The First Commandment

He heard a noise near the generator shack and quietly crept forward to investigate.

The Troll was on his hands and knees, the weapons stacked along with Harvath’s dry bag next to him.

“Did you get him?” asked the Troll without turning around.

“No,” replied Harvath as he pointed the empty automatic weapon at him.

“I only had one shot, you know,” continued the Troll. “I shot the man closest to me, and even then I was afraid I was going to miss.”

“I want you to move three steps to your right, away from those weapons.”

“These?” said the Troll as he gestured to the pile and stood up to face Harvath. “I collected them for you. Consider it a thank you for running the hose for the dogs.”

“Just step away.”

The Troll did as he was told.

As Harvath moved in to collect the items, the dwarf grinned and said, “You don’t trust me, do you?”

Harvath half-laughed as he checked to make sure a round was chambered in his Beretta and then placed the other items into his dry bag.

“It’s not my fault the man I shot wasn’t Roussard. All you tall people look alike from behind.”

“All the more reason I’ll be sure never to turn my back on you,” replied Harvath as he picked up the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“Why did you lie to Roussard?” asked the Troll, changing the subject. “If you’d told him where I was, you might have saved your own life.”

“Roussard was going to kill me either way. I didn’t tell him where you were because I’ve got a thing about not helping bad people get ahead in life.”

“Touché.”

“By the way,” asked Harvath, “why’d you come back? You were supposed to tie off the boat’s steering wheel, send it out into the bay, and wait for me.”

“When I didn’t hear the helicopter take off, I figured you’d been successful in the first part of your plan, but I still had a few reservations about the rest of it.”

“I suppose I should be glad.”

“No,” answered the Troll, “just grateful. If only a little bit.”

Harvath didn’t know how he felt about owing his life to such a man, so to avoid thinking about it he took his turn at changing the subject. “What made you take the flare gun?”

The Troll looked at Harvath and replied, “In life, even the smallest advantage is better than no advantage at all.”

Chapter 95

Instead of going north toward Rio, they headed south along the coast to Paraty, a small eighteenth-century Portuguese fishing village. Set against the forested slopes of the Serra do Mar, Paraty looked out over a bay of hundreds of uninhabited islands. It was similar to Angra dos Reis, but much lower key.

Residents and visitors alike were more discreet here, preferring to own or rent a refurbished fisherman’s cottage or one of the town’s diminutive terracotta-roofed villas. It was completely different from the jet-set style of Angra, and that suited Harvath just fine.

He swam back out to his boat and returned to the island to pick up the Troll as well as his two dogs, Argos and Draco. It was a colossal pain in the ass, but the Troll had refused to leave without them.

They beached the boat a mile outside town, and Harvath hiked back to secure transportation for them. There were plenty of cars to choose from-most of their owners having left them in one of two public parking areas specifically set aside for island dwellers who had no need of their vehicles until they drove back home to Rio.

Harvath chose the first one he saw, a white Toyota Sequoia SUV with tinted windows.

When they arrived in Paraty, it was still dark. They purchased more water for the dogs and some food for themselves at an all-night gas station and then parked along a quiet agricultural road to eat and rest. But first, Harvath had a question. “Why would Roussard want to kill you?”

“I’ve been wondering about that too,” said the Troll as he sank his spoon into a Styrofoam cup of thick bean and sausage stew known as feijoada. “For some reason, he’s been keeping tabs on me. He used me to find you and now that he knows I’m helping you try to stop him, he wants me dead. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

The man was right. It was the only explanation that made sense. The Troll was good at covering his trail, but he wasn’t exactly perfect. If he had been, Tom Morgan and his people at Sargasso never would have been able to track him down.

“My friends call me Nicholas,” said the Troll after a long silence.

Harvath was in no mood to cozy up with him and ignored the remark as he unwrapped his sandwich.

The Troll was undeterred. “It’s a nickname of sorts. I’ve always been fond of children, and Saint Nicholas is their patron saint.”

“As well as the patron saint of prostitutes, robbers, and thieves.”

The Troll smiled. “Strangely appropriate for a boy who grew up in a brothel, wouldn’t you say?”

This guy is a real chatterbox, thought Harvath as he went to work on his food.

“How about you?” asked the Troll. “How is it you only spell Scot with one T?”