The First Commandment

What could he possibly have achieved? Was he hoping that she would call off her wedding? Or was he hoping that somehow she would speak with the president on his behalf and everything would be made all right?

As the answers raced through his mind he knew none of them were correct. What he had wanted to do was to warn her.

Harvath wanted to give Meg the chance that Tracy, his mother, and all of Roussard’s other victims hadn’t had. But it was more than that. Looking deeply into himself, Harvath discovered that what he wanted more than anything else was to alleviate the guilt he was feeling that he still had not been able to stop Roussard. If anything happened to Meg, at least he would have known he had warned her. What bullshit.

No matter what he did or didn’t tell Meg Cassidy, if anything happened to her, it would fall squarely upon his shoulders, and he knew his guilt would be just as great as the guilt he carried over what had happened to Tracy Hastings.

He was the only person at this point who could stop Roussard.

That said, it didn’t mean the Secret Service shouldn’t be aware of what he had discovered. Todd Kirkland had been right about that, and Harvath had contacted Gary Lawlor and had filled him in.

Gary would see to it that the Secret Service was informed, but Harvath knew there was only so much they could do with the information.

Harvath emailed Lawlor the full dossier he had on Philippe Roussard, including the photographs. He trusted his boss to scan it and pass along all of the pertinent details. The Secret Service would make sure all of their agents were carrying Roussard’s photos.

The Secret Service in turn would ask their local and state law enforcement contacts to be on the lookout for him. But that’s where it would end. If any of them happened across Roussard, it would most likely not be until it was too late.

The cops had gotten lucky with Roussard in Virginia Beach. Harvath doubted it would happen again.

Chapter 111

The Lake Geneva branch of U. S. Bank was located on the east side of the lake in the town of Lake Geneva near the intersection of Geneva and Center streets.

Carrying a plain manila envelope, Harvath entered the bank, presented his DHS creds to one of the loan officers, and asked to speak with the branch manager.

He was shown into a private office, where an attractive woman in her late forties stood and introduced herself as Peggy Evans.

“How can we be of service to the Department of Homeland Security?” she asked once her visitor was seated and she had finished looking at his ID.

Harvath reached into his envelope and pulled out the pictures of Philippe Roussard he’d printed at his hotel’s business center. “Do you recognize this man?” he said as he handed them to Evans.

The woman studied them for a few minutes and then asked, “What is this in regard to?”

“The man in those photos is a wanted terrorist. We have records indicating that he received funds via wire transfer at this bank two days ago.”

“Are you suggesting the bank has done something wrong? Because I can assure you that-”

Harvath held up his hand and shook his head. “Not at all. We’re just trying to gather as much information as we can about him.”

“Do you have any specific information about the transaction?”

Harvath handed her copies of what Claudia had emailed him from the Wegelin amp; Company bank in Switzerland.

Evans studied the records, then picked up her phone and dialed an extension. “Arty, will you come in here, please?”

Moments later, a heavyset Hispanic man in his early thirties knocked and entered the office. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I did,” said Evans as she introduced the man to Harvath. “Arturo Ramirez, this is Agent Scot Harvath from the Department of Homeland Security. He has a few questions he’d like to ask about a customer we had in the bank two days ago.”

Harvath rose and shook the man’s hand.

“Arturo handles all the wires,” the woman continued. “He also never forgets a face. Do you, Arty?”

Ramirez smiled politely at his manager and accepted the series of photographs. “Yes, I remember him,” he said after studying the pictures. “Peter Boesiger was his name, I believe. Nice guy. Swiss.”

“Interesting,” replied Harvath, as he pulled a pen from his pocket. “How do you know he was Swiss?”

“He used a Swiss passport for ID. I assumed that meant he was from Switzerland. He spoke with an accent too.”

“Did you make a copy of his passport, by any chance?”

“Of course,” said Ramirez. “It’s standard bank procedure.”

“May I see the copy, please?”

Ramirez looked at Evans, who nodded.

He disappeared from the office and returned several minutes later with a photocopy of Roussard’s Boesiger passport.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about him?” asked Harvath.

Ramirez looked at him. “Like what?”

“Did he have anyone else with him?”

“No,” answered the portly teller. “He came in by himself.”

“How about his vehicle? Did you notice what he was driving?”

Ramirez shook his head, no. “Didn’t see it.”