Текст книги "Hidden Order: A Thriller"

Автор книги: Brad Thor

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CHAPTER 9

WASHINGTON

DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA

The security at the headquarters of the Federal Reserve was similar to security at government buildings throughout the nation’s capital. Uniformed men with sidearms were posted at the entrances, as well as at the checkpoints inside.

Harvath and Carlton were required to pass through a full-body imaging machine before being allowed to proceed to a reception desk near a plush waiting area. “I should have warned you, but I’m glad you didn’t bring any weapons,” said the Old Man.

“Who said I didn’t bring any?” replied Harvath.

For a moment, Carlton couldn’t tell if he was pulling his leg or not. He decided to let it go and walked over to the reception desk.

Harvath admired the building’s interior. Even by Washington standards, it was impressive. With its polished marble and modernist interpretation of Beaux Arts style, if this was supposed to be an awe-inspiring temple to money, its architects had succeeded.

After giving their names to the receptionist, Carlton rejoined Harvath. “Ever been here before?” the Old Man asked.

Harvath shook his head. “No. I’ve been to the Treasury and about every other federal building in town, but not this one.”

“This one isn’t federal.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Federal Reserve is a private organization. They gave themselves the title Federal Reserve to sound more official, but they’re not part of the government by any stretch of the imagination.”

“But, I always thought—”

The Old Man cut him off as someone approached from the other side of the lobby. “Here’s the gentleman we’re meeting with.”

The man was in his late forties, with short hair graying at the temples and a pronounced beak of a nose. He wore a well-tailored gray suit with an understated tie and a plain white pocket square. His shoes shone like mirrors.

“Good morning,” the man said as he walked up and extended his hand. “I’m Monroe Lewis.” His fingers were long and slim like a pianist’s and he spoke with the muted patrician accent of an old New England family.

Harvath and Carlton both shook the man’s hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly,” he said. Looking at Harvath he added, “Especially you. I hope you found the plane comfortable.”

“It was more than comfortable. Thank you,” Harvath replied. Closer now, he noticed that the man had undergone some sort of modest cosmetic surgery; either Botox or a lift of some sort, which had tightened the skin across his face. Harvath wasn’t a fan of cosmetic surgery for men. While some guys might be able to get away with a little, there were others who didn’t know when to stop and whose faces ended up looking like they’d seen more knives than a grill at a Benihana.

Lewis was accompanied by a protective detail made up of three solidly built men in dark suits. Scanning the lobby, Harvath could make out at least two more, their heads on swivels, as they took in every person and every movement in the cavernous space.

“I have our conference room available,” Lewis offered. “Shall we go upstairs?”

Carlton nodded and the Federal Reserve man led the way. As they walked, he pointed out different pieces of the Fed’s history adorning the walls, and made polite small talk. He was quite knowledgeable about the organization, having worked there for more than two decades. His path to the Fed had begun with a quote from Karl Marx he discovered in high school—Money plays the largest role in determining the course of history.

Monroe Lewis had been a shy, frail boy of modest upbringing and lofty ambitions. He would never captain a football team or lead men into battle. He didn’t possess those skills. His strength lay neither in his muscles nor his character, but in his mind.

He was a voracious reader whose escape had always been books. And while outsiders saw him as perfectly suited for a career in academia, he knew academia was far too small a stage. One did not impact the course of history from some university campus. To impact history, one needed to be at the epicenter of where history was made. For him, that epicenter was the Federal Reserve.

Arriving at the conference room, he showed his guests in and asked his security detail to remain outside.

It was an enormous rectangular room with an almost thirty-foot mahogany table running down the center. Along one wall was a large marble fireplace and suspended above the table was an ornate chandelier that looked to be at least a thousand pounds.

“I suppose, given the situation, the security is a necessary precaution,” he said, closing the door and crossing to Harvath and Carlton, “but it does take some getting used to.”

“Always better to have it and not need it,” said Harvath.

“Indeed,” Lewis replied. “Indeed. Can I offer you gentlemen some coffee?”

The old spy and his number two accepted china cups with saucers and joined Lewis at the long inlaid conference table. As they pulled out their chairs, there was a knock followed by the door opening.

“Ah, William,” Lewis said as a man walked in with a folder tucked beneath his arm. “Thank you for joining us.” Turning to Harvath and Carlton he introduced the new arrival, “This is Will Jacobson, our director of security.”

