He had also helped plan the attack on New York. He was known simply as the Troll.

  But how had the Troll found him? Only a handful of people knew about the historic church and grounds named Bishop’s Gate that Harvath now called home. He found it hard to believe that the Troll would be so careless or stupid as to announce that he was behind Tracy’s shooting.

  The timing, though, stank, and Harvath wasn’t a person who believed in coincidences. There had to be a connection, and he was determined to find out what it was.

  Chapter 5

  W hen Harvath came back into the hospital room, Tracy’s parents, Bill and Barbara Hastings, were sitting on either side of her bed.

  Bill Hastings was a large man, about six-foot-four and over two hundred pounds. He’d played football at Yale and looked like he could still play. His hair was gray and Harvath put him in his mid to late sixties. Seeing Harvath enter the room, he looked up and asked, “Any change?”

  “No, sir,” replied Harvath.

  Barbara smiled at him. “You were here all night again, weren’t you?”

  Harvath didn’t reply. He simply nodded. Having to deal with Tracy’s parents was one of the more difficult aspects of keeping vigil at her bedside. He felt so damn responsible for what had happened to her. He couldn’t believe how kind they were to him. If they blamed him at all for what had happened to their daughter, they didn’t show it.

  “How’s the hotel?” Harvath managed. The silences in the room could be unbearable, and he knew he had to start carrying some of the conversational weight.

  “It’s fine,” replied Barbara as she reached for Tracy’s hand and began stroking her forearm. Tracy’s mother was a stunningly elegant woman. Her deep red hair was perfectly coifed and her fingernails were perfectly manicured. She wore a silk blouse, an Armani skirt cut just above the knee, stockings, and expensive pumps.

  Though Harvath would never have uttered such a trite line, it was obvious where Tracy got her good looks.

  The Hastings made a very attractive pair. With the fortune that Bill Hastings had amassed in the hedge fund arena, it was no surprise that they were almost permanent fixtures on the Manhattan society pages.

  After the July 3 attack on New York City, they had debated cutting their summer in the south of France short, but Tracy had convinced them to stay. Manhattan was going to be a nightmare to get back to and to get around in for some time to come, so the longer they could delay their return, the better. Their plans had changed the minute Tracy had been shot. They had chartered a private plane and rushed to Washington to be by their daughter’s side.

  Harvath was struggling to come up with something else to say when a nurse stuck her head in the door and said, “Agent Harvath? There is a gentleman here to see you. He’s waiting in the lounge.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right out,” replied Harvath. He was happy to give the Hastingses some time alone with their daughter.

  Stepping around Mr. Hastings, Harvath bent down and whispered in Tracy’s ear that he’d be back in a little bit. He gave her hand a
loving squeeze, then headed for the door.

  Just as he was reaching for the handle, Bill Hastings said, “If that’s the fellow from the Bureau again, make sure you tell him that we never did find Tracy’s ID in her personal effects.”

  Harvath nodded and exited. Outside the room, he slid Tracy’s driver’s license from his pocket and looked at it. God she was beautiful. He didn’t have the heart to tell Bill Hastings that he was the reason her ID was missing. In the short amount of time he and Tracy had been together, they’d never stopped to take any photos.

  Though he felt guilty for deceiving her parents, Harvath had no intention of giving it up. It was one of the few reminders he had of the way she was, the way they were, before they had been torn apart.

  Entering the lounge, Harvath found his longtime friend and boss, Gary Lawlor, waiting for him. “How’s she doing?” he asked.

  “Still the same,” replied Harvath. “Anything new on the investigation?”

  Gary motioned for him to sit down. It was a windowless room with a television mounted on a wall bracket in the corner. Harvath took a seat and waited for the man who had become like a second father to him to close the door and sit down.

  When Gary took his seat, his expression was all business. “We may have gotten a break in the case.”

  Harvath leaned forward in his chair. “What kind of break?”

  “It has to do with the blood that was painted above your doorframe.”

  “What about it?”

  “The forensics people now know it wasn’t human.”

  “What was it?”

  “Lamb’s blood.”

  Harvath was confused. “Lamb’s blood? That’s doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No,” replied Gary, “but it’s what they found mixed with the blood that I want to talk to you about.”

  Harvath didn’t say anything. He just waited.

  Leaning forward, Lawlor lowered his voice and said, “After Bob Herrington’s funeral, the secretary of defense took you for a ride and asked if you were up to taking out his killer. Do you remember him telling you that they were planning on letting him escape so that they could track him back to the people he was working with?”

  “Yes, so?”

  “So, do you remember how they planned on tracking him?” asked Lawlor.

  Harvath thought about it a moment. “They spiked his blood with some sort of radioisotope that created a signature they could follow via satellite.”

  Lawlor leaned back in his chair and watched as Harvath processed the information.

  “The lamb’s blood contained a radioisotope.”

  Lawlor nodded.

  “That’s impossible. I took care of Bob’s killer myself.” Harvath was about to add and I watched him die when he realized he hadn’t actually witnessed the terrorist check out.

  Though Harvath doubted anyone could have survived what he had done to Mohammed bin Mohammed, the fact remained that he hadn’t actually confirmed that the man was dead.

  “They don’t believe it was Mohammed,” said Lawlor. “From what I have been able to gather, this is a completely different radioisotope.”

