The First Commandment

It was while he was with Team Six that Harvath assisted a presidential security detail in Maine and caught the eye of the Secret Service. Wanting to bolster their antiterrorism expertise at the White House, they eventually succeeded in wooing him away from the Navy and up to D. C. Harvath soon distinguished himself even further, and after a short time was recommended for an above-top-secret program at the Department of Homeland Security being spearheaded by an old family friend and former deputy director of the FBI named Gary Lawlor.

The program was called the Apex Project. It was buried in a little-known branch of DHS called the Office of International Investigative Assistance, or OIIA for short. The OIIA’s overt mission was to assist foreign police, military, and intelligence agencies in helping prevent attacks against Americans and American interests abroad. In that sense, Harvath’s mission was partly in step with the official OIIA mandate. In reality, he was a very secretive dog of war enlisted post-9/11 to be unleashed by the president upon the enemies of the United States to help prevent any future terrorist attacks on America.

The rationale was that if the terrorists weren’t playing by any rules, then neither would the U. S. But because of sensitive PC biases that existed in America, which seemed to suggest our nation was the only one that should abide by the rules, the president realized that Harvath’s true mission could only be known by a key few, namely the president himself and Harvath’s boss, Gary Lawlor.

Harvath was to be backed with the full weight of the Oval Office, as well as the collective might of the U. S. military and the combined assets of the U. S. intelligence community. The program sounded fantastic on paper, but reality, especially in bureaucratic Washington, often turned out to be something else entirely.

Harvath didn’t want to think about his job now. It was because of it, because of him, that Tracy had been shot. He didn’t need the results of any investigation to tell him that. He knew it as surely as he knew that the woman lying in that hospital bed didn’t deserve any of what had happened to her.

The FBI had been able to piece together some of what had happened. They had discovered the hiding spot the shooter had used in the woods at the edge of his property. Their assessment was that whoever the assassin was, he’d dug himself in sometime during the evening, probably several hours before daylight.

The killer had left behind a shell casing with the message-That which has been taken in blood, can only be answered in blood.

There had also been the bizarre act of painting his doorframe with blood. The first run of analyses ruled out its being Tracy ’s. It had been painted there sometime during the night and had already dried before Tracy was shot.

Then there was the dog that had been placed on the doorstep as a gift in a picnic basket. Harvath had only to take one look at the thank you note that had been left with it to know who it was from. But if someone was going to target him or Tracy, why leave such a blatant calling card?

Weeks earlier, on a covert operation in Gibraltar, Harvath had saved the life of an enormous dog known as a Caucasian Ovcharka-the same breed as the one that had been left on his doorstep. The owner of the dog in Gibraltar was a contemptible little man-a dwarf, actually, who dealt in the purchase and sale of highly classified information. He had also helped plan the attack on New York. He was known simply as the Troll.

But how had the Troll found him? Only a handful of people knew about the historic church and grounds named Bishop’s Gate that Harvath now called home. He found it hard to believe that the Troll would be so careless or stupid as to announce that he was behind Tracy ’s shooting.

The timing, though, stank, and Harvath wasn’t a person who believed in coincidences. There had to be a connection, and he was determined to find out what it was.

Chapter 5

When Harvath came back into the hospital room, Tracy ’s parents, Bill and Barbara Hastings, were sitting on either side of her bed.

Bill Hastings was a large man, about six-foot-four and over two hundred pounds. He’d played football at Yale and looked like he could still play. His hair was gray and Harvath put him in his mid to late sixties. Seeing Harvath enter the room, he looked up and asked, “Any change?”

“No, sir,” replied Harvath.

Barbara smiled at him. “You were here all night again, weren’t you?”

Harvath didn’t reply. He simply nodded. Having to deal with Tracy ’s parents was one of the more difficult aspects of keeping vigil at her bedside. He felt so damn responsible for what had happened to her. He couldn’t believe how kind they were to him. If they blamed him at all for what had happened to their daughter, they didn’t show it.