Jacobson was a large man in his late fifties. He was fit, with thick arms outlined by the sleeves of his almost too tight navy blue suit. He had silver hair that was neatly combed, and dark, almost slitlike eyes. He carried himself with an air of self-importance.

After shaking hands, they all sat back down and Lewis handed control of the meeting to Jacobson.

“Thank you, Mr. Lewis,” he said, staring across the table and sizing up his two outsiders. “As you’ve probably heard, one week ago Federal Reserve Chairman Wallace Sawyer passed away.”

“How did he die?” asked Harvath.

Jacobson, who didn’t enjoy being interrupted, shot him a look. “Heart attack.”

“Has the cause of death been confirmed?”

“Yes, by the coroner. Though it wasn’t released to the press, Chairman Sawyer, who was sixty-six years old at the time of his death, had an underlying heart condition.”

“Where was he when it happened?”

“You realize you weren’t brought here to talk about Chairman Sawyer,” Jacobson said curtly, irritation evident in his tone.

Lewis raised his hand to calm the security director. “It’s okay, Will. Please answer their questions.”

Jacobson took a deep breath and let it out. “He was leaving a restaurant in Bethesda with his wife.”

“Did he travel with a security detail?”

“Yes. They were with him that night,” he replied and then waited for any follow-up questions. When none were asked, he continued. “After the chairman’s passing, the vice chairman was made temporary chair.”

“And that would be Mr. Lewis?”

Monroe Lewis shook his head. “No, I’m not the vice chair. I report to the Board of Governors and help oversee day-to-day operations. Essentially, I function as a chief operating officer.”

Harvath looked at Carlton and then back at Lewis. “I apologize. The structure is a little confusing.”

Lewis smiled. “That’s quite all right. It’s actually not that difficult. The Board of Governors has seven members, all appointed by the President of the United States and confirmed by the Senate. They serve a fourteen-year term. From these seven members, the President selects a chairman and a vice chairman.”

“Has the President ever appointed a chairman from outside the Board of Governors?”

“Yes, there is a precedent for that.”

“So he could select you for instance?”

Lewis laughed. “I suppose anything is possible, but that’s not how it happens. The chairman usually is selected from the Board of Governors.”

“And what exactly do they do?” Harvath asked.

“They oversee the twelve district Federal Reserve banks.”

“Which do what?”

“They represent the twelve districts the Federal Reserve has divided the nation into. Their job is to help implement monetary policy as established by the Federal Reserve’s Federal Open Market Committee.” He could see Harvath’s eyes glazing over. “The Open Market Committee focuses on establishing interest rates and dealing with the nation’s money supply. They also oversee the Federal Reserve’s purchase and sale of U.S. Treasury securities. And to keep it simple, the district Federal Reserve banks help regulate the banks in their area. Does that make sense?”

Not really, thought Harvath, but he didn’t want to look any dumber than he already felt. “Got it,” he lied, figuring they’d get to his own area of expertise soon enough. “Please continue.”

“As a thirty-thousand-foot view, that’s pretty much it.”

“And shortly after Chairman Sawyer died, your top five candidates to replace him disappeared, and one of them turned up murdered this morning.”

Lewis nodded.

“It looks like someone is trying to send you a message.”

“You can say that again,” replied Jacobson, as he removed a hideous photograph from his file and slid it across the table.

CHAPTER 10

The terrible image was a police evidence photo of a woman who had been mutilated and apparently beaten to death. She was lying atop a bed of logs, her ears missing, with some sort of sign hung around her neck.

“This is Claire Marcourt?” the Old Man asked, his voice filled with pity for the woman.

The security chief nodded solemnly. “Her body was found early this morning on Jekyll Island, about forty-five minutes from her vacation home on Sea Island down in Georgia.”

“How’d you get a copy of the photo?” Harvath asked, examining it.

“We have some influence down there.”

“Any idea why they cut off her ears?” Carlton inquired. “Could she have heard something she wasn’t supposed to?”

The security chief shrugged. “For all we know, the symbolism is the exact opposite. Maybe someone felt she wasn’t listening as she should.”

“Do you have a better picture of whatever this sign is around her neck?”

