The First Commandment

He tried another file and then another. They were all the same-empty. The Troll’s heart caught in his throat. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t happening.

He quaffed the balance of the brandy in his snifter, wiped his bearded lips with the sleeve of his linen shirt, and went through every single file on every single server.

All empty.

As he neared the end, he saw an animated icon that didn’t belong there. It was a little bearded man with a horned helmet, a sword in one hand, and a shield in the other. The figure hopped from one foot to the other and on every fourth hop banged his sword against his shield.

It looked like a little Viking, but the Troll knew better. This was no Viking. It was a Norseman-the codename of American counterterrorism operative Scot Harvath.

Chapter 15

Enraged, the Troll clicked on the icon and opened the folder. It took a maddeningly long time for the file to load. For a moment, he thought it might be a trick-a way to purposely keep him online so that American intelligence could pinpoint his location.

Finally, the file loaded. It was a series of screen captures for all of his bank accounts. Every single balance reflected the same amount-zero.

A scream welled up from deep inside his tiny body as he hurled his brandy snifter against the wall. The dogs leaped up and began barking.

His entire life’s work was gone. Everything. The only thing that was still his was the estate in the Scottish Highlands, but if the Americans had been this thorough, the Troll had little reason to doubt that they had found a way to tie that up and keep him from doing anything with it as well. British antiterrorism laws were quite severe. It wouldn’t take much for the Americans to convince the U. K. authorities to play ball.

The dogs were still barking. The Troll grabbed a pewter dish filled with pistachios and was about to launch it when he thought better of it. “Silence,” he ordered, and the barking dogs fell quiet.

He needed to think. There had to be some way out of this.

He spent the next two hours going through his servers, remotely connecting to his various bank accounts scattered around the globe. Then began a series of angry phone calls, during which he suffered through excuse after excuse from each of his bankers. They plied him with empty promises to get to the bottom of what had happened, but the Troll knew it was no use. The Americans had done it. They had gotten everything. He was ruined.

While the Troll had no idea what he was going to do next, he knew one thing for certain. Scot Harvath was responsible, and he was going to make him pay.

He went back to the lone computer file that had been left behind. The dancing Norseman mocked him as it hopped from one foot to the other. Slowly, the Troll scrolled through the data. On his third pass he found it.

Now the Troll understood why the file had taken so long to load. Embedded within that annoying, hopping Norseman icon was a message.

It was an invitation to a private chat room from none other than Scot Harvath. The Troll shut down his computer.

This was going to take some brainpower. He resisted the urge to pour another brandy. Instead, he brewed a small copper pot of potent Turkish coffee and returned to the living room.

As he watched the brightly colored fish below the glass floor, he considered his options. This would be a fight for his very survival, and though he guessed himself to be far beyond Harvath in the brains department, there was no telling what kind of resources the American had at his disposal. The gravest error he could make here would be to underestimate the man.

Since there was no clock ticking on the offer to enter the chat room, the Troll decided to take his time and research his adversary first.

Chapter 16

ELK MOUNTAIN RESORT

MONTROSE, COLORADO

“You’re positive he saw the link?” asked Harvath.

Morgan nodded. “We loaded the icon with a program designed to ping us back once he clicked on it and then erase itself. He saw it. Believe me.”

“I still don’t like how long this is taking,” said Ron Parker as he paced along one side of the long table. They had all gathered in the Sargasso Intelligence Program’s conference room, which also doubled as its War Room when sensitive operations required monitoring. “We should have set a time limit on him.”

Tim Finney held up his hand. “Gentlemen, he’ll come. Don’t worry. He doesn’t have a choice. He’s taking his time because he can. Making us wait is the only power he has at this point, and he knows it.”

Parker stopped pacing and poured himself a cup of coffee from the machine on top of a low-slung credenza. Above it was a large oil painting of a bugling elk in a lush mountain valley. “He could also walk away.”