Code of Conduct

CHAPTER 42

Harvath had called ahead to alert Lara that people were going to begin showing up at the house. By the time he and Nicholas arrived, the Old Man’s vehicle was already parked in the drive.

Harvath’s home, as well as the surrounding acreage, had been deeded to him as a thank-you by a prior U.S. President. In exchange for his one-dollar-per-annum rent, Harvath was expected to maintain the historical property in a manner befitting and contributing to its stature.

Overlooking the Potomac and just south of George Washington’s Mount Vernon estate sat Bishop’s Gate — a stubby, yet elegant stone church and rectory. During the Revolutionary War, it had been home to an outspoken Anglican priest and dedicated loyalist who had given aid and comfort to British spies. As a result, the church was attacked by the colonial army and left in ruins.

Bishop’s Gate remained that way until the late 1800s when it was taken over by the United States Navy, renovated, and repurposed as a covert training center for the Office of Naval Intelligence.

Eventually, the ONI outgrew the facility, and after a short stint storing dead files, it was relegated to “mothball” status.

Although not as upscale as some of the other properties in the Navy’s portfolio, its location was exceptional, as was its access to the water. The history of the estate, though, was what had won Harvath over.

On his very first exploration of the rectory attic, he had discovered a beautiful, hand-carved sign. Upon it, had been written the motto of the Anglican missionaries: TRANSIENS ADIUVANOS. I GO OVERSEAS TO GIVE HELP. It was as if it had been carved expressly for him. The moment Harvath had seen it, he had known that he was home.

It had taken some doing, but he had gotten the place into great shape. He was good with his hands and knew his way around a toolbox. Fixing things was becoming a lost art. When Lara visited with her son, Marco, Harvath liked to find projects for the two of them to do together. He had even gotten him his own little boy — sized tool set. It gave him no end of joy to see the sense of pride and accomplishment in Marco when he successfully completed one of their tasks together. He was a good boy.

Entering the house, Harvath and Nicholas passed the Anglican missionary sign in the entry hall and walked toward the sound of voices in the kitchen. Argos and Draco trotted ahead. Nicholas spent a lot of time at Bishop’s Gate, and the dogs knew their way around. It had become like a second home to them.

Carlton was seated at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in front of him. Lara was leaning against the kitchen counter smiling, a cup of coffee in her hand and something simmering on the stove behind her.

“That smells good,” he said, kissing her.

“Arroz Carreteiro. Your favorite.”

Both of Lara’s parents were amazing cooks and they had passed on their love of cooking to her. Arroz Carreteiro, which roughly translated into Rice Wagoner or Cart Riders, was a popular dish from southern Brazil. Meat, rice, tomato, onions, and spices — it was perfect for this time of year.

Grabbing a coffee cup, he looked at Nicholas, who nodded. After pouring coffee for each of them, he suggested to Carlton that they walk back to his study.

It was one of his favorite rooms in the house. Here he stored his vast library in floor-to-ceiling bookcases. There was an old desk, a large fireplace, a leather sofa, and two comfortable side chairs. He motioned for his guests to find a place to sit while he looked for his remote and powered on the television.

“Have you heard about the new cases?” Harvath asked.

Carlton nodded. “But that’s not the worst part of it.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“The dead ones, the ones who bled out, all of them travelled to Saudi Arabia for the Hajj. The bad news is that hospital emergency rooms, minute clinics, and family doctors across numerous cities are now reporting a surge in patients who haven’t travelled outside the United States, but who are presenting with high fevers and other symptoms believed to be consistent with the initial stages of African Hemorrhagic Fever.”

“Damn it,” Harvath replied.

His instincts to send Palmer to stock up on supplies had been well founded. Though he always kept his pantry stocked and would be able to take care of a certain number of visitors for an extended period during an emergency, nobody in their right mind would pass up getting one last crack at the stores before they were overrun and stripped bare. All you had to do was ask anyone in a hurricane zone whether it was better to be two minutes early to the grocery store in advance of a storm, or two minutes late.

“There’s something else,” the Old Man added. “And it doesn’t get repeated outside this room, but President Porter has developed a fever. Out of an abundance of caution, he has been transported to Bethesda Naval Hospital for observation.”

