The Last Patriot

by Brad Thor

  Though Rutledge didn’t expressly request the disposal of Ramadan’s body, Harvath knew how to read between the lines. The president didn’t want what little time remained in his administration to be taken up by a scandal. The Pentagon official was a traitor to his country, and now he was dead. As far as the president and Harvath were concerned, justice had been served.

  Harvath thought it a fitting end that Imad Ramadan should go the way of the al-Jazari device, though he doubted the device had been torn apart by Caribbean reef sharks.

  When Harvath arrived in St. Martin, his contact from France’s Direction de al Surveillance du Territoire, also known as the DST, which was the counterintelligence/counterterrorism branch of the French national police, was extremely unhappy at being presented with the dead body of Matthew Dodd.

  After the Paris bombing and the killing of three French national police officers, the French were justifiably out for blood.

  The DST operative, a rather intense man about Harvath’s age, asked how the hell they were supposed to put a corpse on trial. Harvath appreciated his anger and held his own in check in order to not make things worse.

  He knew it looked bad. Dead men tell no tales, and this American ex–CIA operative had been whacked by Americans before being turned over to the French. The DST man had every reason to be suspicious.

  The man’s anger continued to build. Not only did this put their whole agreement in jeopardy, but maybe he was going to have to take Harvath into custody as well too. He wasn’t shy about revealing the fact that he was armed. So was Harvath, but he kept that to himself.

  Harvath offered the man the only other thing he had. Through avenues the CIA wouldn’t divulge, and which Harvath assumed was code for Aydin Ozbek’s off-the-books operation, they had managed to acquire a list of the Muslim extremists Dodd had worked with on the car bombing in Paris.

  The DST operative asked if his agency could have a clean exclusive on the list, meaning it could take full credit for developing the names on the list and trust that the CIA would stay quiet. Harvath assured him they would. That left only one problem.

  The Frenchman sitting aboard Harvath’s boat had been assigned the job of personally telephoning the president of France once he had Dodd in his custody. The fact that Dodd was dead, and had been killed by the Americans no less, would not go over well. It quickly became apparent that his biggest concern was the French president’s reputation for shooting his messengers.

  Harvath reached below the bunk Dodd’s corpse was lying on and withdrew Imad Ramadan’s pistol. Handing it to the DST operative, Harvath said, “If you hadn’t reacted so quickly, he would have killed us both,” and fell silent.

  The intelligence agent processed the angles. “I’m going to need to make a couple of phone calls,” he said, “but I believe we may be able to work this out.”

  Harvath could see the wheels turning in his mind as he ran through the list of people he would invite to his Legion of Honor ceremony.

  They met forty-five minutes later at a nearby beach where Harvath quietly brought the body ashore and helped load it into the intelligence agent’s trunk.

  As the man prepared to leave, Harvath put his hand on his car door and said, “There’s one other thing I’m going to need.”

  “It’s her,” said Harvath as Tracy Hastings climbed out of the DST operative’s car and began walking down the dock. It was the second delivery the DST agent had made that day.

  Thanking the president, Harvath disconnected the call and set the encrypted satellite phone down.

  Hopping onto the pier, he made a beeline straight for her. Despite everything that had happened, she had a smile on her face that cut right through him. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  Chucking decorum, Harvath ran for her.

  When they met halfway in the middle of the dock, they wrapped their arms around each other so tightly, he was afraid he was going to crush the air from her lungs.

  “Don’t ever leave me like that again,” he said.

  Tracy untangled her arms and reached up to hold Scot’s face with both of her hands. “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you too,” he replied. “But don’t ever—”

  Tracy kissed him before he could finish his sentence.

  Finally, Harvath broke their embrace and asked, “How are you feeling? Are you okay? The flight was all right?”

  “The flight was fine,” said Tracy. “I’m fine. The swelling is all gone. I’m just supposed to watch my stress.”

  Harvath smiled and hugged her again. “Do you think you can handle being out on the water?”

