by Brad Thor
With the bizarre weapon slung over his shoulder, the tiny man had leapt onto his gargantuan dog and, holding on to the beast’s harness, was riding him as if he were a thoroughbred.
The last glimpse Harvath had of them was as the amazingly agile animal leapt the high wall at the other end of the veranda and disappeared once more from sight. While he didn’t have any immediate reason to kill the man or his dog, there were a lot of questions he would have liked to have had answered—questions he was sure that Mohammed bin Mohammed wouldn’t be willing to answer. On the other hand, Harvath wasn’t really in the mood to ask. What he was in the mood for was payback.
One Hundred Four
Grabbing bin Mohammed by the back of the neck, Harvath dragged him inside and threw him against a large white column. As he removed two pairs of Flexicuffs and secured the man’s hands behind the pillar, Harvath said, “Ten days ago, you killed a very good friend of mine. I’m here to repay the favor.”
The man looked up at Harvath. “I am not afraid to die.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” said Scot as he removed two glass vials from a pouch on his belt and showed them to Mohammed. “Each of these little things are known as Dermestes maculatus. Museums use them to strip flesh away from carcasses so the skeletons can be studied. Once they start eating, they just can’t seem to stop.”
Unscrewing the top of the first vial, Harvath grabbed Mohammed in a headlock and inserted the vial into his ear. Instantly, the man began screaming. Harvath removed a lighter from his pocket and heated the vial until the beetle ran, scurrying into Mohammed’s ear canal. Once he was sure the creature was in good and deep, he repeated the process on the other ear and stood back.
Like a rabbit trapped by a cave-in, beetles will dig furiously to try to extricate themselves. If they happen to be in someone’s ear, the resultant frenzy is enough to drive that person mad. Harvath had read about it in a book a long time ago, and though he wasn’t one to stay up late at night devising new means of torture, this had always been one of the things he thought would be exceptionally worth trying.
Stepping back, Harvath watched as the man writhed and shrieked, trying to shake the insects from his head. He was in the grip of sheer terror. Though it delivered a certain degree of satisfaction, it still wasn’t enough to make up for everything else the man had done.
Raising his pistol, Harvath pulled the trigger and sent one searing hot round into Mohammed’s stomach. It was considered one of the most painful ways a person could die, and victims could languish for many hours in unbearable agony until their bodies finally succumbed. As far as Harvath was concerned, it was still too good for Mohammed bin Mohammed.
He was contemplating kneecapping the al-Qaeda terrorist, when a noise from the veranda caught his attention.
Having affixed a makeshift pressure bandage to the wound in the dog’s chest, Harvath gently slung the enormous beast over his shoulders and stepped right over Mohammed’s twitching body as he carried it from the villa. Outside, he had the very real feeling that the only thing preventing a bullet from being fired at him from a rather bizarre weapon was that, hidden somewhere out in the dark night, the dying dog’s owner understood that Harvath was trying to save his animal.
One Hundred Five
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, DC
And the dwarf?” asked Harvath as the meeting was drawing to a close. “What was his role in all of this?”
The president looked at his newly appointed director of National Intelligence, Kenneth Wilson, and said, “Do you want to take this?”
Wilson nodded his head and clearing his throat said, “We actually know very little about the man you saw in Gibraltar, but based upon your description of him, and in particular his two dogs, we believe he’s a figure known as the Troll.”
“The Troll ?”
“Rumors of his existence have pervaded the intelligence world since before the fall of the Berlin Wall. It’s said he deals in the purchase and sale of highly sensitive information. We think he’s the one who bought off Joseph Stanton to get the Athena locations in New York City.”
“What makes you think that?”
“After the sites were secured, a thorough sweep was conducted to search for any signs that the intelligence being gathered and analyzed there had been compromised.”
“And had it?” asked Harvath.
“Significantly. Everything the NSA had on their servers at those locations is gone.”
Nothing at this point surprised Harvath.
Removing a small silicon device from his pocket, Wilson held it up and said, “We found remnants of devices like this one here at each of the locations. They can be programmed to covertly transfer a server’s data to a remote location while making it look like the servers themselves are still carrying out their normal functions.”
“Which is why nobody at NSA suspected anything and the alarm was never raised.”
