The First Commandment

At the main lodge, Finney stopped to pick up his director of operations, Ron Parker. He was a lean man with a goatee, in his late thirties, who stood about five-foot-ten.

Climbing into the backseat, Parker removed a Coors from the cooler, reached around, and punched Harvath in the left arm. “Good to see you,” he said.

Looking up, he could see Finney’s raised eyebrows in the rearview mirror. “What?” he asked.

“Do you think that behavior is appropriate?” replied Finney.

Parker leaned between the front seats as he popped the top from his beer and asked, “It’s your other shoulder that got messed up, right?”

Harvath nodded. “My left’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Parker smiled, sat back, and took a long pull from his beer.

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” replied Finney. “Right?”

“Listen,” said Parker, “as of ten minutes ago I’m off-duty. And what I do on my personal time is my business.”

“Then you’re fired. I’ll have the pink slip on your desk in the morning.”

Parker took another swig of beer. “Super, I’ll place it on the spike with all the rest of them.”

Both Finney and Parker were notorious for their professionalism, but as Harvath had gotten to know them he realized that they made an important distinction. They took their careers and what they did at Elk Mountain very seriously, but they never took themselves too seriously, especially when in the quiet company of good friends.

Finney looked over and saw Harvath smile. “It’s good to have you back.”

“Not much has changed, has it?” said Harvath.

Finney thrust his beefy hand into the backseat and motioned to Parker to hand him a beer. “We doubled all the locks on the wine cellar after your last visit, but other than that, no.”

Parker and Finney limited themselves to one beer each. Finney had his finished in two swallows, just as they arrived at yet another checkpoint. This time, they were all required to present photo identification. The guards were dressed in Blackhawk tactical gear, like the ones at the main gate, but in addition, these guards had been issued body armor and were openly carrying weapons.

Harvath knew that the men at the front gate were also strapped; they just kept their iron out of sight. Here, though, Finney’s people were making a very clear show of force. Two men carried H amp;K 416s, while a third held a highly modified Benelli twelve-gauge and never once took his eyes off the passengers in the Hummer. Harvath had no idea where Finney was getting his guards, but he seemed to be doing a damn good job.

As they pulled away from the checkpoint and drove toward the Sargasso facility, Harvath asked, “Ex SWAT?”

“Special Forces, actually,” replied Parker.

Harvath laughed dismissively. “C’mon.”

“He’s one hundred percent serious,” said Finney.

“Doing guard duty?”

“Guard duty is only one of the things they do here,” answered Parker. “They’re on a rotation, so it’s a shift everyone has to pull each month.”

“I know what those guys make in the private sector. You’ve got some very expensive gatekeepers.”

Finney smiled. “And worth every penny of it.”

“But make no mistake,” added Parker. “They’ve got it pretty good here. We’ve got an excellent bonus and compensation package that far outpaces what these guys would be pulling in anywhere else.”

Harvath looked at Finney, who added, “We don’t even advertise for them anymore. They come to us.”

The SUV came to a stop in front of the poorly lit entrance of what looked like an old mineshaft.

Harvath was about to ask where they were when he saw a faded sign hanging over the opening that proclaimed Sargasso Mining Company. He was looking at the understated entrance to Finney’s hot new intelligence venture.

Chapter 11

One hundred feet down the sloping tunnel that led into the Sargasso shaft, Harvath half-expected a tour guide with an authentic miner’s headlamp or a bearded, dust-covered, suspender-wearing actor to appear and regale them with stories of the Old Lucky Seven Mine. At 101 feet, Harvath’s attitude changed.

He had to give Tim Finney credit. They weren’t greeted by a stainless-steel, pneumatically sealed, hi-tech, James Bond-style door. Instead, it was a door composed of five aged wooden planks with splintered crosspieces that looked ready to fall off its hinges.

A rather unremarkable sign was nailed to it that stated Danger. Keep Out.

Finney produced a set of keys and unlocked a rusted padlock that kept a heavy iron chain in place across the door. He continued to lead down a wide, rough-hewn passageway. The trio followed a set of tracks that Harvath figured must have once been used to haul supplies in and gold out.

The large tunnel continued sloping gently downward. After another hundred feet the tunnel widened and a series of lights could be seen up ahead.

When they got there they were greeted by another brace of guards. Though they looked just as serious as the last set of guards, these men simply waved them along.