The Last Patriot

by Brad Thor

  His handlers hadn’t even had the decency to tell him when it happened. They had waited until the operation was complete and then informed him—a full month after his wife and son had been buried. One week later, the teenaged girl who took his family from him walked out of the substance abuse program her well-connected family’s slick lawyer had arranged with the court and picked her life back up where it had left off. The girl had never spent a single day in jail. It was not only wrong, it was immoral.

  When he found out, the assassin had felt as if hooks on long chains had been sunk into his skin, tearing the flesh from his body in sheets. After the pain had come a disturbing numbness. In a culture of gray where anything could be justified, rationalized, or spun to mean just the opposite, he longed for a line to be drawn between black and white. More than that, he longed for someone to explain how all of this could have been allowed to happen. Some placed the blame on the driver’s parents, some on her peers, and others still on society in general. Dodd just slipped deeper into depression.

  His employers put him on medical leave and then, when they needed him back, shuttled him through a battery of tests, rated him ready to return to the field, and dispatched him once again to do what they needed him to do.

  He had drowned his sorrows in booze and blood, taking chances and assignments no one else wanted to take. There was nothing else for him in his life anymore. Or so he had thought.

  He could still remember the day he became a Muslim. That’s when he had chosen for himself the Muslim name of Majd al-Din—Glory of the Faith. It was a good name and one that suited his new life.

  Through the bitter anguish of losing his wife and son, Dodd had realized that the Muslims had something in overwhelming supply that his countrymen were very quickly running out of. That something was faith. More than that, Muslims abided by a clear moral code that delineated the difference between what was right and what was wrong.

  Up until the 1950s, American children yearned for adulthood. When their time came to be adults they stepped into the role proudly, leaving childhood behind and taking up the mantles of responsibility, honor, and dignity. They embraced and championed the ideals of those who came before them while valiantly tackling new ideas and problems that their families, communities, and nation faced. Those days were long gone.

  Americans now shunned adulthood, preferring to remain in a state of perpetual adolescence. By failing to move forward with grace and dignity, they left a gaping hole in American society. They treated relationships like disposable lighters, tossing marriages away when they ran out of gas. Children were left without families, and even worse, they were left without adults who could be role models of responsible behavior.

  With this lack of willingness to step forward and embrace adulthood, the nation had lost sight of its core values and ideals. In its place had morphed an every man and woman for himself mentality in which materialism was placed before spirituality and submission to God.

  Dodd saw it as a lack of respect and a lack of order in American society and therein lay the appeal of Islam for him. Skeptical at first, the more he witnessed the lives of the devout Muslims he came in contact with in Afghanistan, Pakistan, and the other places his assignments took him, the more he realized Islam was the answer he’d been seeking.

  Islam provided honor. It provided a code by which to live with dignity and in peace. It wasn’t the problem—it was the solution, and it was the only thing that would save the United States.

  CHAPTER 8

  To hasten America’s salvation, Dodd had given himself wholly to Allah. He viewed himself as a precision instrument which would be guided as Allah saw fit.

  That guidance arrived quickly in the form of a soft-spoken imam in Baltimore where Dodd kept a small apartment. The imam had been suspicious at first, but when he realized that Dodd had truly embraced Islam he looked into Dodd’s background and then introduced him to another imam he thought Dodd could be useful in serving.

  The imam’s name was Mahmood Omar. Dodd had never met the man before, but he was immediately impressed. Not only did the Saudi-born, forty-something cleric’s penetrating eyes and large stature contribute to a commanding presence, but he was well schooled in the ways of the West and America in particular.

  Dodd was determined to put his unique skill set to work for the betterment of America, and Sheik Omar was pleased to have such an experienced warrior fighting on behalf of Islam.

  Omar was a facilitator of international jihad and started Dodd out on small operations, always outside the United States. As both his confidence and trust in Dodd grew, so too did the scope of the assignments he was being sent on. More often than not, Dodd was carrying out sanctions on behalf of Omar’s colleagues and benefactors in the Middle East.

  It was tedious work that Dodd began to chafe under. After a time, he could see no benefit to America in any of it, nor could he fathom how it might be advancing the Muslim cause in the U.S. As corrupt and decadent as it was, Dodd still loved America and he missed it. He wanted to be back home. He was tiring of death and wanted to get on with living. Then the Khalifa assignments had come up.

  Omar had assigned him to Rome and used two other men for Washington. Though Dodd had consulted on the assignment at the Jefferson Memorial, it had not worked out as planned.

  The Park Police had apparently altered their patrol patterns. Omar’s men should have had twenty minutes, but another patrol unit had been right on their heels.

  If the men had been allowed to take Nura and Salam at one of their homes as Dodd had suggested, they wouldn’t be having this problem right now. Sheik Omar, though, had had other plans. His greatest flaw was that he liked to make statements.

  When Omar discovered that Nura and Salam already had a rendezvous planned at the Jefferson Memorial, he decided that would be the perfect place to kill them. He saw it as laden with ironic symbolism.

