by Brad Thor
“My God,” said Nichols.
“You mean Allah, don’t you?” joked Ozbek as he slapped Harvath on the back. “Well done.”
Harvath smiled. Looking at Jonathan Moss, he asked, “Do you have any bottles of writing ink anywhere?”
Moss was so amazed it took him a moment to register Harvath’s request. “Yes we do,” he finally said. “I’ll go get some.”
As he left, Harvath wrapped the bottom of his shirt around his bleeding thumb again.
“You know,” remarked Ozbek, “Saddam Hussein had a whole Koran written in his own blood. I thought SEALs were supposed to be tough guys.”
Harvath mumbled a good-natured “Fuck you” as he opened the tube of Krazy Glue again with his teeth and resealed his wound.
“I can’t believe it,” said Nichols as he stared at the scribe clock.
“Believe it,” replied Harvath who retrieved the page from beneath the scribe’s quill and opened the lid to look inside again. “When Moss gets back, we’ll reset it and get the whole message from the beginning.”
“I only wish Marwan could have been here to see this.”
“I know,” said Harvath as he put his hand on the professor’s shoulder and they stood there admiring the machine and the awesome impact it was going to have.
Five minutes later, Poplar Forest’s director walked back into the room. The first thing Harvath noticed was that his hands were empty and he had a look on his face like he was being chased by the Headless Horseman himself. Harvath was about to ask him what was wrong when he noticed someone behind him.
Susan Ferguson began sobbing as she appeared in the doorway with a suppressed weapon tight against her head held by none other than Matthew Dodd.
Harvath and Ozbek drew their pistols.
“Easy, gentlemen,” said Dodd with a smile. “Now, drop the guns on the floor and kick them over here.”
When the men hesitated, Dodd readjusted his aim and shot Jonathan Moss through his left shoulder.
The Poplar Forest director screamed in agony.
“Weapons on the floor and kick them over here now,” yelled Dodd.
Harvath and Ozbek reluctantly complied. Neither of them had even a halfway decent shot. If they’d had, they would have taken it, but as it was, Dodd was using both Susan Ferguson and the doorframe to his utmost advantage.
“Good,” said Dodd, who then shouted at Moss, “Get over here and pick those up.”
The man was crying and rapidly going into shock. His right hand was clamped down over his shoulder which was becoming soaked with blood.
Dodd repeated the command and punctuated it by firing a round into the floor near Moss’ feet.
The director stumbled over to the weapons and picked them up. Remaining near the floor with his head down, he handed them up one at a time to Dodd.
“Now go get that clock,” ordered the assassin, “and all the papers on that desk.”
Harvath was standing in front of the device, with the back of his legs pressed up against the desk. As Moss approached, Dodd indicated with two quick flicks of his weapon for Harvath to move out of the way.
Harvath knew better than to tempt Dodd. Lowering his hands against his sides, he gestured for Nichols to move to his left, closer to Ozbek. Once Nichols had done so, Harvath followed.
“Bring it here,” said Dodd as the director closed the lid and then struggled to pick the device up.
Wrapping his good arm around it, the man pinned the al-Jazari clock to his chest, grabbed all the papers, and slowly brought everything back over to the assassin.
As he drew even, Dodd motioned for him to stand in the room behind him. Once Moss had passed, the assassin looked straight at Harvath and Ozbek. “I’ve got what I came for,” he said. “Whether anybody dies today is up to you.”
“We’re not even, Dodd,” replied Ozbek. “Not by a long shot.”
“Should we settle up right now?” asked the assassin as he pointed the pistol at the CIA operative’s head.
Nichols looked like he was gearing up to say something and Harvath stepped on his foot to keep him quiet.
“Get moving,” Dodd said as he placed the pistol back against Ferguson’s head and began to back out of the room.
“What about them?” asked Harvath, referring to the two captives. “You don’t need to take them with you.”
“No, I don’t,” Dodd replied, “but I’m going to.”