Jacobson pulled another photo from his folder and slid it across the table. Harvath picked it up while the Old Man pulled a pair of glasses from his breast pocket. Before he’d even slipped them on, he heard a quiet gust of air blown from Harvath’s mouth.

“What is it?”

Harvath handed the tight shot of the sign around the dead woman’s neck to his boss. Upon it had been painted a skull and crossbones with a crown floating above. The sign was streaked in blood, as if the victim’s bloody fingers had slid down it. Carlton read aloud the words painted beneath: “The Tree of Liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.” Looking up from the photo, he stated, “I’ve heard that before. Who said it?”

“Thomas Jefferson,” Harvath replied.

“Exactly,” the security chief confirmed. “We think we’re dealing with some sort of anti–Federal Reserve extremist group.”

“What do these other letters mean here at the bottom? S.O.L.”

“S.O.L. is an abbreviation for multiple sayings and phrases: statute of limitations, standard of living, sooner or later, speed of light. It could mean anything.”

The Old Man changed tack and asked a different question, “As far as you know, Mrs. Marcourt was kidnapped from home, correct?”

“According to her husband, that’s what we understand. Yes.”

“Did he have any additional insight, any clues as to who might have taken her or why?”

“No,” replied the security chief. “He was asleep, as were their children. Claire had been up drinking wine. There was no sign of forced entry. She liked to sit out near their pool. We’re assuming that may be where she was when she was kidnapped.”

“Why take her to Jekyll Island?”

“On that point, we’re pretty confident we know why. Jekyll Island is where the Federal Reserve Act, back in 1910, was originally outlined in a series of complicated meetings. You’d never know that, though, by listening to the conspiracy nuts. As far as they’re concerned, the meetings had everything but devil-worshipping masses and animal sacrifices.”

“That bad, huh?” said Harvath, picking up on what a hot-button issue this was for the security chief.

“Was there a certain degree of secrecy around the meetings, of course there was. Considering the sensitivity of what they were trying to do, why would that be strange? If I had been their security director back then, I would have advised them to do exactly what they did and stay as far under the radar as possible. We keep a lot of the day-to-day stuff here quiet because we have to, for security reasons, but that just fuels the crazies. You have no idea what a colossal pain in the ass those people are. Not a day goes by that we’re not dealing with something they’re stirring up.”

“I can imagine,” said the Old Man, who followed up with another question. “Have there been any ransom demands?”

“We’re not sure,” he replied, sliding another picture across the table. “This was also found at the scene.”

It was a picture of Claire Marcourt’s severed ears, propped up and bracketing an odd note that read Today is already the tomorrow which the bad economist yesterday urged us to ignore.

Harvath lined up the photo of the ears and note alongside the tight shot of the sign. The writing was exactly the same. “Any idea what it’s supposed to mean?”

“I assume it means someone doesn’t like how the Fed is handling the economy. It’s just a quote from some dead economist named Henry Hazlitt.”

Harvath doubted it was “just a quote.” It obviously held significance for whoever had written it. Placing the crime scene photo of Claire Marcourt’s body with the other two pictures, he remarked, “How about the local police, do they have any clues to go on? Witnesses? CCTV footage?”

“Nothing,” the security chief replied. “Whoever did this went to great lengths to make sure they didn’t leave any evidence behind.”

He found that hard to believe, too. There was always evidence. It was just a matter of how well trained you were to look for it. Harvath studied the photos for a few more moments before saying, “I’m not exactly sure why we’re here. The FBI must already be all over this.”

He could feel the Old Man bristle next to him, but he didn’t care. The question needed to be asked.

“Yes,” Lewis offered. “The FBI is already involved, but we want to make sure we’re bringing in every resource we can to prevent anyone else from being killed.”

Jacobson added, “I have contacts at the Bureau and I know how it works. If we have any hope of bringing this to a rapid resolution, we need to have someone familiar with the system who, how do I say this delicately? Someone who’s not afraid to work outside it.”

Harvath didn’t reply. He let Jacobson’s words float in the air above the conference room table.

“We also need someone who can keep quiet,” Lewis stated.

Now we’re getting to the heart of what this is really about, thought Harvath.

“You need to understand,” Lewis continued, “that there are several forces arrayed against the Federal Reserve who want to see us gone, and it’s not just citizens. There are members of Congress as well. Granted they’re not very powerful or very well organized, but a scandal of this magnitude could help put some wind in their sails and we don’t want that.”