  “What kind of question is that to ask a United States Naval officer?”

  “The S.S. Harvath is a tight ship,” he replied. “I’m very picky about my crew. I only sail with the best.”

  Tracy laughed and conspiratorially looked over both shoulders. “I don’t exactly see people lining up for the job.”

  “Actually,” said Harvath, “the rest of the crew is already aboard.”

  “The rest of the crew?”

  Turning around to face the boat, Harvath placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

  In a blinding flash of white, Bullet appeared from belowdecks and started barking.

  “We’ve got two weeks until the president wants me back in Washington,” he said. “Where do you want to go?”

  “I don’t care,” Tracy replied as she grabbed his chin for emphasis, “as long as we’re the only … ones … there.”

  EPILOGUE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Andrew Salam and his dog stepped inside from the rain, and he searched through his coat closet for the ratty old towel he used to clean the dog’s paws. Once all the mud was gone, he kicked off his running shoes and followed his dog into the kitchen where he filled his bowls with food and fresh water.

  Grabbing a bottle of Evian from the fridge for himself, he spun off its cap and chugged half of it down in one long swallow. It was good to be home and even better now that his life was starting to get back to normal.

  The FBI had asked him to come to work for them, but Salam’s heart wasn’t in it. Not right now at least.

  Picking up the remote, he turned on the kitchen television set and tuned to one of the cable news channels. Some political pundit was droning on about “change” and the upcoming presidential elections. Salam paid no attention to it. He just liked having the TV on for background noise.

  Taking his bottle with him, he walked over and sat down at his kitchen table. He had a stack of mail he’d yet to go through that had been growing higher with each passing day. Most of it was junk mail, but there were probably bills in there too, and he prided himself on settling his debts on time.

  As he began sifting his way through, a very unusual envelope caught his attention. It bore the return address of a hotel he’d never heard of along with a postmark from the British Virgin Islands.

  Carefully, Salam opened the envelope and removed a piece of paper. Taped to the center was some sort of locker key and below it a note. The handwriting was familiar and as he read the words, his heart stopped in his chest.

  Andrew,

  I know you will do the right thing with this.

  Matthew Dodd (aka Sean Riley)

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The idea for this novel had many parents, so to speak. It was born in part from an Atlantic Monthly article by Toby Lester entitled “What Is the Koran?” I had discovered the piece while doing research on another novel and had tucked it away for future use. When I came across an article written by Gerard W. Gawalt, formerly of the Library of Congress, entitled “America and the Barbary Pirates: An International Battle Against an Unconventional Foe,” I started wondering if there was a way I could combine the historical relevance of the Koran with Thomas Jefferson’s experience with the Barbary pirates to create a thriller that would be relevant today.

  In writing this novel, I have created a work of fiction based la
rgely on fact. That said, I have taken creative license in some areas and will attempt to list them here.

  Mohammed’s lost revelation as depicted herein, as well as al-Jazari’s preservation of same, is of my own making. The plot device of Mohammed being assassinated by one of his companions is also of my own making (though there is evidence that Mohammed was assassinated). The concept of abrogation and everything else related to the Koran in this novel is true.

  The cipher found by Jefferson in the first edition Don Quixote is fictional. Cervantes, though, did suffer horribly during his captivity and much of his experience in the Muslim dungeons of Algiers greatly influenced and figured prominently in his work.

  Thomas Jefferson did keep a suite of rooms at the Carthusian Monastery in Paris while U.S. minister to France and invented his Cipher Wheel during this time.

  Of the fifteen fireplaces at Poplar Forest, one was indeed left unrenovated, but is located in the room used by Jefferson’s granddaughters, not in his library/parlor. Some of the entablature details, as well as Poplar Forest’s hours, have been changed to suit my purposes in this novel.

