The First Commandment

CHAPTER 68

Philippe Roussard despised America and Americans for many reasons. He despised them for their gluttony, their sloth, and their arrogance. Most of them had never traveled beyond their own borders and yet they believed themselves to be the center of the world and that their way of life was the only correct and righteous way.

He despised them for what he saw as their empire-building — their constant meddling in the affairs of other nations. He despised them not only for the act, but for the concept of globalization. If America was not stopped, he knew that their poison would continue to ooze and affect every nation on the planet until puss-filled sores of capitalism and democracy erupted everywhere. It was America’s greatest failing, the notion that there were only two types of people in this world — Americans and those who wished they were.

As much as he hated America, however, there was much about the actual physical geography of the country that he found quite enchanting. With the vehicle’s windows rolled down, Roussard drove through the rural Virginia countryside and admired its beauty.

It often confused Roussard why Allah should have blessed the infidels, in particular America and her Western allies, with such prosperity, abundance, and geographical beauty while He allowed the true believers, his Islamic faithful, to often languish in abhorrent conditions in some of the earth’s most desolate locations.

Roussard knew it was wrong to try to discern the mind of Allah, but it was a question he often found himself occupied with. His God was great and He was merciful. In His wisdom He had assigned His people their stations in life so that they might struggle in His name and prove themselves worthy of His acknowledgment. The day of the Muslim people was close at hand. Soon their struggles, their laborious jihad, would bear fruit — ripe, plump, heavy fruit bursting with the sugary sweetness of having vanquished their enemies and having rid the earth of all nonbelievers.

The terrorist recalled a proclamation from a fellow mujahideen who had said that the followers of the Prophet, may peace be upon Him, would not rest until they were dancing upon the roof of the White House itself. The image always made him smile.

He was contemplating whether he would see such a glorious development in his lifetime when the cell phone he had purchased the day before vibrated in his pocket. He had only given the number to one person.

“Yes,” said Roussard as he raised the device to his ear.

“I read the update you left for me,” said the handler.

“And?”

Though they both switched cell phones after each conversation, the handler was not fond of communicating this way. The Americans and their listening programs could not be underestimated. “I spent significant time crafting the itinerary for your visit. Your changes to it are—”

“Are what?” asked Roussard, angry. He didn’t care for the way in which his handler second-guessed everything he did. He was not a child. He knew all too well the risks he was taking.

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.”