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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 ma
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 Tyra
“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 dramatically 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.