The Last Patriot

by Brad Thor

  Rutledge had no reason to expect a warm reception after what Harvath had been through. “We need to talk.”

  “Yes, we do,” replied Harvath, unashamed of his priorities. “What’s being done for Tracy?”

  The president looked down at the update Lawlor had handed him before initiating the call. “She has experienced some swelling of the brain. That’s where the headaches have come from. The doctors think it may have been brought on by stress. They are starting her on medication and will keep her for observation.”

  “What are you specifically doing to help her?”

  “Everything I can,” said Rutledge, “and in exchange, I need you to help me.”

  Harvath was silent.

  Rutledge waited for him to respond and when he didn’t, the president said, “I know you disagree with the way I handled things and I know you hold me responsible for what happened. I can live with that. But what you need to understand is that I made my decisions, as I always have, based on what I believed to be best for our country.”

  “People I care about were killed; even more were injured,” countered Harvath. “A terrorist with a vendetta against me was freed from Guantánamo and when he came after the people I care about, I was told to stand down and not do anything about it.”

  “And for that I am truly sorry, but it was a choice I had to make. We need to move past it.”

  “You’ll forgive me, Mr. President. I have a problem getting over things that fast.”

  Rutledge’s blood pressure was starting to rise. “Do you want me to give you an order? Is that what this has to come down to? My God, if we can’t come together to fight these people what’s going to happen to our nation?

  “Listen, you can dislike me all you want, but I know you dislike the enemy more. I also know that no matter how hard it has ever been, you’ve never said no when your country needed your help.”

  Rutledge took a long pause before continuing. “Scot, my presidency has been underwater from the beginning. It has been overrun by fundamentalist Islam since the day I took office. I have been hobbled by an inept, PC, partisan Congress more concerned with covering their own asses than doing the heavy lifting that needs to be done for America.

  “I have green-lighted more off-the-books operations than any president in history. Why? Because this Congress, Republicans and Democrats alike, doesn’t have the guts to focus on the true threat our nation faces. They want to play their fiddles while Rome burns, but we’ve got a chance to be successful in spite of them.

  “I have spent two terms in office unable to take my eye off the war with fundamentalist Islam. I have no delusions about my legacy as president. I know I won’t be remembered for much, if anything at all, and I can accept that. At this point, I’m beyond worrying or caring about it.

  “But what I am worried about is doing everything I can with the limited amount of time I have left to help shore up our nation and weaken the enemy. No matter who succeeds me in this office, Democrat or Republican, they are going to get the shock of their life when they try to hit the ground running and realize that the best they can do is try to give up as little ground to radical Islam as possible. We have a chance to change that.”

  Harvath studied the pistol sitting next to the computer. Beneath it was the list of hospitals he thought Tracy might be in.

  He hated being put in this position and resented the hell out of everyone involved, including Tracy, for putting him there. But regardless of how he felt about Rutledge and what had gone on between them, he couldn’t turn his back on what needed to be done. At the end of the day, Harvath always did the right thing. It was who he was, no matter how many times he’d been kicked in the teeth for it.

  Finally he replied, “What do you need me to do?”

  Rutledge’s sense of relief was evident in his tone of voice. “First, we need to get you up to speed on everything that has happened including who we believe is targeting Professor Nichols.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we need to figure out how the hell we’re going to get you and that book out of the country and back home as quickly as possible.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Anthony Nichols had arrived in Paris on a commercial flight, and that was exactly how Rutledge had planned on getting him back to the United States. There had been no margin of error built into the plan in case things went wrong. It wasn’t how a proper operation was run, but Harvath couldn’t blame the president. Rutledge wasn’t an operator.

  He was, though, extremely tight when it came to operational security. Normally, that was a good thing, but in this instance it meant that there were scant few resources he could tap for help.

  After his last phone call with Gary Lawlor, Harvath had learned two things. The first was that Dr. Marwan Khalifa had been fully vetted by the president and neither he nor Lawlor believed the Koranic scholar had anything to do with the attempts on Anthony Nichols’ life. For now, Harvath was going to have to take them at their word.

  The other thing was that President Rutledge wasn’t going to be able to get him and the professor out of the country any time soon. Harvath knew that the longer they remained in France, the greater their chances were of getting caught. He had to come up with his own plan and once he did, the first call he made was to Finney and Parker at the Sargasso Program.

  “Yeah, we’ve got a cobbler in Paris,” replied Tim Finney. “But she doesn’t just play both sides of the fence, she plays both sides of the porch, the driveway, the front yard—”

  “I get it,” interrupted Harvath. “How good is she?”

  “Excellent and she charges like it too.”

  “I’m going to need two passports right away, tonight.”

  There was a loud noise as Finney pursed his lips and sucked in a big breath of air. “That’s going to be expensive.”

  “I know,” replied Harvath. “Good, fast, and cheap—pick any two.”

  “Do you want them to be U.S.?”

  “No. The French are going to be scrutinizing American passports very closely. Make them Canadian. Entrance to France seven days ago. Medium amount of international stamps and travel visas, all to first- and second-world countries. We’ll also need a couple of credit cards. Brand doesn’t matter. We’ll take whatever blanks she has.”

