In addition to immediate-action assignments, Carlton planned clever psychological operations to eat away at the terrorist networks from within, sowing doubt, fear, distrust, and paranoia throughout their ranks like a cancer. It was everything the United States government should have been doing, but wasn’t.

Serving under a man like Carlton was an honor in and of itself. The scope and intensity of the operations were icing on the cake. Harvath was sold.

For twelve months, the Old Man had put him through the most comprehensive intelligence training he had ever experienced. In essence, Carlton distilled what he had learned over his thirty years in the espionage world and drilled it as deeply as possible into Harvath.

On top of the intelligence training, Harvath was required to keep his counterterrorism skills sharp. He took additional courses in Israeli hand-to-hand combatives and the Russian martial art known as Systema. There were driving classes, language classes, and tens of thousands of rounds of ammunition fired on the range and in shoot houses with a host of high-end private instructors.

He made excellent progress and, despite his recent milestone birthday, felt that he was in better shape and better equipped than he had ever been before. Even so, he’d recently begun to notice that it was taking him slightly longer to bounce back from injuries. The job was a dream come true, but he knew he couldn’t keep doing it forever. At some point, maybe ten years from now, maybe fifteen, things were going to change. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life kicking in doors and shooting bad guys in the head.

Carlton had been ready to put Harvath in the field, but before he could begin, Harvath had asked for permission to conduct the Iraq operation. The Old Man had agreed and through the DOD had greased Harvath’s passage into Iraq, seeing to it that he had everything he needed.

With the Iraq operation complete, the Old Man had given him a couple of days off before the real work was to begin. He had suggested time with Tracy. Harvath had told him he’d think about it.

He was on his second beer, still thinking about it and gazing absent-mindedly across the water when his phone vibrated. He took it out and checked the display. It was an international call, but the country code was 34- Spain. Figuring it had to be one of his guys who was using a Spanish cell phone company to get better calling rates out of Iraq, he took the call.

The minute he heard the heavily accented voice on the other end, he realized he had been wrong. “Mr. Harvath?” said the voice.

“Who’s this?”

“I’m a friend of Nicholas.”

“Nicholas?” repeated Harvath. “Nicholas who? How’d you get this number?”

The man ignored the question. “He says you share an affinity for the same breed of dog.”

Immediately, Harvath’s mind was drawn to his dog, Bullet. A Caucasian Ovcharka, or Caucasian sheepdog as the name translated, Bullet was named after an old friend of his, Bullet Bob, who had been killed during a terrorist attack on New York City. Ovcharkas were exceedingly fast, fiercely loyal, and absolutely vicious when it came to guarding those closest to them, which was why Bullet was with Tracy up in Maine.

The name Nicholas now registered. Harvath’s dog had been left on his doorstep as a thank-you cum peace offering from a dwarf who dealt in the purchase and sale of highly sensitive and often highly classified information. Though commonly referred to as the Troll, the little man had told Harvath he preferred his friends to call him Nicholas.

Harvath had reached a certain détente with Nicholas, but describing it as friendship would have been stretching the definition of their relationship. In fact, if he never saw or heard from the little man again it would be fine by him.

“What do you want?” asked Harvath.

“Someone tried to kill Nicholas,” said the voice.

“You reap what you sow. He probably deserved it.”

The man pushed forward undeterred. “The bombing in Rome two days ago-”

“Does he know something?” interrupted Harvath. He had heard about the bus explosion and the horrible loss of lives before leaving Iraq. It was all over the news.

“He says he needs to talk to you about it.”

“Does he know who was behind the attack?”

There was a pause as the man seemed to gather his thoughts.

“I want to speak with Nicholas,” Harvath said finally.

“He’s not in a condition to talk. Not right now.”

“Well, when he is, tell him to call me back.”

Harvath was about to hang up when the man stated, “He needs to see you in person.”

“I’m not comfortable with that.”

“Mr. Harvath, you’re going to be presented with evidence, false evidence, implicating Nicholas in the attacks. In fact, two black SUVs have just pulled into your driveway.”

Harvath looked up toward his house. “Why should I believe you?”

“I’m just the messenger,” replied the voice. “Nicholas is the one you need to speak to. He can help you track down who did this, but he needs you to come to him, and to come alone.”

Harvath didn’t like it. It felt wrong, and that little voice in the back of his mind that never lied and had always helped to keep him alive was telling him to be very, very careful. “The only thing this offer’s missing is a dark alley,” he said.

“Someone wants your government to believe Nicholas was involved. Ask yourself why. Review the evidence, and if you decide you want the truth, be in the old town of Bilbao the day after tomorrow. Behind the Cathedral in the Calle de la Tendería is a tobacconist. Ask the man there for cigarettes named after Nicholas’s dogs and you’ll receive instructions on what to do next.

“And Mr. Harvath? Please hurry. Nicolas believes there may be more attacks in the works.”

Harvath was about to interject when the call was disconnected. From up near the house, he could just make out the sound of several car doors slamming.

CHICAGO

Burt Taylor had just come back from the hospital cafeteria, and his wife, Angela, was next to their daughter’s hospital bed when trauma surgeon, Dr. Dennis Stern, walked into the room.

It had been ten days since the hit-and-run. Alison Taylor had suffered severe brain damage, as well as multiple broken bones, severe lacerations, and internal bleeding.

Her parents had driven in from Minnesota as soon as they’d received the news. For the first few days, neither of them had left the hospital. Now, they spent the days together with Alison and took turns spending the night by her bed.

“Have the Chicago Police come up with anything?” asked Stern as he finished his examination.

Mr. Taylor had trouble keeping his anger in check. “Not a damn thing.”

Normally, Mrs. Taylor would have called him on his cursing, but in this case she agreed with his choice of words. The police had been less than satisfactory.

“It’s like they aren’t even interested in finding the guy,” continued Taylor. “They quote stats for annual hit-and-runs as if we’re supposed to just accept what happened to Alison as a consequence of living in Chicago. It’s ridiculous.”

“I agree with you,” said Stern. “Most cops mean well, but the CPD is overworked. This city’s deficit is like a black hole. It just keeps sucking more and more into it, and it leaves the cops with less and less to work with.” He could see the anger building in Burt Taylor’s eyes. “But that doesn’t mean that they shouldn’t be doing everything they can to find the person who did this to your daughter.”

“You’re damn right.”

“I think you should have someone working this for you from the inside.”

“Working this from the inside?” repeated Taylor incredulously. “Isn’t that what the detectives assigned to Alison’s case are supposed to be doing?”