The First Commandment

Sufficiently cowed, the pilot increased his altitude and proceeded as instructed.

From the satellite footage he had studied, Harvath knew that the island the Troll had rented for himself was particularly small. Nevertheless, he wanted to get as close a look at it as he could.

Since an overhead hover was definitely out of the question, Harvath had opted for a straight traverse at a relatively good clip. He’d have to process a lot of information in a short period of time, but it was the only way he could see the island with his own eyes from above without drawing the suspicion of its current inhabitant.

Angra was composed of 365 different islands. The pilot pointed to a tiny speck of land on the near horizon. As they got closer, Harvath studied his map, along with the size and shape of the other islands around the Troll’s, and realized the pilot was correct.

He took it from exactly the approach Harvath had asked for. Leaning against the door, Harvath strained to take in as much of it as he could, burning the entire picture into his mind-the main building and its cottages, the helipad, the speedboat at the dock, the shape and layout of the island, all of it.

He’d be coming back tonight, but by then it would be very dark, and the darkness would only contribute to the danger of what he planned to do.

Chapter 81

WASHINGTON, D.C.

James Vaile’s tenure at the CIA had not been marked by a particularly good relationship with the press. The devastating stories about the CIA’s secret prisons abroad and how the United States tracked terrorists through their banking habits still weighed heavily on him. And while the stories had come from asinine members of his own agency who put their dislike of the president’s policies above their loyalty to their country, all of his attempts to prevent those stories from being run had failed.

He had quickly learned that many newspapers had far more pride in their circulation than they did in their patriotism. That they were hobbling America and empowering her terrorist enemies made absolutely no difference to them. It was no wonder he held out little hope for being able to appeal to Mark Sheppard as an American.

If patriotism couldn’t motivate a reporter, sometimes he or she could be swayed by a promise of an exclusive on an even bigger story. But as in the cases of the secret prisons and the terrorist banking programs, Vaile didn’t have anything bigger to bargain with. He was going to have to find another way, and he’d have to do it in such a way that the Baltimore Sun reporter had no idea that the CIA was involved.

One of the first things Vaile did was to look into the man’s background. He’d met very few people in his life who didn’t have at least one skeleton in their closet. Unfortunately, though, Sheppard was clean. In fact, he was beyond clean. The man was practically a saint. Outside of a couple of speeding tickets back when he was in college, the reporter hadn’t so much as crossed against a light or faked the throw at an unmanned toll both.

Scanning his extracurricular activities, Vaile was further disenchanted as he discovered Sheppard donated a significant portion of his time helping underprivileged children throughout the Metropolitan Baltimore area. He even sat on one organization’s board.

Though Vaile didn’t want to do it, he quickly realized the only way to dissuade Sheppard from running his story was to threaten to go nuclear on him. If he didn’t cooperate, nothing would be left of the man’s former life but scorched earth.

A few hours later, once it was confirmed that everything was in place, the DCI picked up his phone and made the call.

The reporter picked up the phone on the first ring. “Mark Sheppard,” he sang, coming off a bit too eager. The DCI wondered if the journalist had already cleared space on his desk for his Pulitzer.

Any reporter worth his salt would have a recording device hooked up to his phone, so in addition to making sure his call was untraceable, James Vaile employed a new piece of technology that would render any recording inaudible when played back. He also used a modulator to disguise his voice. One could never be too careful, and what’s more, the computerized voice carried with it an added gravitas that often had a very unsettling affect on the receiving party. “Mr. Sheppard, we need to talk,” he said.

There was a pause as the reporter fiddled around for his record button, and then he said, “Who am I speaking with?”

“Who I am is not as important as what I have to say.”

“How do I know you’re for real then?”

“You called the White House press office for comment on a story you want to run,” said Vaile via the deep, computerized voice.

“And from what I’m hearing,” said Sheppard, “I’m going to guess that you’ve called to scare me into burying it.”

“I’ve called to give you a chance to do the right thing.”

“Really? What would that be?”

“There are serious national security issues at play here, which you don’t understand.”