Hidden Order: A Thriller (9 page)

“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.

When the administration changed, Harvath’s program was discontinued and he was let go. That’s when the Old Man had picked him up and had taken his training to an entirely new level. The career intelligence officer had taught Harvath everything he knew. Then he sent Harvath out to train with the best shooters, hand-to-hand combat instructors, interrogators, and former spies, among other dark arts specialists. By the time Harvath was done, he was one of the most formidable counterterrorism and intelligence operatives to ever ply the trade. In short, he was an Apex predator—an animal at the top of the food chain who hunted, yet was so fearsome, he himself was not hunted.

Be that as it may, Harvath had spent the last couple of years in awe of the Old Man. No matter how much he had seen and done in his career, he felt he would never accomplish as much as what Carlton had done.

“So, are you going to keep me in suspense or are you going to tell me what we’re looking at?” the Old Man asked.

Harvath smiled.

“What’s so funny?” Carlton said.

“I just figured at a prestigious university like Brown with a catchall major like
Western Civilization
, you would have learned at least a little about the Stamp Act.”

“T
he Stamp Act was a tax on any piece of paper printed in the colonies—newspapers, licenses, legal documents, anything and everything, even playing cards. The Brits claimed it was necessary in order to pay for the thousands of troops it had protecting the colonies’ back door near the Appalachian Mountains. The colonists, though, had a greater fear than invaders from the frontier. They were afraid that if this tax was allowed to pass unchallenged, there’d be a tidal wave of taxes to follow, and all without any colonial input,” said Harvath.

“Taxation without representation,” replied the Old Man.

“Precisely. In an act of defiance, the colonists refused it. Instead, they began drawing their own stamp on their printed materials. They used a skull and crossbones, and eventually some added a crown floating above it to represent tyrannical Britain.”

“Death to tyranny.”

Harvath nodded.

“What do you think the ‘S.O.L.’ stands for? Is it Latin or something?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, reaching for another book and flipping
through its pages. “I think it has to do with the bloody streaks left on the sign by Claire Marcourt’s fingers.”

“Why do you think those two are connected? Maybe she grasped at the sign in her death throes.”

“It doesn’t make any sense to hang a sign around someone’s neck until they’re dead,” Harvath replied. “Why go to all the trouble of the sign, just to have the victim mess it up? If you’re going to kill somebody, you kill them and then hang it around their neck.”