The First Commandment

“That’s too bad; you two were good together.”

“I need you to do me a favor, please,” said Harvath, changing the subject.

“You just name it, honey,” replied Jean. Her bangled wrist jangled as she patted him on his knee.

Harvath removed an envelope from his pocket. “I need you to give this to her.”

Jean Stevens arched her left eyebrow. “I’m sensing the possibility of some eleventh-hour fireworks here,” she said with a smile. Reaching for the cordless phone behind her, she added, “Why don’t I just call her? I’m sure she’s tearing her hair out with all the last-minute details, but I think she could find a minute or two to come over and say hello. Seeing you, maybe she’d come to her senses.”

Harvath put his hand on top of hers and lowered the phone to the table. “This is complicated.”

“Most things in life are, honey. Listen, I’ll make daiquiris and you two can talk. I don’t even have to be here. I can take a walk if you’d like. It would probably be better if you two were alone anyway.”

Harvath couldn’t help but smile. He’d never met anyone who’d meant well more than Jean. “By complicated, I mean professionally, Jean. Not personally. I shouldn’t be here.”

“If you’re worried about Todd-”

This time Harvath laughed. “No, I’m not worried about Todd, believe me.”

“Cloak and dagger stuff, huh?” she replied with a conspiratorial wink.

“Kind of. Listen, no one can know I’m here. Meg doesn’t know yet and this has to be kept very quiet. Can I trust you?”

“Honey, nobody keeps a secret like me. My lips are sealed,” she said, accepting the envelope. “Consider it done. Now, how about something to eat?”

“I’m sorry,” replied Harvath as he stood. “I can’t stay.”

“Well, as long as we’re both single, how about being my date for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night? It should be pretty swanky. We’re getting picked up on the dock at five-thirty for a little cocktail cruise and then it’s off to the club for dinner.”

“I have to say no to that too,” replied Harvath, shaking his head.

Jean stared at him. “Honey, can I ask you a question?”

Harvath had already pressed his luck by coming within thirty yards of Meg’s place and the Secret Service detail assigned to watch her. “Okay,” he conceded, “one question.”

“Are you happy? I mean honestly happy.”

The question was quintessential, get-right-down-to-it Jean Stevens, but it still took him by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean? It’s a simple question. Are you happy?”

“I guess it would depend on how you define happy,” said Harvath, anxious to get moving and also maybe a bit uncomfortable with how the woman he was standing in front of had always had such an uncanny ability to read people.

“Being happy boils down to three things. Something to do. Someone to love. And something to look forward to.”

She said nothing more. As her words hung in the air, she studied him. He and Meg had been good together. Harvath was a great guy and reminded Jean a lot of her husband, strong, good-looking, and exceedingly kind to the people he cared about. It was a damn shame that things hadn’t worked out between him and Meg.

Harvath stood there for several moments, the uncomfortable silence growing between them. Finally, he bent over and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you for getting my note to Meg,” he said, and then he was gone.

Chapter 107

Philippe Roussard stood on the end of his private pier and looked out across the darkened lake. Closing his eyes, he felt the breeze as it moved around him. From somewhere off in the distance, he heard a chorus of sailboat halyards clanking against aluminum masts as the craft bobbed up and down at their moorings.

Roussard had spoken with his handler again, and again the conversation had ended badly. They had argued about the botched attack on the bar in Virginia Beach. His handler blamed him for its failure, because he was the one who had changed the plan at the very last minute. The RV was overkill, as was the amount of diesel fuel and fertilizer. Roussard should have stuck with the pickup truck with a lesser amount contained within its enclosed bed. Had he proceeded as instructed, everything would have been successful.

The pair was also still at odds over how the last plague attack would be carried out, as well as how Scot Harvath should be killed afterward.

Roussard was tired of arguing. He was in the field and he would make the decisions as he saw fit. He had a means to get out of the country once his work was done and he also had enough money at this point to finish the job. The incessant bickering was counterproductive.

The simple truth was that they were strangers to each other. Too much time had passed, and blood alone was not enough to bridge the gap between them.

Roussard opened his eyes and lit another cigarette. He knew he was going to do exactly what he wanted. The last attack would be dramatic. It would be chilling in its audacity and a fitting finale to all that had preceded it.