  The weapons, equipment, and other gear used by Scot Harvath, Aydin Ozbek, et al., including the revolutionary new Integrated Tourniquet System clothing, are current and accurate.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  More than ever, I want to thank my beautiful and brilliant wife, Trish, for all of her love, support, and assistance with this novel. She is my muse, my best friend, and one of the most amazing people I have ever known. Without her, none of this would be possible. Thank you, my love.

  I also could not do what I do without you, my readers. Thank you for all of your wonderful e-mails, your appearances at my signings, and all of the wonderful word of mouth you have given my novels. The reason my work has grown in popularity is because of you.

  My good friend, Scott F. Hill, PhD, was once again one of my most invaluable assets in crafting this novel. His sharp mind is exceeded only by his warm friendship and deep sense of patriotism. Thank you for everything.

  James Ryan (not his real name) operates in some of the darkest and most dangerous corners of the world. The things he shared with me during the writing of this novel made me incredibly grateful that our nation has such men and women of character, integrity, courage, and ability willing to make such exceptional sacrifices. If Mr. James Ryan ever shows up on your doorstep it is either the best day or the last day of your life. “TIA” my friend. Thank you and bless you for everything you have done for me on and off the field.

  Much of this novel has been influenced by the erudite writing, commentary, and courage of Robert Spencer, who generously assisted me in my research. I am indeed honored to call him my friend. He suffered weekly telephone and e-mail bombardments during my writing and research and always did so with brilliant responses and good humor. Robert, I am much obliged.

  One of the greatest rewards of my career has been getting to meet people whom I deeply respect and admire. As I have gotten older, I realize that outside my military, law enforcement, and intelligence contacts there aren’t many people who both “talk the talk” and “walk the walk” as well. Glenn Beck is definitely one of those people. When you have a friend who sets the bar so high for himself, it is impossible not to constantly strive to raise your own even higher. Thank you for everything, my friend. You have been an inspiration.

  I am also incredibly fortunate to have a key group of warriors with whom I not only share ideas and frank debate, but also friendship. My novels wouldn’t be what they are without them. They inspire and guide my work not only by what they say, but also what they do. Each has contributed in too many ways to mention. They are: Tom Baker, Steven Bronson, Jeff Chudwin, Rodney Cox, Thomas Foreman, Chuck Fretwell, Frank Gallagher, Steve Hoffa, Mike Janich, Cynthia Longo, Ronald Moore, Mike Noell, Chad Norberg, Gary Penrith, Rob Pincus and Mitch Shore—as well as all of my other brothers and sisters out there who asked that they not be named in this book for their own safety. Thank you for all you do for us. Stay safe.

  As I have said before, without the fabulous bookstores, online retailers, and the Atria/Pocket sales staff, you wouldn’t be holding this in your hands right now. I am extremely grateful to all the people who have worked so hard to build me as an author and who strive to make every book more successful than the last. It is a team effort, and along with Jeanne Lee, the Atria/Pocket art and production departments, and the Simon & Schuster Audio family I couldn’t hope to be aligned with more creative, intelligent, and truly nice people in the publishing business.

  Daniel Pipes consulted with me at the very beginning of the novel and I am quite grateful for his insight, generosity, and advice.

  Dr. Rusty Shackleford and his team are a force to be reckoned with. Though few know who they really are, many know the incredibly dangerous and important work that they do every day. Thank you for everything.

  Thanks as well goes to Anna Berkes, Research Librarian at Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello; Anna McAlpine, Director, Public Relations & Marketing at Thomas Jefferson’s Poplar Forest; and Clark Evans of the Library of Congress.

  In Washington, D.C., I am grateful for the assistance of my friends David Vennett, Patrick Doak, and my new Beltway “insider,” Tim Holland.

  I also want to thank Richard and Anne Levy for their help as well as that of our shared foreign intelligence asset, Alice.

  The continued help and support of two of my best sharpshooters, Tom and Geri Whowell, is also deeply appreciated.

  Thanks as well go to Danielle Boudreau of Bombardier Business Aircraft, the United States Park Service, and the DC Metropolitan Police Department.