“The man needs medical attention.”
The assassin stared at Harvath. “He’ll live as long as nobody tries to follow us.”
“Nobody is going to follow you,” said Harvath.
Tightening his grip on Susan Ferguson, the assassin motioned for Moss to start walking and he slowly backed out of the room.
Once he had disappeared from view and they heard the door at the front of the house slam shut, Ozbek said, “Let’s go. Come on.”
“He’s got two hostages,” replied Harvath.
“I understand that, but we can’t just let him disappear with that device.”
“It’s no good to him anyway.”
“What do you mean?” said Ozbek. “All he has to do is slide some paper in there, ink the quill and crank the handle.”
“It won’t work without this,” replied Harvath as he held up the Basmala gear. His fingertips were bloody from having blindly pulled it from the machine behind his back while Dodd’s attention was on collecting their weapons from the floor.
“He still has Susan and Jonathan, though,” protested Nichols. “He’ll kill them.”
“I don’t think he’ll kill them,” replied Harvath as he once again used his shirt to stem his bleeding.
“Why? Because he didn’t kill Gary?” challenged Ozbek.
Harvath looked at him. “That’s exactly why. If we let him go, Moss and Ferguson have a much better chance of surviving and you know it. I want this guy too, but let’s be smart.”
“Fuck ‘smart.’ We’re wasting time.”
Harvath knew Ozbek had lost a member of his team and had another in the hospital because of Dodd, but getting more people killed wasn’t going to fix anything. “Listen to me. Don’t let your desire to make Dodd pay for what he did to your people cloud your judgment.”
Ozbek knew Harvath was right, but it pissed him off. Picking up the hammer, he threw it at the fireplace.
Nichols was about to register another objection when they heard the front door crash open and Jonathan Moss begin screaming for help.
En masse, they ran to the front of the house where Moss lay on the threshold bleeding. “I need a doctor,” he cried.
“What happened?” asked Harvath. “Where did they go?”
“I don’t know. The man told me to turn around and then they just disappeared!”
Ozbek held out his hand to Moss. “Give me your car keys.”
“Aydin, no,” ordered Harvath, but it was too late.
Ozbek pulled the keys from Moss’ jacket pocket and ran for the parking lot.
There was no use in trying to stop him. Instead, Harvath handed Nichols Moss’ cell phone and had him call 911 while he tore open the man’s shirt to assess his wound and rig a makeshift pressure bandage that would slow the bleeding until help arrived.
Moments later, Ozbek reappeared. “Your car and Moss’ are out of commission,” he said to Harvath. “All of the tires have been slashed.”
CHAPTER 85
WASHINGTON, D.C.
TWO DAYS LATER
Harvath had decided it was best to stay away from Bishop’s Gate until a much better security system could be installed. He had returned only once to gather up some things and then camped out at Gary Lawlor’s place in Fairfax.
Though Gary was still in the ICU with a skull fracture, he’d made Harvath give him a full oral debriefing and a written one as well. Harvath knew it would be delivered to the president. He hadn’t thought anything further of it until he received a call from Rutledge asking him to come to the White House ASAP.<
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Harvath hoped that it wasn’t bad news, and that if it was that it didn’t involve Tracy. He knew from experience, though, that when the president called and told you to get into his office double quick, it wasn’t because you’d won the lottery.
Carolyn Leonard met Harvath at the Southwest Gate and escorted him past security and into the West Wing. “This is your second visit in less than a week,” she said as they walked. “Does this mean we’re going to start seeing more of you around here?”
“Maybe,” Harvath replied, more amenable than he had been in a long time to the idea.
At the Oval Office, Leonard checked with Jack Rutledge’s secretary and then knocked. When the president answered, she let Harvath in and closed the door behind him.
Rutledge stood from behind his desk and met his guest in the center of the room. “Thanks for coming, Scot,” he said as they shook hands.
The president pointed toward the couches, indicating they should sit there.