  In reality, it had been laden with incredible complications, not the least of which was the security camera system. Salam had survived and was in police custody, but Omar didn’t seem to be losing any sleep over it. Dodd could only trust that the evidence they had planted would be enough to convict Salam for Nura’s murder.

  The car bombing outside the café in Paris had also been overkill, just as Dodd had said it would be. Omar still didn’t care. Once he set his mind on a course of action, he stuck with it regardless.

  Killing Anthony Nichols up close in his hotel room would have made more sense. It would have been quiet and efficient—the way these things should be done. But Omar didn’t want quiet and efficient. He wanted to send another message that would be heard loud and clear. It was loud and it was clear, all right. The problem was that car bombs were not Dodd’s area of expertise.

  Dodd was an assassin, not a bomber. And despite Omar’s justifications backed up with extensive recitations from the Koran and Hadith that non-Muslims could never be considered innocents, Dodd disagreed. He didn’t like killing civilians. What’s more, the bombing was excessive. It was using a sledgehammer when all that was needed was a flyswatter.

  To pull off the bombing, Omar had reached out to people he knew who had contacts in France. It was too many degrees of separation and had all been one big clusterfuck from the get-go.

  Omar’s local talent had been able to get only half the amount of explosives they needed. When they finally were ready to pull off the attack, the trigger man had gotten jumpy and had blown the Mercedes prematurely. As a result, Nichols had survived.

  The entire operation had been a waste of time and money and now Nichols was spooked instead of dead.

  But no matter how incompetent the team had been, it was still Dodd’s assignment and he took responsibility for it. He was nothing if not a man of honor.

  The first few drops of an approaching rain began to fall and Dodd turned up the collar of his coat. He was in the process of considering moving to one of the cafés along the edge of the Parc Monceau when the prepaid cell phone he’d purchased th
at morning vibrated.

  “Yes,” he said as he activated the call.

  The deep voice of Sheik Omar resonated from the phone as if he were sitting right there on the bench next to him. “How were the lines at Versailles today?” he asked.

  “Not as bad as the Louvre,” replied Dodd.

  With the authentication between them complete, Omar inquired, “Did the flight take off on time?”

  “No,” replied Dodd. “It actually took off early. Before all the passengers were able to board.”

  Though the cleric said nothing, Dodd could feel Omar’s anger building from almost four thousand miles away back in America. “Tell me what happened,” the sheik finally said.

  Dodd filled him in as ambiguously as he could, ever leery of the U.S. government’s eavesdropping systems. Both were on chat-n-chuck, throwaway phones purchased strictly for this conversation, but if the NSA had his voiceprint and the ECHELON system registered a match, it wouldn’t do them much good.

  “We need to make sure any passengers that missed the flight are rebooked as soon as possible,” stated Omar.

  “Same airline as before, or can this be a private charter, as I originally suggested?”

  It took a moment, but the cleric relented. “Private charter will be fine. Just make sure that our passengers get to their destination.”

  “Understood,” stated Dodd. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” replied the sheik, almost as an afterthought. “You mentioned another man who was rushing for the plane as it left the gate.”

  “I did. He had a woman with him. Do I need to be concerned about them?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Omar. “I’ll leave it to your discretion, but should you happen to see them again, I’d like them treated as VIPs.”

  “Understood,” replied Dodd as he stood up from the bench. “I’ll make sure they’re booked on the next flight as well.”

  He ended the call and removed the phone’s battery and SIM card, then broke the phone into several pieces, all of which he dumped into a series of storm drains as he exited the Parc Monceau.

  Dodd had his orders. He needed to find Anthony Nichols and finish the job. If the man and woman from outside the café got in his way again, he would kill them too. And this time, he would do it his way.

  CHAPTER 9

  Harvath glanced at his Kobold Chronograph. He and Tracy had spent twenty minutes searching for Anthony Nichols. They had no way of knowing if he’d walked away of his own accord or if he’d stumbled off as a result of his head wound and was bleeding in a doorway somewhere. Harvath, though, had a hard time believing it was the latter.

  He stopped walking and turned to Tracy. “This guy obviously doesn’t want to be found. I’m inclined to support his wish.”

  “Then what do we do now?”

  Harvath could see a Metro stop at the end of the block and he pointed at it as it began to rain. “How about onion soup? I’ll take you to a nice little restaurant called The Foot of the Pig in Les Halles.”

  “Scot,” insisted Tracy. “We have to find this guy.”

  “No, we don’t,” replied Harvath. “Maybe he was CIA after all. But whoever he is, he’s a grown man and he can fend for himself. He didn’t come about the president’s private phone number for nothing. He’ll have people who can help him out.”

  “And who’s going to help us out?”

  “Out of what?”

  “Out of what?” repeated Tracy incredulously. “I’m suddenly the only person who knows how the investigation into that bombing is going to unfold? In that block alone, there were two banks—each with ATMs and a hotel. Once the area is secure, the French police, or more likely the internal intelligence service, the Renseignements Généraux, is going to pull all the surveillance tapes from their cameras.