  I am exceptionally fortunate to be on a power-house publishing team surrounded by brilliant people. That team is led by the incomparable Carolyn Reidy. As our professional relationship has grown, so too has our friendship. Carolyn, it is both an honor and a pleasure working with you.

  Judith Curr and Louise Burke are two of the best and brightest in the publishing business. I’m not only lucky enough to call them my publishers, I also get to call them my friends. Every year that I work with Louise and Judith is more enjoyable than the last. Thank you both for all you have done for me.

  My amazing editor, Emily Bestler, offered superb guidance every step of the way and helped me reach further with this novel than ever before. Emily, I am more appreciative of you than you will ever know. Thank you for everything.

  My outstanding literary agent, Heide Lange, continues to play a vital role in my writing career. Thank you, Heide, for your intelligence, wisdom, and creativity, as well as your abiding friendship.

  Gary Urda, Lisa Keim, and Michael Selleck are three more exceptional talents in the Simon & Schuster family whose acumen and dedication to my books is felt and appreciated on every page. Thank you.

  David Brown is my remarkable publicist, who continues to amaze me as he leaps tall buildings in a single bound and makes it look so easy. David, you will always be #1 in my book and I am very thankful to have you on my team.

  Laura Stern, Sarah Branham, Mellony Torres, Karen Fink and everyone else at S&S have my deep gratitude for the incredible amount of work they put into every book we publish. Again, it is truly a team effort and I am very thankful to be a member of the Atria & Pocket families.

  I also want to thank everyone at Sanford J. Greenburger Associates for all that they do for me throughout the year, including the exceptional Teri Tobias and the dynamic duo of Alex Cannon and Jennifer Linnan.

  In the trenches of Hollywood, you want an attorney who knows where the bodies are buried. If he’s also a brilliant negotiator and one hell of a great guy to be around, then you’ve hit the jackpot. Scott Schwimer is not only all of that, he’s also one of my best friends. Thanks, Scottie.

  Reader’s Companion

  Please enjoy this Reader’s Companion of additional content, including a sample chapter from Brad Thor’s Black List.

  Emily Bestler Books/Atria

  Pr
oudly Presents

  BLACK LIST

  BY

  BRAD THOR

  Turn the page for a preview of Black List …

  PROLOGUE

  PENTAGON CITY

  PRESENT DAY

  There were a lot of places in which Caroline Romero could envision being murdered—a dark alley, a parking lot, even a nature preserve—but a shopping mall in broad daylight wasn’t one of them. Especially not one just steps away from the Pentagon. Nevertheless, here she was.

  The team following her appeared to be made up of three men, one of whom she recognized, a tall man with almost translucent white skin and a head of thick, white hair. The trio took turns rotating in and out of view. There was no misconstruing their intention. The speed with which they had uncovered what she was up to and had locked onto her was astounding. As good as she was, they were better.

  It wasn’t a matter of simply being careful or of properly covering her tracks either. She had done all of that. The organization was just too big, too omnipresent to escape. Now it was coming after her.

  She needed to work fast. When the team moved in, there’d be nothing anyone could, or would, do to stop them. First they would interrogate her and then they would kill her. She couldn’t let them take her or what she was carrying.

  The mall was large, with lots of upscale shops and closed-circuit cameras. They would be tapped into that system, watching her. She knew it because she had done it herself countless times. Knowing how they worked was the only thing that gave her an advantage.

  She walked with a moderate pace, purposeful, but not frightened. If they sensed any panic in her, they’d know she was on to them—they would close ranks immediately and snatch her. She couldn’t allow that to happen, not until she finished one last thing.

  All around her, shoppers ambled in and out of stores, woefully unaware of what was taking place in the world just outside. It was their world too, after all, and she wanted to shake them. She wanted to wake them up. She knew, though, that they’d only look at her like she was crazy. In fact, until very recently, she probably would have agreed with them. What she had discovered, though, was beyond crazy. It was insane; frighteningly insane.