Once they were seated, Rutledge said, “It’s been a rough handful of days.”
The president was obviously concerned with their newly mended fences and was downplaying events.
Though Harvath hadn’t asked for the assignment, he’d accepted it and therefore win or lose, the responsibility for it was his. “I’m sorry, sir, but ‘rough’ doesn’t do it. I failed and I apologize.”
Rutledge leaned over to the coffee table and lifted a leather folder. “I read your briefing. Do you have the Basmala gear?”
Harvath withdrew an envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to him.
Lifting the flap, the president removed the gear and held it up so that he could look at it. “Amazing. And it was at Poplar Forest all this time.”
“I just wish we could have learned what the final revelation was,” said Harvath.
Rutledge set the tooth-studded piece of metal down. “Because of the personal nature of the presidential diary, Anthony Nichols was never allowed to see it in its entirety. I can tell you that Jefferson’s research led him to believe that Mohammed’s final revelation was the only one to have come directly to him from God, not through the angel Gabriel. In a nutshell, if you believe it, Mohammed was told that war and conquest were not the answers. He was told to put down the sword and live peacefully among peoples of other faiths. Jefferson commented that it sounded similar to the conversion of Paul, though Mohammed wasn’t leaving Islam for Christianity. He was just hanging up his sword and encouraging his followers to do the same.”
Harvath was stunned.
“Pretty significant revelation,” said the president. “Isn’t it?”
“It is. And considering the fact that such a large degree of the Muslims’ income was based upon looting and plundering, as well as extorting protection money from Christians and Jews who chose not to convert to Islam, it would have wiped out a sizable source of revenue for their economy. It would have collapsed. No wonder his own people wanted to assassinate him.”
“Well, without the Basmala gear, the al-Jazari clock won’t do much more than tell time now,” replied Rutledge. “If it hasn’t already been destroyed.”
“What about Mahmood Omar and Abdul Waleed? You didn’t have any luck squeezing them?”
“Aydin Ozbek is a good operative,” said Rutledge, “but he was operating way outside the law. We can’t legally use anything he gained to go after those two.”
Harvath was loathe to make such a suggestion, but he felt it had to be said. “I wasn’t necessarily proposing a Marquess of Queensberry approach.”
“I understand,” replied the president. “I also agree. The two gentlemen in question have been watched very closely and we’re also looking into their ties with Saudi Arabia, but as far as we can tell right now they haven’t come into possession of the al-Jazari device.”
“Which means Dodd must still have it.”
“We’ll get to Dodd in a minute,” said the president. “As per the two dead Saudis from UVA, for whom the crown prince is going to be made to answer for, we were able to link them via DNA discovered in their car, as well as additional evidence at the Jefferson Memorial, to the murder of Nura Khalifa, and what has now been classified as the attempted murder of Andrew Salam.
“Mr. Salam was freed last night and is continuing to cooperate with the FBI and D.C. Metro Police.”
Harvath already knew that Susan Ferguson had spent an evening gagged and handcuffed in a rest stop bathroom outside D.C. before being discovered, so he turned his attention to someone else. “How’s Ozbek’s operative, Rasmussen?” he asked.
“He’s going to be fine. He’ll probably be out of the hospital by the end of the week.”
“What about Ozbek?”
The president was quiet for several moments. “Like I said, he’s a good operative, but somebody died under his command in an unsanctioned assignment. From what I’ve been told, he’s an asset we don’t want to lose and I have echoed those sentiments to DCI Vaile.”
“So he’s still with CIA? They didn’t let him go?”
“No, he hasn’t been let go. Officially, Ozbek is on unpaid leave from CIA pending a disciplinary review. Unofficially, he is continuing his unsanctioned surveillance of Omar and Waleed, but let’s talk about Tracy for a minute.”
This was the topic Harvath was most apprehensive about getting to. He felt certain the other shoe was about to drop and that it was going to be full of bad news.
