But how had the Troll found him? Only a handful of people knew about the historic church and grounds named Bishop’s Gate that Harvath now called home. He found it hard to believe that the Troll would be so careless or stupid as to announce that he was behind Tracy ’s shooting.

The timing, though, stank, and Harvath wasn’t a person who believed in coincidences. There had to be a connection, and he was determined to find out what it was.

When Harvath came back into the hospital room, Tracy ’s parents, Bill and Barbara Hastings, were sitting on either side of her bed.

Bill Hastings was a large man, about six-foot-four and over two hundred pounds. He’d played football at Yale and looked like he could still play. His hair was gray and Harvath put him in his mid to late sixties. Seeing Harvath enter the room, he looked up and asked, “Any change?”

“No, sir,” replied Harvath.

Barbara smiled at him. “You were here all night again, weren’t you?”

Harvath didn’t reply. He simply nodded. Having to deal with Tracy ’s parents was one of the more difficult aspects of keeping vigil at her bedside. He felt so damn responsible for what had happened to her. He couldn’t believe how kind they were to him. If they blamed him at all for what had happened to their daughter, they didn’t show it.

“How’s the hotel?” Harvath managed. The silences in the room could be unbearable, and he knew he had to start carrying some of the conversational weight.

“It’s fine,” replied Barbara as she reached for Tracy ’s hand and began stroking her forearm. Tracy ’s mother was a stunningly elegant woman. Her deep red hair was perfectly coifed and her fingernails were perfectly manicured. She wore a silk blouse, an Armani skirt cut just above the knee, stockings, and expensive pumps.

Though Harvath would never have uttered such a trite line, it was obvious where Tracy got her good looks.

The Hastings made a very attractive pair. With the fortune that Bill Hastings had amassed in the hedge fund arena, it was no surprise that they were almost permanent fixtures on the Manhattan society pages.

After the July 3 attack on New York City, they had debated cutting their summer in the south of France short, but Tracy had convinced them to stay. Manhattan was going to be a nightmare to get back to and to get around in for some time to come, so the longer they could delay their return, the better. Their plans had changed the minute Tracy had been shot. They had chartered a private plane and rushed to Washington to be by their daughter’s side.

Harvath was struggling to come up with something else to say when a nurse stuck her head in the door and said, “Agent Harvath? There is a gentleman here to see you. He’s waiting in the lounge.”

“Okay, I’ll be right out,” replied Harvath. He was happy to give the Hastingses some time alone with their daughter.

Stepping around Mr. Hastings, Harvath bent down and whispered in Tracy ’s ear that he’d be back in a little bit. He gave her hand a loving squeeze, then headed for the door.

Just as he was reaching for the handle, Bill Hastings said, “If that’s the fellow from the Bureau again, make sure you tell him that we never did find Tracy ’s ID in her personal effects.”

Harvath nodded and exited. Outside the room, he slid Tracy ’s driver’s license from his pocket and looked at it. God she was beautiful. He didn’t have the heart to tell Bill Hastings that he was the reason her ID was missing. In the short amount of time he and Tracy had been together, they’d never stopped to take any photos.

Though he felt guilty for deceiving her parents, Harvath had no intention of giving it up. It was one of the few reminders he had of the way she was, the way they were, before they had been torn apart.

Entering the lounge, Harvath found his longtime friend and boss, Gary Lawlor, waiting for him. “How’s she doing?” he asked.

“Still the same,” replied Harvath. “Anything new on the investigation?”

Gary motioned for him to sit down. It was a windowless room with a television mounted on a wall bracket in the corner. Harvath took a seat and waited for the man who had become like a second father to him to close the door and sit down.

When Gary took his seat, his expression was all business. “We may have gotten a break in the case.”

Harvath leaned forward in his chair. “What kind of break?”

“It has to do with the blood that was painted above your doorframe.”

“What about it?”

“The forensics people now know it wasn’t human.”

“What was it?”

“Lamb’s blood.”

Harvath was confused. “Lamb’s blood? That’s doesn’t make any sense.”

“No,” replied Gary, “but it’s what they found mixed with the blood that I want to talk to you about.”

Harvath didn’t say anything. He just waited.

Leaning forward, Lawlor lowered his voice and said, “After Bob Herrington’s funeral, the secretary of defense took you for a ride and asked if you were up to taking out his killer. Do you remember him telling you that they were planning on letting him escape so that they could track him back to the people he was working with?”

“Yes, so?”

“So, do you remember how they planned on tracking him?” asked Lawlor.

Harvath thought about it a moment. “They spiked his blood with some sort of radioisotope that created a signature they could follow via satellite.”

Lawlor leaned back in his chair and watched as Harvath processed the information.

“The lamb’s blood contained a radioisotope.”

Lawlor nodded.

“That’s impossible. I took care of Bob’s killer myself.” Harvath was about to add and I watched him die when he realized he hadn’t actually witnessed the terrorist check out.

Though Harvath doubted anyone could have survived what he had done to Mohammed bin Mohammed, the fact remained that he hadn’t actually confirmed that the man was dead.

“They don’t believe it was Mohammed,” said Lawlor. “From what I have been able to gather, this is a completely different radioisotope.”

“Purposely put into the lamb’s blood and painted over the front door of my house?” asked Harvath.

Once again, Lawlor nodded.

“Why?”

“Somebody is sending you a message.”

“Obviously, but who? If it’s a radioisotope, even if it’s a different one than what was used on Mohammed, it shouldn’t be that hard to figure out where it came from. We’ll start there.”

“It’s not going to be that easy,” said Lawlor.

“Why not? The whole thing is a DOD program. They keep records like anyone else. Contact the Def Sec’s office and let him know we need access.”

“I already tried.”

“And?” Harvath asked impatiently.

“No go.”

“No go? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Lawlor shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m not kidding.”

“Then we’ll go to the president. Even the defense secretary answers to someone. If President Rutledge tells him to open his files, believe me, he’ll open his files,” said Harvath.

“I already spoke with President Rutledge. It’s a no go.”

Harvath couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I want to talk to the president myself.”

“He knew you’d say that,” said Lawlor. “And he feels he owes it to you. There’s a car waiting for us downstairs.”