  “What about photos?” asked Finney.

  “I’m going to get to work on those now,” said Harvath. “I’ll post them in the usual place along with aliases and physical descriptions.”

  “Okay, I’ll get on this right away. I’ll have her put it on my account and we’ll settle up later. You do have access to funds, right?”

  “Yes,” replied Harvath, remembering the private account the president had established for Nichols. “I’ll make sure you get reimbursed.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like you, Scot,” said Finney. “It’s just that we’re talking about some pricey work here.”

  “Understood.”

  “The passports will be left at a dead drop. As soon as they’re ready, she’ll let us know where you can pick them up. How about on your end? Anything else you need?”

  Harvath prioritized the other items in his mind. “We’re going to need a private jet as soon as the passports are ready,” he said. “Preferably something with a discreet pickup service.”

  “Destination?”

  “Montreal for the flight plan, but once we’re safely on our way, we’ll need to change for D.C.”

  “That’s doable,” said Finney.

  “And one other thing,” replied Harvath. “I’ve got a problem bound and gagged in one of the staterooms that needs to be dealt with, but not until we’re gone.”

  Finney didn’t like the sound of that. “Dealt with how?”

  “Somebody just needs to open the cage and let him out. Chances are the cops will pick him up within half an hour. By that point, I don’t care what he does or says.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “Only if you’re a bag of heroin or a
fashion editor.”

  “Okay,” said Finney. “I’ll have someone check in on him once I know you’re out of French airspace. That’s it, then?”

  “That’s it,” replied Harvath.

  Two hours later, Harvath was back aboard the péniche. With him was a digital camera he had lifted off a tourist near Notre Dame and several plastic bags filled with items he and Nichols would need to disguise themselves.

  Once they had taken each other’s picture in front of a plain white wall, Harvath uploaded them to the draft folder he used to communicate with Parker and Finney. He’d already provided names and physical descriptions for the bogus passports. Now, all they could do was wait.

  An hour later, Harvath heard from Ron Parker. “The car will be there to pick you up at 0500. Your private charter to Montreal is all booked.”

  “What about the dead drop for the passports?” asked Harvath.

  “Your driver has been instructed to take you to the Paris Marriott Champs-Élysées. The bell captain’s name is Maurice. You give him the James Ryan alias from your new passport and he’ll hand over two suitcases. Inside are dirty clothes and assorted toiletry items just in case somebody decides to give you a closer look. One of the bags has a piece of yarn tied to the handle. Inside, you’ll find an envelope with the passports.”

  Harvath had to hand it to him, Parker and Finney thought of everything.

  When they arrived at the Marriott Champs- Élysées shortly after five a.m., Harvath found the bell captain, gave him the James Ryan name as well as fifty euros, and retrieved the bags.

  Back in the car, he removed the passports and looked them over. Finney’s cobbler was a true artist. The documents were impeccable.

  He committed his stamps and visas to memory and then quietly quizzed Nichols to make sure he had done the same.

  At Paris–Le Bourget Airport, they were met by a representative from the charter company who saw to their bags and accompanied the pair to passport control.

  Harvath had instructed Nichols to appear tired and disinterested. He had cut the professor’s hair very short and had him shave off his beard. His face had been darkened with toner while Harvath wore a new wig and glasses. He also now sported a mustache.

  The passport control officer took his time studying their documents. Harvath grew concerned and debated whether he could subdue the officer and still be able to get Nichols on board the plane and take off. They were the only ones there at the moment and Harvath gave himself fifty-fifty odds of being successful.

  Thankfully, he didn’t have to do anything. The jet rep was on a first-name basis with the officer and chided him into hurrying it up. With a dismissive wave of his hand, the officer stamped the passports and handed them back.

  Within five minutes, they were on board the aircraft, and as the main door was closed, Harvath breathed a sigh of relief. Ten minutes more, with well deserved drinks in hand, the pair was airborne and headed for the States. The hardest part, though, was leaving Tracy behind.

  Harvath had been against it, but he knew there wasn’t anything he could do about it. To his credit, the president had already started the diplomatic wheels rolling. It was now Harvath’s turn to perform.

  As the ground disappeared beneath the Bombardier Global Express XRS jet, Harvath left Nichols on the couch and walked back to the sleep suite in the aft cabin. Lying down on the bed, he closed his eyes and tried to rest. He had a very bad feeling that things weren’t over yet—not by a long shot.

  CHAPTER 50

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  SATURDAY

  Matthew Dodd’s balls weren’t simply big, they were enormous. Fooling the CIA into thinking you’d been killed was one thing, but living within fifty miles of Langley was the absolute height of hubris and Aydin Ozbek was positive that it was exactly what would lead to Dodd’s downfall.

  The assassin had been very careful about covering his tracks, but not careful enough. Most of the dead drops and meeting places Dodd had established with Salam while posing as his FBI handler were in and around Baltimore. That had gotten Ozbek to thinking.