“The French are playing hardball,” said Rutledge, “big time. To tell you the truth, I can’t say that if the situation was reversed we wouldn’t act the same.
“They’re aware of the fact that we know more than we’re letting on. The only way they’ll cooperate with us is on a quid pro quo basis. They won’t consider turning Tracy over until we give them something of equal or greater value.”
“Like what?” asked Harvath.
“Like Matthew Dodd.”
“But we don’t even know where he is.”
“That’s about to change,” replied the president.
Harvath leaned forward. It was the first piece of good news he had heard in days.
“We just learned that Dodd used a satellite phone to contact Omar. He was smart. He kept the call short in order to make it difficult to trace.”
“But you did,” said Harvath, “correct?”
“We know he was calling from somewhere outside the United States.”
“That’s it?”
The president held up his hand. “The Defense Department has a new satellite program that we’ve started using in Iraq and Afghanistan, to track high-value targets who make short SAT phone transmissions. The secretary of defense has his best people standing by. If Dodd uses his phone again, we’ll be able to pinpoint his whereabouts no matter how short the call.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Harvath.
“I have a plane at Andrews ready to go. When we find out where Dodd is, I want you on it. I’m authorizing you to do whatever is necessary to recover the al-Jazari device. Once we have what we need, we can get to work on finalizing Tracy’s exchange. Any questions?”
Harvath shook his head and stood.
As he was nearing the door, the president stopped him. “By the way. Your report mentioned that before Dodd took the device, you managed to get a small bit of writing out of it.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Harvath. “Just one word.”
“What was it?”
Harvath looked back across the Oval Office and said, “Peace.”
CHAPTER 86
VIRGIN GORDA
BRITISH VIRGIN ISLANDS
Located on the North Sound of the small island of Virgin Gorda was one of the best-kept secrets in the world. Accessible only by sea, the Bitter End Yacht Club was the last island outpost before the open waters of the Atlantic.
It was where Matthew Dodd and his wife, Lisa, had spent their honeymoon and to where Dodd had now returned.
He had flown into Tortola’s Beef Island air
port and walked the three hundred yards to Trellis Bay where the boat he had chartered was waiting. Though he could have taken the high speed ferry to Bitter End, Dodd didn’t want to mingle with other people. He had come to be alone.
After leaving Poplar Forest, he had come to a painful conclusion. Just as he had duped Andrew Salam, he himself had been duped. He had been playing with fools; engaging in business with men who weren’t properly equipped to further Islam’s aims. The entire religion was being subverted by men who pursued Islamic supremacism at all costs. They were neither worthy of the fealty Dodd had sworn to them, nor were they worthy of their exalted positions as spokespersons and representatives of true Muslim faith in America. They hungered for power under the guise of Islam rather than for the sake of Islam. They were apostate.
Dodd was also beginning to believe that in this grand struggle there was no “right” side to be aligned with after all. Maybe there were only right actions.
The assassin checked in at the front desk with only a backpack slung over one shoulder. The cottage built above the beach looking out over the aquamarine Caribbean water was just as he remembered it. Nothing had changed. As Dodd quietly unpacked his few possessions, he thought about the better times in his life.
He remembered Lisa’s love of snorkeling and her delight over the Bitter End’s brilliant array of wrasses, damselfish, and parrotfish. He smiled as he recalled the hours she had spent among the colorful sponges and corals just offshore.
Removing his clothes, the assassin slid into a pair of trunks and walked down to the beach. He’d dealt with sand extensively over the last several years—in his hair, in his eyes, his food, his weapons, but not between his toes where it really belonged. It felt good as the warmth radiated up through his body.
Dodd walked into the wet sand and allowed the sea to lap at his feet. Slowly he moved forward until he was up to his waist in the warm water.
After marking the time on his watch, he submersed himself beneath the surface and began swimming.
He pulled with long, powerful strokes for over half an hour. When he stepped back onto the beach, his breathing was shallow and his pulse rapid. His mind felt clear and sharp.
