The First Commandment

There was a pause and Roussard knew what his handler was thinking. The mistake had not been made in California -it had been made outside Harvath’s home. Tracy Hastings should have been killed. She should be dead right now, not lying in some hospital bed on life support. But she had turned at the very last moment. That accursed dog had yelped, or twitched, or had done something to cause the woman to move her head ever so slightly, so that Roussard’s shot had connected, but not where he had intended.

Maybe things were better that way. Maybe the pain would be more intense for Harvath. There were ten plagues in total, and each plague would be visited upon people close to him. He would be made to suffer through their suffering, and then, finally, his life would be taken. It was the ultimate price for what Harvath had done.

“Your changes cause me concern,” said the handler.

“All of them,” demanded Roussard angrily, “or certain ones in particular?”

“Please. This is not-”

“Answer my question.”

The handler’s voice remained calm. “The shopping mall was particularly dangerous-too many cameras, too many ways you could have been recorded. You should have stayed with the health club.”

Roussard didn’t answer.

“But what is done is done,” said the handler. “You and I are cut from the same cloth.”

Roussard winced at the suggestion

“I will not lie to you,” continued the handler. “Giving in to your impulses and deviating from the itinerary, no matter how productive those deviations turn out to be, is dangerous. When you deviate, you venture into unknown territory. Without my guidance, you place not only yourself, but me at great risk.”

“If my performance is unsatisfactory, maybe I scrap the plan entirely and finish this my way.”

“No,” replied the handler, “no more deviations. You must finish your work as agreed. But first, a problem has come up that needs to be dealt with-we have been betrayed.”

“Betrayed by whom?”

“The little man your grandfather once used to gather information,” replied the handler.

“The Troll?”

The handler, deep in thought, grunted a response.

Roussard was concerned. “How can you be sure?”

“I have my contacts and sources of information. Do you think it was coincidence that you were sent to Harvath’s on the same day the Troll sent his gift?”

“I know it wasn’t,” conceded Roussard.

“Then do not doubt me. The dwarf knows of your release and is actively seeking information about you.”

“Do the Americans know what we have planned?”

“I don’t think so,” said the handler. “Not yet.”

“Do you want me to take care of him?”

“I don’t like the idea of your having to leave the country before your current visit is complete, but this problem needs to be taken care of before it grows any larger, and you’re the only one I can trust to make sure it is taken care of properly.”

“He is small and weak. It will be my pleasure.”

“You must not underestimate him,” admonished the handler. “He is a formidable opponent.”

“Where is he now?”

“I am still working on tracking him down.”

“He’s not in Scotland?” asked Roussard.

“No. I’ve already had the house and the estate searched. He hasn’t been there for some time.”

“Let me help you find him.”

“No,” stated the handler. “Focus on your next target. I will find him myself.”

“And then?”

“And then I will decide how he is to be disposed of and you will follow my orders exactly. Is that clear? We are getting very close now. I do not want any more surprises.”

Though the bile choked his throat, Roussard kept his anger under control. When this was over, he would deal with his handler.

His voice barely above a whisper, the operative replied, “Yes, it is clear.”

Chapter 69

Philippe Roussard pulled off the crushed-gravel drive and allowed his vehicle to roll to a quiet stop. From here, the car would be out of sight of any vehicles passing along the main road, as well as from anyone in the small, stone farmhouse about a half mile away.

He gathered the items he’d need from the trunk and proceeded the rest of the way in on foot.

It was actually quite a beautiful day. The sun was bright and only a few thin clouds drifted overhead. Roussard could smell the distinct scent of freshly mown grass from a nearby property.

As he crept through the woods, a variety of birds called out from the treetops above him, but other than that, there were no sounds but his own footfalls to be heard.

At the tree line, he removed the binoculars from his pack and made himself comfortable. This wasn’t anything he needed to rush.

Twenty minutes later, the woman appeared, and snapping at her heels was the dog. He was surprised that she trusted the animal enough not to run off. Harvath had left her with it only a matter of weeks ago, but the accursed dog was still young, nothing more than a puppy, and apparently bonded easily with anyone who paid attention to it.