“He said it was just a cold,” Harvath replied. “Has he had contact with anyone who recently travelled to Mecca?”

“He’s the President. He has contact with a lot of people.”

“Including us.”

The Old Man knew what he was suggesting — not that they had potentially infected Porter, but that he may have infected them.

“All the more reason we need to get moving,” said Carlton. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. Let’s start by you giving me an update on what happened in Winchester.”

Harvath walked the Old Man through all of it, with Nicholas filling in where appropriate.

At one point, Carlton stopped him and asked, “What do you think this Helena woman was erasing from that memory card?”

“If I had to guess,” said Nicholas, “I’d say passwords. Damien is a smart man. We should assume he changes his passwords often.”

“But her assignment was to get his password. Period. Once she had done that, why didn’t she send it to Mordechai and pull up stakes?”

“Again, if I had to guess, I’d say she had been accessing Damien’s computer from early on in the operation. Whenever he changed his password, she’d have to recapture it in order to get back in.”

“For what, though?” Carlton pushed. “All the Mossad wanted was the password. They didn’t ask her to extract anything from the man’s laptop.”

Nicholas put up his hands. “I’m the zeros and ones guy. I don’t attempt to assess or explain human motivations.”

“Bullshit, Nick. Stop screwing around. Why do you think she kept hitting his hard drive?”

There was only one answer that came to his mind. “Money.”

Slowly, Carlton nodded. He liked that answer. It was simple. More important, it made sense. “Okay, so let’s say it was money. How does access to Damien’s hard drive make her money?”

“Without seeing his hard drive, I can’t tell you.”

“As we don’t have access to it, why don’t you take a guess.”

The little man shrugged. “I can think of a million ways to monetize what might be on the personal hard drive of a man like Pierre Damien. Was there anything that could be used to blackmail him or other powerful figures? Were there any soon-to-be-released reports about drugs Damien’s pharmaceutical companies were working on? How about the status of pipeline or drilling agreements for his oil or natural gas companies?”

“Okay,” said the Old Man, “but if you know, like Helena, that Damien has something massive planned, something he hopes is going to totally reshape the world, do you really care about some new Alzheimer’s drug, some pipeline deal with Kurdistan, or some nude island frequented by some second-rate British royal?”

“No,” Nicholas answered.

“Why?”

“First of all, if there was any blackmail material on the laptop, she should have been able to find it on her first pass through. That leaves financial material, and you’re right. If Damien is going to crash the world as we know it, there’s no value in knowing about some miracle Alzheimer’s drug or pipeline deal before it happens.”

“Unless,” said Harvath.

Both Nicholas and Carlton looked at him.

“Unless what?” the Old Man asked.

“Unless her goal was to profit from the crash.”

“How?”

“Suppose the Mossad was right,” Harvath continued, “but only half right. Suppose Helena did want out, but that instead of Pierre Damien being her golden ticket, he unknowingly helped her pack her parachute?”

“Meaning what?” Carlton replied. “She was funneling cash from his accounts?”

“No, too easy to get caught. Let’s assume she’s smarter than that.”

“If she was smarter than that, she would have stopped being a honey trap for the Mossad a long time ago.”

Harvath held up his hand. “Damien is a lot of crazy things, but we all agree he isn’t stupid. He’s also a successful businessman — a businessman sitting on the biggest piece of insider information ever. He knows the exact date the world is going to end. Why in God’s name wouldn’t he play that?”

The Old Man’s eyes widened. “Short the market?”

“There are lots of things he could be up to. Helena, though, would have to know where and when to place her bets. She’d need to get out before everything collapsed. That might be why she has been accessing Damien’s laptop. She’s trying to catch a falling knife.”

“Good way to feather your nest if you were planning to leave the Mossad and disappear.”

“Speaking of which,” Harvath replied as his driveway alarm chimed and one of the outdoor camera feeds popped up on his TV. “Sloane’s here with Mordechai.”

“What should we do with him?”

“I think we should read him in on everything we’ve got,” said Harvath.

“Everything?”

He nodded. “All of it.”