“With all due respect, how are you going to hide it? You’ve already got five kidnappings, one of which has turned into a murder.”

“We’re trying very hard to keep it out of the press. So far, we’ve been successful.”

“There’s no way that’ll hold,” Harvath replied.

“We’ve asked the families and law enforcement for their cooperation, and so far they’ve been on board, but now with a murder things are going to be different,” Jacobson said. “We’ve got maybe forty-eight hours, seventy-two tops before this story is everywhere.”

Lewis nodded and Jacobson pulled a sheet of paper from his file and pushed it across to their guests. “This is a list of the missing candidates.”

Harvath and the Old Man studied it together.

Marcourt, Claire—New York City

Mitchell, Betsy—Seattle

Penning, Herman—Boston

Renner, Jonathan—San Francisco

Whalen, Peter—Chicago

“I’ve never heard of any of these people,” Harvath finally said.

“Me neither,” the Old Man replied. “Who are they?”

“Private sector people. Investment banking mostly,” said Lewis. “Because of the trouble the economy has been having and the way fingers have been pointed at us, we were considering bringing our next chairman or chairwoman from outside of the Federal Reserve. Sort of a breath of fresh air as it were.”

Harvath looked at him. “How many people knew these were your top picks?”

“It was quietly known inside the organization.”

“And outside of it?”

“The candidates themselves knew, and there were some financial reporters who had speculated on who might be on our list, though as far as we know, no one had come close to winnowing it down to our five.”

“And the Bureau is aware of all of this?”

“All of it,” said Jacobson. “They’ve already begun interviewing everyone here who had any knowledge of things. Our number-one goal is getting the kidnap victims recovered and making sure the perpetrators are dealt with. That’s why we’re having this meeting with you.”

“Dealt with?” Harvath repeated. “I’m sorry, but what exactly is it that you think we do?”

The Old Man put his hand on Harvath’s forearm. “They came to us because of our kidnap and ransom expertise.”

Harvath knew that wealthy companies and individuals often brought in kidnapping specialists to augment the efforts of the FBI. “There are plenty of people who do K-and-R,” he stated. “Why us specifically?”

“Because,” said Lewis. “We want the best and you came very highly recommended.”

“By whom?”

“I think the response you’re searching for,” the Old Man corrected Harvath, “is thank you.”

“That’s all right,” Lewis said. “Mr. Harvath, Stephanie Gallo has been a personal friend of mine for many years. She was also a friend of Chairman Sawyer’s before he passed away. When her daughter was kidnapped while doing aid work in Afghanistan, you were the person the President personally recommended she hire to cut through all the red tape and bring her back alive, which is exactly what you did.”

Harvath remembered the case. The Taliban had captured Gallo’s daughter Julia and were holding her hostage in exchange for the release of a very dangerous Al-Qaeda operative. Not many people knew of Harvath’s involvement, much less that the President had quietly recommended him to the Gallo family.

“We don’t discuss our clients or any of our operations,” he replied.

“And I respect that,” Lewis stated. “Like I said, we need someone who can keep quiet.”

The Old Man tapped Harvath on the forearm again. “It’s okay. The Gallo family knows that we’re meeting with Mr. Lewis.”

“Even so,” said Harvath, “that was Afghanistan. This is the United States. The rules are different, a lot different. I’m not saying we can’t help, but without a ransom demand this is almost entirely a law enforcement function. There’s only so much a K-and-R team will be allowed to do.”

“You’ll have all of our resources at your disposal,” said Lewis, “including the aircraft, which is being held at Reagan with a fresh crew standing by.”

Harvath wasn’t exactly sure how to respond. He had several more questions, none of which were appropriate to ask in front of Lewis and Jacobson. He needed to speak with the Old Man privately. The prospective clients, though, were not content to afford him that opportunity.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have the luxury of time for you to think this over,” Lewis stated. “I need to know now, whether you’re in or you’re out.”

Before Harvath could respond, Reed Carlton answered for both of them. “We’re in.”

CHAPTER 11

“They’re a client with a license to print their own money,” said Carlton as he drove toward Harvath’s home on the outskirts of Alexandria, Virginia. He was in a much better mood now that their meeting was over and they had the assignment. “That’s not something that falls into your lap every day.”