  “Purposely put into the lamb’s blood and painted over the front door of my house?” asked Harvath.

  Once again, Lawlor nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Somebody is sending you a message.”

  “Obviously, but who? If it’s a radioisotope, even if it’s a different one than what was used on Mohammed, it shouldn’t be that hard to figure out where it came from. We’ll start there.”

  “It’s not going to be that easy,” said Lawlor.

  “Why not? The whole thing is a DOD program. They keep records like anyone else. Contact the Def Sec’s office and let him know we need access.”

  “I already tried.”

  “And?” Harvath asked impatiently.

  “No go.”

  “No go? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Lawlor shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m not kidding.”

  “Then we’ll go to the president. Even the defense secretary answers to someone. If President Rutledge tells him to open his files, believe me, he’ll open his files,” said Harvath.

  “I already spoke with President Rutledge. It’s a no go.”

  Harvath couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I want to talk to the president myself.”

  “He knew you’d say that,” said Lawlor. “And he feels he owes it to you. There’s a car waiting for us downstairs.”

  Chapter 6

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  W hen Harvath and Lawlor were shown into the Oval Office, President Rutledge stood up and came around his desk to greet them.

  He shook Gary’s hand and then as he shook hands with Harvath inquired, “How’s she doing?”

  “Still no change, sir,” replied Harvath as the president ushered him and Lawlor to one of the sofas perpendicular to the Oval Office fireplace.

  As they took their seats, Rutledge got right to the point. “Scot, I know I speak for all Americans when I say that I am very sorry for what happened to Tracy. This nation owes your entire team a great debt for what you did in New York.”

  Harvath had never been comfortable with praise, especially when it came from the president, but he was even less comfortable now. The operation in New York City had essentially been a failure. So many people had died, including one of his best friends. Though Harvath and his team had managed to take down most of the terrorists involved with the plot, they had been playing catch-up the entire way. It was not something he was at all proud of.

  He acknowledged the president’s remarks with a quiet “thank you” and listened as the man continued.

  “Scot, you have been one of this nation’s greatest assets in the war on terror. I don’t want you for a moment to doubt how much your service has been appreciated. I know too well that yours can often be a thankless job and that is why I am thanking you once again.”

  Harvath had a bad feeling about where this was going. He could sense the other shoe was about to drop. He didn’t have to wait long.

  Jack Rutledge looked him right in the eye and stated, “We’ve known each other for several years and I’ve always been straight with you.”

  Harvath nodded. “Yes, you have, sir.”

  “Often against the advice of my advisors, I have filled you in on the big picture because I wanted you to understand your role in it and why you were being asked to do certain things.

  “What’s more, I filled you in because I knew I could trust you. Now, I am asking you to trust me.”

  The president paused as he tried to get a read on Harvath. The counterterrorism operative’s face was inscrutable, forcing Rutledge to ask, “Can you do that? Can you trust me?”

  Harvath knew the correct answer was, Of course, I can trust you, Mr. President, but those were not the words that came out of his mouth. Instead, he replied, “Trust you regarding what, sir?”

  It was not the answer the president wanted to hear, but it didn’t come as a surprise. There was a reason Scot Harvath was so good at what he did. He wasn’t a pushover, not by a long shot.

  “I’m going to ask you to do something. I know you’re not going to like it, but this is where I need you to stay with me.”

  Harvath’s alarm bells began ringing. He nodded slowly, encouraging the president to continue.

  “I want you to let us track down the gunman who shot Tracy.”

  The president wasn’t offering him a yes or no proposition. Even so, Harvath had no intention of being sidelined. Being careful of his word choice and his tone, he stated, “I’m sorry, Mr. President, I don’t understand.”

  Rutledge didn’t mince words. “Yes, you do. I’m asking you to sit this one out.”

  Too often, the fine art of diplomacy eluded Harvath. Looking the president right in the eyes he said, “Why?”

  As president of the United States, Jack Rutledge didn’t have to explain himself to anyone, much less
Scot Harvath. He didn’t even have to have this meeting with him, but as he’d stated, the president felt the nation owed Harvath a great debt—not only for what he’d done in New York and then afterward in Gibraltar, but on many other occasions.

  What’s more, Harvath had once saved the president’s life, as well as his daughter’s. He deserved a better explanation and Rutledge knew it. The president just couldn’t give him one. “There are forces at play here I am not at liberty to discuss, even with you,” he said.

  “I can appreciate that, Mr. President, but this isn’t a random act of terrorism. Whoever did this did it because it’s personal. The blood above my door, the shell casing, the note—somebody is calling me out.”

  “And I’ve assembled a team to take care of it.”

  Harvath tried to keep his cool as he replied, “Mr. President, I know you’ve got the FBI working overtime, but as good as they are, they’re not the right agency for this job.”

  “Scot, listen—” began the president.

  “I don’t mean any disrespect, but from everything we’ve seen this guy is a professional assassin who’s probably affiliated with a major terrorist organization. If we’re going to catch him, the people hunting him have to understand his mindset. They need to be able to think like him, and the FBI just can’t do that.”

  “The people I’ve put on this job can. They’ll find him, I promise you.”

  “Mr. President, this guy shot Tracy in the head. The doctors say it’s a miracle she wasn’t killed. She’s lying in a coma she may never come out of and it’s my fault—all of it. I owe it to her to find who did this. You have to bring me onboard.”