  Why Baltimore? The most logical answer was because Baltimore was not D.C. There were too many people who could have recognized Dodd there. What’s more, Salam had ID’d Dodd directly from his CIA service photo which meant that Dodd had never disguised himself when they were together. The assassin was smart enough to know that few disguises held up under close scrutiny over long periods of time. So the more Ozbek thought about it, the more Baltimore made sense. Not only was it close to D.C., but it was probably easier to get lost in than anywhere else within an hour’s drive.

  At the DPS office, Ozbek had his team map all of the dead drop locations and all of the rendezvous points Salam could ever remember having been to. There were a couple of dead drops in D.C., but those were only set up for emergencies.

  The prevalence of activity in the Baltimore area made Ozbek certain that it was Dodd’s main base of operations. He had to be living somewhere close by.

  Though he held out little hope of finding him, Ozbek ran title searches under Dodd’s name and any known or suspected aliases, including his Muslim name, Majd al-Din. When those came up empty, Rasmussen half joked that it wouldn’t have been beneath the assassin to buy something under the names of Sheik Omar, Abdul Waleed, or even Andrew Salam himself. Those names turned out to be busts as well, as were any real estate holdings titled under any of Omar’s mosques, FAIR, or the McAllister & Associates front.

  More than likely, Dodd was renting something under a false name they didn’t know of, which made it all but impossible to trace him.

  Or so they had thought.

  It was Stephanie Whitcomb who had suggested they dredge the credit bureaus and Web-based tenant screening services. If Dodd was renting, unless he was living in an absolute fleabag, his landlord would have run a background check on him.

  Their search resulted in three hits in the Baltimore area. Two belonged to a pair of female roommates who were interns at the Foundation on American Islamic Relations and the third was a man named Ibrahim Reynolds who listed the Um al-Qura Mosque in Falls Church, Virginia, as his employer.

  A little further digging revealed that the original Ibrahim Reynolds, whose name and social security number were bogusly listed on the rental application, had died at two months old in San Diego, California. It was the break they had been looking for.

  And as a reward, Ozbek had decided to let Whitcomb come along when they hit Dodd’s apartment even though Rasmussen had been dead set against involving her.

  Had Ozbek been able to see what was coming, he would have agreed.

  CHAPTER 51

  As far as any of them knew, Matthew Dodd was still in Paris. At least he had been as of the shooting the previous day. Nevertheless, they weren’t taking any chances.

  Just before 4 a.m., Ozbek pulled his black GMC Denali over to the sidewalk and dropped off Whitcomb. Once she was out, he pulled away and headed west.

  The apartment they believed belonged to Dodd was in the southeast part of Baltimore just north of the Fells Point area. And though they all thought it, none of them commented on the irony of the neighborhood being known as Butchers Hill.

  Since it was assumed an attractive young woman would be less suspicious, Whitcomb was given the job of surveilling as much of the area as possible before Ozbek and Rasmussen went into the apartment.

  They picked a spot at the top of the street where she could have an unobstructed view of his apartment, yet would be concealed if anyone looked out the window in her direction. She was using Ozbek’s own thermal imaging system, which despite being an early generation, would still allow her to “see” through several inches of concrete.

  Her encrypted Motorola radio was outfitted with a bone mike that she inserted in her right ear. They looked like the earpieces newscasters or Secret Service agents wore and were much less obvious than throat mikes.

  The radio was activated by a small transmitter button tha
t Whitcomb wore around her left index finger and which she had covered with a Band-Aid. This would be a totally silent operation. Similar to a SWAT team entry, communication would be facilitated by clicks from the transmitter button.

  While Whitcomb got into place, Ozbek and Rasmussen waited in the Denali a block away. Rasmussen thought about raising his objection to bringing Stephanie along again, but decided to let it go. Ozbek was the boss, and he wasn’t going to change his mind. Oz had explained to Whitcomb that what they were doing was off the books and technically against the rules, but she’d agreed to come along anyway. She was not only an action junkie, she was a big girl and could make up her own mind as to what she did and didn’t want to do.

  Nevertheless, Rasmussen wasn’t exactly thrilled to be part of an ever-widening band of lawbreakers from the CIA. The Agency had had enough trouble with its image of late. It didn’t matter that what they did, they did for the greater good. The press and a majority of the morons in Congress were constantly busy tearing them new assholes and painting them as monsters.

  Rasmussen’s thoughts were interrupted when Whitcomb clicked that she was in place and that the apartment and the street were all clear.

  Unable to find a parking spot anywhere, Ozbek positioned his Denali in front of a hydrant and cut the engine. He and Rasmussen hopped out, and casually made their way toward the three-story brick building.

  Half a block before they got to the entrance, they turned right and headed into an alley.

  At the rear entrance of the building, Ozbek removed a lock pick gun while Rasmussen unholstered his .45 caliber HK USP tactical pistol and affixed its suppressor.

  It took Ozbek less than a minute to open the door at which point he removed his Beretta 92 FS, attached its suppressor as well, and stepped inside.

  The apartment believed to be Dodd’s was on the top floor facing the street. Ozbek signaled Rasmussen, who headed into the main hallway toward the front stairs.

  Ozbek counted to ten and then crept up the moldy back stairwell.