“Technically,” Harvath replied, “they don’t print their own money. And, as a wise man once told me, they don’t make ice cream, either.”

“What’s the matter with you all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, snap out of it. Between this job and once we get paid on the Sienna Star, we’ll be back in the black.”

“What are you charging Monroe Lewis?”

“I’m not charging him, I’m charging the Federal Reserve. I came in high because I expected him to negotiate us down on our fee, but he didn’t. He’s even wiring us half of everything up front. You, though, for some reason seemed bound and determined to kill this deal. If I’d had my weapon, I might have put a bullet in you right there myself.”

Harvath shook his head. “None of this bothers you?”

“Of course it bothers me. Every assignment we take bothers me. Each one has its share of headaches and blind alleys. That’s why people call us. But despite all the problems, we always find a way through. It’s what we do.”

It’s what I do, thought Harvath. And while he didn’t discount the Old Man’s genius, Carlton didn’t do much if any fieldwork anymore. It was always Harvath who was being sent into shitholes around the world having to face danger on a regular basis. There was a ton of it he loved, but there was some he was starting to dislike.

“Listen, for Monroe Lewis and his crew money is literally no object. At some point, someone in the press is going to connect the dots and this is going to be a huge story. In fact, I don’t even know how long they’ll be able to keep the murder down in Georgia quiet. When this thing does go supernova on them, they’re going to want to appear to have done everything they could, which includes bringing in a K-and-R team to assist the FBI. They’re hedging their bets.”

The Old Man was right. Harvath didn’t want to dwell on it. “Where do we begin?” he asked.

Carlton signaled and merged into a faster-moving lane. “Jacobson gave us his file with everything on the kidnappings plus what they have on the murder. I think we ought to start there.”

“Speaking of which, did you notice how her body was laid out?”

“On the bed of logs? Weird, huh?”

“Not so much weird as purposeful,” Harvath replied.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because whoever killed her was sending a very specific message.”

“Of course they were,” the Old Man stated. “They’re some wacko group that thinks the Fed is comprised of a bunch of tyrants.”

“It’s not just the line from Jefferson about the tree of liberty. It’s also the skull and crossbones with the crown above it. And there’s something with those logs that bothers me, too.”

“Like what?”

“I want to double-check it when we get back to the house. It may not be anything.”

 • • •

Harvath’s property sat above the Potomac, just south of George Washington’s Mount Vernon. The modest estate, called Bishop’s Gate, was a former Anglican church dating back to the Revolutionary War and was one of hundreds of properties owned by the United States Navy. Out of gratitude for his service to the United States, a previous president had arranged a ninety-nine-year lease for Harvath. All that was required was that he restore and maintain the property in a manner befitting its historic value. His rent was established at one dollar per annum.

With all of the places he had lived as an adult, nothing had ever felt truly like home to him until Bishop’s Gate. Not someone particularly given to a belief in fate, he made a discovery on the day he took possession of the property that caused him to wonder if his tenancy wasn’t somehow preordained.

In the attic of the rectory, he had come across a sign. On a beautifully carved piece of wood was the Latin motto of the Anglican missionaries. It was almost as if it had been left there for him. When he read the words that so perfectly summed up what he did and who he was, Scot knew he had found his refuge—TRANSIENS ADIUVA NOS—I go overseas to give help.

He removed the sign from the attic and hung it in his entry hall so he could read it each time he came or went.

Stepping inside, he told Carlton to help himself to whatever he could find in the kitchen and that he would join him there in a few minutes.

He turned and walked down the opposite hall to his study. Once he got there, he stood looking at the shelves and shelves of books. Everything was in perfect alphabetical order by author. When he had first moved in, he thought that was the best way to organize his vast library. Only now did he wish he had grouped things by subject matter.

One of Harvath’s passions was American History, particularly the years surrounding the Revolutionary War. He had loved that piece of America’s past since he was a boy. In fact, had his two majors in college not kept him so busy, he might have considered adding an American history minor.

It took him a few minutes to find what he was looking for, but once he had all the books stacked on his desk, he picked them up and headed for the kitchen.

Carlton had found probably the only two food items in the entire house that seemed to weather Harvath’s long trips away without spoiling—pickled herring and Wasa Crispbread—yet another throwback to his Scandinavian-themed dating days.

