The First Commandment

The terrorist recalled a proclamation from a fellow mujahideen who had said that the followers of the Prophet, may peace be upon Him, would not rest until they were dancing upon the roof of the White House itself. The image always made him smile.

He was contemplating whether he would see such a glorious development in his lifetime when the cell phone he had purchased the day before vibrated in his pocket. He had only given the number to one person.

“Yes,” said Roussard as he raised the device to his ear.

“I read the update you left for me,” said the handler.

“And?”

Though they both switched cell phones after each conversation, the handler was not fond of communicating this way. The Americans and their listening programs could not be underestimated. “I spent significant time crafting the itinerary for your visit. Your changes to it are-”

“Are what?” asked Roussard, angry. He didn’t care for the way in which his handler second-guessed everything he did. He was not a child. He knew all too well the risks he was taking.

There was a pause and Roussard knew what his handler was thinking. The mistake had not been made in California -it had been made outside Harvath’s home. Tracy Hastings should have been killed. She should be dead right now, not lying in some hospital bed on life support. But she had turned at the very last moment. That accursed dog had yelped, or twitched, or had done something to cause the woman to move her head ever so slightly, so that Roussard’s shot had co

Maybe things were better that way. Maybe the pain would be more intense for Harvath. There were ten plagues in total, and each plague would be visited upon people close to him. He would be made to suffer through their suffering, and then, finally, his life would be taken. It was the ultimate price for what Harvath had done.

“Your changes cause me concern,” said the handler.

“All of them,” demanded Roussard angrily, “or certain ones in particular?”

“Please. This is not-”

“Answer my question.”

The handler’s voice remained calm. “The shopping mall was particularly dangerous-too many cameras, too many ways you could have been recorded. You should have stayed with the health club.”

Roussard didn’t answer.

“But what is done is done,” said the handler. “You and I are cut from the same cloth.”

Roussard winced at the suggestion

“I will not lie to you,” continued the handler. “Giving in to your impulses and deviating from the itinerary, no matter how productive those deviations turn out to be, is dangerous. When you deviate, you venture into unknown territory. Without my guidance, you place not only yourself, but me at great risk.”

“If my performance is unsatisfactory, maybe I scrap the plan entirely and finish this my way.”

“No,” replied the handler, “no more deviations. You must finish your work as agreed. But first, a problem has come up that needs to be dealt with-we have been betrayed.”

“Betrayed by whom?”

“The little man your grandfather once used to gather information,” replied the handler.

“The Troll?”

The handler, deep in thought, grunted a response.

Roussard was concerned. “How can you be sure?”

“I have my contacts and sources of information. Do you think it was coincidence that you were sent to Harvath’s on the same day the Troll sent his gift?”

“I know it wasn’t,” conceded Roussard.

“Then do not doubt me. The dwarf knows of your release and is actively seeking information about you.”

“Do the Americans know what we have pla

“I don’t think so,” said the handler. “Not yet.”

“Do you want me to take care of him?”

“I don’t like the idea of your having to leave the country before your current visit is complete, but this problem needs to be taken care of before it grows any larger, and you’re the only one I can trust to make sure it is taken care of properly.”

“He is small and weak. It will be my pleasure.”

“You must not underestimate him,” admonished the handler. “He is a formidable opponent.”

“Where is he now?”

“I am still working on tracking him down.”

“He’s not in Scotland?” asked Roussard.

“No. I’ve already had the house and the estate searched. He hasn’t been there for some time.”

“Let me help you find him.”

“No,” stated the handler. “Focus on your next target. I will find him myself.”

“And then?”

“And then I will decide how he is to be disposed of and you will follow my orders exactly. Is that clear? We are getting very close now. I do not want any more surprises.”

Though the bile choked his throat, Roussard kept his anger under control. When this was over, he would deal with his handler.

His voice barely above a whisper, the operative replied, “Yes, it is clear.”

Chapter 69

Philippe Roussard pulled off the crushed-gravel drive and allowed his vehicle to roll to a quiet stop. From here, the car would be out of sight of any vehicles passing along the main road, as well as from anyone in the small, stone farmhouse about a half mile away.

He gathered the items he’d need from the trunk and proceeded the rest of the way in on foot.

It was actually quite a beautiful day. The sun was bright and only a few thin clouds drifted overhead. Roussard could smell the distinct scent of freshly mown grass from a nearby property.

As he crept through the woods, a variety of birds called out from the treetops above him, but other than that, there were no sounds but his own footfalls to be heard.

At the tree line, he removed the binoculars from his pack and made himself comfortable. This wasn’t anything he needed to rush.

Twenty minutes later, the woman appeared, and snapping at her heels was the dog. He was surprised that she trusted the animal enough not to run off. Harvath had left her with it only a matter of weeks ago, but the accursed dog was still young, nothing more than a puppy, and apparently bonded easily with anyone who paid attention to it.

The woman was older, but not elderly in any sense of the word. She was in her late sixties, tall and attractive, with a face bronzed a deep copper color by the sun. Her steel-gray hair came to her shoulders and she walked her small farm with a haughty self-confidence that Roussard assumed was a prerequisite for anyone who had ever worked for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

She was tending to her daily chores-gathering eggs from the small henhouse, feeding the chickens, then slicing open a bale and dropping hay into the corral of her two horses.

There were two atrocious potbellied pigs, which only a culture like America ’s could have ever warmed to as pets, and a clutter of cats that delighted in asserting their dominance over the tiny dog.

As Roussard studied the woman, he found himself thinking of his own mother. It was entirely unprofessional and entirely inappropriate. He was here to do a job and this American woman’s similarities, or lack thereof, to his own mother had no bearing on what he needed to do.

The unwelcome distraction edged Roussard into action. He had no desire to sit alone in the woods with his thoughts. It was time.

He would take the woman in the barn. His only concern was the dog, but Roussard believed he had that figured out.

As the woman disappeared around one of the farm’s outbuildings, Roussard picked up his backpack and ran.

Ever the pragmatist, he stopped near the small stone house and disabled her vehicle. Should something go wrong, he did not wish to leave her a convenient means of escape.

From the old Volvo station wagon, he then crept to the woman’s house. He pressed himself up against the facade, the stones of which, even in the morning’s increasing warmth, still felt cool to the touch.