MONTROSE, COLORADO

It had been several hours since Harvath had arrived at the resort. With the Sargasso staff monitoring the private chat room for any communication from the Troll, Harvath’s hosts decided to take him back down to the resort for dinner.

Elk Mountain ’s main building resembled a majestic hunting lodge from the nineteenth century. The trio sat outside on the heated terrace near an outdoor stone fireplace overlooking the resort’s lake.

Finney’s penchant for perfection was evident everywhere, even down to how well his fires burned. When a staff member quietly appeared with a basket of logs, Finney explained that they used a precise mixture of walnut, beech, and eucalyptus, with just the right amount of seasoned pine for its aroma.

Finney’s attention to detail was just as sharp, if not more so, when it came to Elk Mountain ’s food. He had spared no expense snapping up one of the best chefs in the country. The man was a culinary powerhouse who had pioneered American Alpine cuisine and held more James Beard, Zagat, and Wine Spectator awards than the resort had wall space to display. It was the first time since Tracy ’s shooting that Harvath had actually finished a meal.

He even allowed himself an after-dinner drink. Like it or not, he knew that he had to relax. He was wound way too tight and wasn’t doing Tracy or himself any good in this state.

After the plates were cleared, two waiters appeared at Finney’s side-one with a bottle of B amp;B and three snifters, the other with an elegantly carved humidor. Finney instructed the men to set everything down on the table and then they silently disappeared.

“You know a bartender at the 21 club in New York invented this?” queried Parker as he pulled the cork from the bottle. “Benedictine liqueur and cognac. It became so popular that the French started bottling the combination themselves. The guy never saw a dime of the profits. God, I hate the French.”

Harvath smiled. Ron Parker had harbored a passionate dislike of the French for as long as he’d known him. Parker liked to say that they were the only army in the world with sunburned armpits.

Finney offered Harvath a cigar but he shook his head. The after-dinner drink would be enough.

When Parker handed it to him, Harvath raised the snifter to his nose and closed his eyes as he breathed in the spicy fragrance. For a moment, he almost forgot his problems.

As he sipped his liquor, he listened while Finney and Parker discussed the things they normally did-the state of world affairs, plans for improving the resort, Site Six, and Sargasso, as well as Parker’s predatory practices with the female guests of Elk Mountain-an amusing but necessary concession Finney had made when asking Parker to give up a great position back east and move to their minimally populated corner of Colorado.

It was nice for Harvath to listen to the banter between his old friends. As his mind wandered, his thoughts were drawn to Tracy. He pulled his BlackBerry from its holster and checked its signal status. The terrace was usually the best place in the entire resort to get a signal, but he wasn’t getting anything.

Finney asked him if he wanted to use one of the resort’s cordless phones, and when Harvath said yes, Parker used his radio to ask a staff member to bring one to the terrace.

Harvath called the nurse’s station at the hospital back in D. C. and asked to speak with Laverna, Tracy ’s night nurse.

When the woman came on the line, she said, “Am I glad you called.”

Immediately, Harvath feared the worst, and his entire body stiffened. “Why? What happened? Is Tracy okay?”

“ Tracy ’s fine, but a Mr. Gary Lawlor is looking for you. He says it’s an emergency. I tried your cell phone, but all I got was your voicemail.”

“I know,” replied Harvath. “I’m in an area that doesn’t have good coverage. Did Mr. Lawlor say what the emergency was?”

“No. He just said that if I saw you or heard from you to have you call him right away.”

Harvath thanked Laverna and gave her Tim Finney’s direct number at the resort before ringing off. His next call was to Gary, who picked up on the first ring.

“Gary, it’s Scot. What’s going on?”

“Where the hell are you?” demanded Lawlor. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours.”

“I’m at Tim Finney’s place in Colorado.”

“ Colorado? Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving town?”

“It all happened kind of last-minute,” said Harvath. “What’s going on back there?”

“Don’t bullshit me,” replied Lawlor. “You’ve got him working Tracy ’s shooting, don’t you? You’re using his Sargasso group. Were you not listening to the president when he specifically told you to stay out of it?”

“Finney’s people got a lead and I came out here to check up on it. Period. Now what’s going on back in D. C. that’s so important you left an urgent message with Tracy ’s nurse?”

Lawlor was quiet for a moment as he tried to decide how to break the news. The minute Harvath heard what he had to say, there’d be absolutely no controlling him. Realizing there was no good way to say it, Lawlor just came out with it. “Your mother was attacked in Coronado tonight.”

Harvath felt like throwing up as he listened to the details of his mother’s assault. When the police arrived at her home on Encino Lane they could hear her screaming.

They kicked in the front door and followed the sound of her voice to the bathroom at the back of the house. It took two officers several minutes to break down the door, which had been screwed shut.

They found her in her bathtub, naked and covered with locusts. The insects, most of them several inches in length, appeared to have been feeding off her. One of the forensics people at the scene later identified the substance Maureen Harvath had been covered with as “bug grub,” a product available in many pet stores for feeding locusts.

She had no idea what the objects swarming over her body were, because she couldn’t see them. She had been blinded. Her eyes had been painted over with black ink, and the doctors at the hospital still were not sure if she would ever fully regain her eyesight. She had been incredibly traumatized and was under heavy sedation.

With the last piece of information from the crime scene, Harvath’s feelings of anguish turned to rage. A note had been found scribbled in red on the bottom of one of the buckets they believed the attacker had used to carry the locusts into the house. The note read: That which has been taken in blood, can only be answered in blood.

From watching Harvath’s face and hearing only his side of the conversation, Finney and Parker assumed Tracy had taken a turn for the worst. When they heard that Harvath’s mother had been attacked, they said the only thing that good friends can and should say in such a situation, “What do you need?”

What Harvath needed was the resort’s jet, and Finney was on his radio arranging it before he even finished asking.

Parker had friends in the San Diego Police Department who could liaise with the Coronado cops, so he headed for Sargasso to get the intel ball rolling.

They had every reason to believe that the man who had attacked Maureen Harvath was the same person who had shot Tracy.

Harvath had been right. This was personal.