Setting the books on the kitchen table, Harvath grabbed a beer from the fridge and joined the Old Man.

“What’s all this?” Carlton asked.

“Research,” replied Harvath as he twisted the top off his beer and sent the cap sailing toward the sink.

“Books? Why don’t you use the Internet like everyone else?”

He shook his head. It was ironic that he’d be the one championing books, while the Old Man touted the Internet. “The Web’s pretty good, but it doesn’t have everything. When it comes to historical items, books are still the best bet.”

Harvath opened the uppermost book from his stack and began leafing through it. When he figured out that it wasn’t the one he wanted, he set it aside, and opened another. Soon enough, he came to the page he was looking for.

“Let me see the tight shot of the sign hung around Claire Marcourt’s neck,” he said without taking his eyes from the book.

Opening the folder on the table, Reed Carlton fished out the picture and handed it to Harvath. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” Harvath replied as he took it and set it inside, right next to the image he was looking at. He then turned the book so the Old Man could see.

“They’re almost a perfect match.”

Harvath nodded. “Except Claire Marcourt’s doesn’t have the words Death to Tyranny underneath.”

“Which would have been redundant considering the line from Jefferson.”

“I agree. That’s probably why they left it out.”

Carlton stared at the image. “That’s been bothering me ever since we saw it at the Fed. I know I should remember that crown over the skull and bones, but I don’t.”

The man was a walking encyclopedia about almost everything. It wasn’t often that Harvath knew something that Carlton didn’t and when that happened, Harvath often ribbed the older man over it. Carlton may have been his boss, but he had grown to be like a second father to him. Harvath’s own father had died not long after he had graduated from high school. The two hadn’t been on good terms. Harvath’s father, also a U.S. Navy SEAL, had been against Scot’s pursuing a career in professional sports, despite his son’s success on the competition circuit and acceptance to the U.S. Ski Team.

Like father, like son, Harvath had been bound and determined to do what he wanted to do. Ignoring his father’s wishes, he pursued his athletic career, and their relationship suffered dramatically because of it. They fell into a cold silence, with Harvath’s mother doing everything she could to keep the family together. The frosty détente collapsed when Harvath’s father was killed in a training accident.

Harvath’s athletic career collapsed soon after. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get his head back into competition. The crushing guilt was more than he could bear. He knew he had let his father down. No matter how many friends and coaches spoke to him, his mind couldn’t be changed. He abandoned sports and decided to return to school.

After graduating cum laude from the University of Southern California, he joined the Navy and was eventually accepted into BUD/S. It was the most grueling experience Harvath had ever undergone, but the idea that if his father could do it, he could do it propelled him forward.

His athletic prowess and ironclad determination saw him excel. He graduated at the top of his class and was assigned to SEAL Team Two, also known as the Polar SEALs, where his proficiency in skiing was an exceptional asset.

As much as he enjoyed his Team Two colleagues, he wasn’t seeing enough action with them to keep him happy and so he applied for the storied SEAL Team Six.

Harvath had built a bit of a rep for himself, but even so, SEAL Team Six was very, very particular about whom they allowed to join their ranks. As much as the rest of the SEAL community was loath to admit it, SEAL Team Six was in a class all its own.

It was one of the most elite organizations in the world and one of the most difficult to be accepted into. You had to prove you not only deserved to be there, but also wanted it more than anything else. The members of SEAL Six didn’t make it easy. In fact, they did everything they could to discourage Harvath. None of it worked. In the middle of an endurance exercise designed so that there was no way anyone could complete it, they realized he was either going to join their ranks or die trying and they ended the audition. Scot Harvath had won his probationary place among their ranks.

Language proficiency was not something SEALs were particularly known for, but Harvath’s aptitude was quickly recognized and encouraged. He was sent to school for any language he showed talent for, or interest in, including Arabic and Russian.

His skill at SEAL Team Six won the attention of the Secret Service, who recruited him to the White House to help bolster their anti– and counterterrorism expertise. From there, the president at the time realized Harvath had a special set of skills that could better serve the nation in an offensive capacity. That was how Harvath wound up with a top-secret program hidden away at the Department of Homeland Security. It was one of the most forward-thinking and aggressive projects the United States had ever come up with. As long as the terrorists refused to play by any rules, Harvath wasn’t expected to, either. He was set loose upon them without mercy.