  “They’ll see the car get stolen, the Mercedes come in and take its place, and then they’ll see you and me beating a hasty exit from the café, only to have you rush back and knock that Nichols person to the ground a split second before the bomb goes off. Then they’ll see us help him up and evac him from the scene.”

  Tracy didn’t say anything else. She just closed her mouth and waited.

  “Shit,” said Harvath. This wasn’t his fight and he didn’t want any part of it, but Tracy was right. The French authorities were eventually going to be looking for the two of them whether they liked it or not.

  They hadn’t done anything wrong, but their behavior was suspicious and could be construed as an indication of foreknowledge of the attack. Whether “gut feelings” counted as a reasonable defense in France was not something Harvath was terribly eager to find out.

  Nichols was the reason the attack had happened. Harvath was sure of it. He was also sure that without Nichols, he and Tracy were going to have a lot of trouble with the French authorities.

  For a moment, he thought they might be able to hop onto a train and leave the country, but Harvath knew he was deluding himself. This was a major terrorist attack. French citizens were dead and France would stop at nothing to get to the bottom of it.

  Harvath knew how good the French intelligence services were. He and Tracy might make it out of the country, but they wouldn’t be safe anywhere. Besides, running would only make them look guiltier.

  They needed to track down Nichols. Harvath looked at Tracy. “How long do you think until they have our pictures isolated from the CCTV footage?”

  It was a rhetorical question and Tracy knew it, but she pieced it together for him anyway. “They’ll take witness statements from as many people as they can. If someone mentions our behavior as being out of the ordinary, that’ll make them instantly scrutinize the camera feeds for more than just who the bombers were.

  “Once they’ve got our faces, they’ll enhance them and then run them through every database they have access to while simultaneously sending our pictures out to every law enforcement officer up and down the chain of command in France. At best, we’ve got two, maybe three hours.”

  “And at worst?”

  “I don’t want to think about it,” responded Tracy. “It’s giving me a headache.”

  Harvath retrieved Nichols’ hotel key card from the man’s wallet and said, “Then I guess we need to get moving.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The Hotel d’Aubusson was located on the Rue Dauphin in the Paris neighborhood of St. Germain des Prés. Stopping at a nearby department store, Harvath and Tracy purchased a change of clothes and wore them out of the store.

  They carried their old clothes in the shopping bags they had received from the department store. Though the hotel probably wouldn’t have stopped them from passing through the lobby, Harvath felt that by carrying the bags, they looked even more like hotel guests.

  Just to be sure, Harvath had Anthony Nichols’ key card out and in hand as they crossed the Hotel d’Aubusson’s stone lobby and headed for the elevator. The only interaction they had was a quick smile from a harried front desk clerk.

  Harvath and Tracy got off the elevator on the third floor and walked down the hallway to Nichols’ room. They had decided that Tracy would knock and pretend to be a staff member with a fax for him from the front desk. If Nichols answered, Harvath would take him. If he didn’t, Harvath would use the key card to let them in.

  After listening at the door for any signs of life, Tracy gave the door three sharp raps. She announced in both French and lightly accented English that she had come with a fax. There was no response. She repeated the procedure once more and then stepped back.

  Harvath dipped the key card into the reader. The mechanism beeped twice and the door unlocked. Slowly, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

  The bathroom was to his right, its door slightly ajar. Harvath nudged it open with his foot and his eyes were immediately drawn to the marble vanity. Sitting on top of a plastic pharmacy bag were a bottle of antiseptic, some gauze pads, a box of bandages, and an open package of Steri-Strips. Nichols had obviously been back to his room, and
recently.

  But if that was the case, the key card shouldn’t have worked. Any new card issued by the front desk would have come with a new code, rendering the previous card inactive. Harvath was wondering how the hell Nichols had gotten back inside his room when he heard Tracy scream.

  Harvath turned just in time to see the lamp come crashing down. Raising his left arm, he absorbed the brunt of the blow with his forearm as the lamp shattered against it. Instinctively, his right hand drew back in a fist and came sailing forward, connecting with his attacker’s jaw and sending Anthony Nichols to the bathroom floor.

  They both looked at him.

  “He sure fights like a history professor,” Tracy said finally as she stripped the cord from the lamp and tied Nichols’ hands behind his back.

  Harvath helped carry him to a chair, where they threaded his arms over the back and secured his feet to the legs with drapery ties. Tracy found a bathrobe hanging on the back of the bathroom door and used its belt as a gag.

  Once they had him secure, Harvath checked the hall to make sure no one had heard the commotion. Confident that they were safe, he hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, turned on the television set, and prepared to interrogate the man named Anthony Nichols.

  CHAPTER 11

  Harvath pulled up a chair and placed it in front of Nichols. He was not happy at the thought of having to interrogate him, but he’d been left with little choice. This was all supposed to be part of his old life; the life he had given up in order to begin anew with Tracy. But here he was.

  Though Harvath tried to ignore it, he had a deep-seated fear that he would never really be free of his old life. It would follow him like an overzealous bill collector and haunt him until the day he died.