“Exactly. Our best explanation is that the Troll traded al-Qaeda the location of where Mohammed bin Mohammed was being held in exchange for them breaching the Athena Program locations and planting the devices for him. Which, by the way, self-destructed after the data was transferred and which is why we only found remnants.
“We also believe the Troll managed to get to someone inside the Defense Intelligence Agency who revealed where we were keeping Mohammed bin Mohammed. The circle of people in the know is pretty small, so we expect to have something soon.”
Director Wilson continued on, but Harvath was no longer listening. After killing Abdul Ali and Mohammed bin Mohammed, he thought he had fulfilled the promise he’d made Bob Herrington, but now there was one more name he was going to have to cross off his list—the Troll’s.
Once Wilson had wrapped up, the president asked Scot if he had any other questions. This was a relatively rare event. Because he was not always privy to the entire intelligence picture, there were many instances when he was unaware of the full impact of the success of his assignments. Sometimes, out of sheer gratitude, he was allowed access to information that otherwise never would have been made available to him. On days when this magnanimous flow of intelligence occurred, Harvath was able to forget, if only for a moment, how fed up he was with Washington politics. Today had turned out to be just such a day.
The president didn’t have to gather his top people to spend an hour and a half spelling everything out and answering all of Harvath’s questions, but he had, and Harvath appreciated it. He did, though, have one final question. “How is Amanda?”
Rutledge smiled and said, “She’s doing much better, thank you.”
“A collapsed lung is pretty serious.”
The president nodded. “I think the death of her friends and so many of the agents on her detail was harder for her to handle than anything else.”
“I’m sure it was,” replied Harvath.
“I’ll tell her you asked about her.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
Always uncomfortable with the president’s fulsome praise of his efforts on behalf of his country, Scot thanked him for both his time and his candor and then prepared to stand up.
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to stay for a few more minutes,” said Rutledge as he excused the rest of the people in the Oval Office.
Once they had gone, the president removed an envelope from his desk and handed it to Harvath.
“What’s this?”
“Scot, you are a tremendous asset to this country.”
Harvath tried to interrupt, but the president stopped him. “It often seems to me that we should be doing more in return to thank you.”
“I don’t do it for the thanks, sir.”
“I know you don’t, and I also know you don’t do it for the money. There certainly are places that would pay you a lot more for what you know.”
Harvath couldn’t tell for sure, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the president knew he had been looking for another job lately. H
e made a mental note to get in touch with his contact at Valhalla out in Colorado to let them know that for the time being, he was going to remain in his current position.
“Well?” said Rutledge, snapping Scot back to the here and now.
Looking down, Harvath realized the president was talking about the envelope he was holding.
“In addition to signing the leasehold, we’re going to need to amend your file to show you as caretaker,” Rutledge added.
Harvath looked up and said, “I’m sorry, caretaker? I don’t understand.”
“Two days ago, I spoke with the secretary of the Navy. Are you familiar with the Navy’s Federal Preservation Office?”
“No, sir. I can’t say that I am.”
At that moment, the president’s chief of staff, Charles Anderson, knocked and poked his head into the Oval Office. After saying a quick hello to Scot, he pointed at his watch and indicated to Rutledge that they needed to get going.
The president pointed at the envelope and said, “All the information’s in there. Take a few days and then let me know what you think.”
Not really knowing what he was thanking the man for, Harvath shook the president’s hand, tucked the envelope inside his breast pocket, and left the Oval Office. Once he got outside, he opened the envelope and read its contents. Halfway through the first page, Harvath couldn’t believe his eyes.
Exiting the White House grounds, he made his way down Pennsylvania Avenue to where he’d parked his TrailBlazer and then got on the road and headed toward Fairfax County, Virginia. He had to see this for himself.
One Hundred Six
On several acres of land overlooking the Potomac River, just south of George Washington’s Mount Vernon estate, was a small eighteenth-century stone church known as Bishop’s Gate. During the revolutionary war, the Anglican reverend of Bishop’s Gate was an outspoken loyalist who provided sanctuary and aid to British spies, which resulted in the colonial army attacking the church and inflicting great damage.
Bishop’s Gate lay in ruins until 1882, when the Office of Naval Intelligence, or ONI, was established to seek out and report on the enormous post–Civil War explosion in the technological capabilities of other world-class navies. Several covert ONI agent training centers were established up and down the eastern seaboard to instruct naval attachés and military affairs officers on the collection of technical information about foreign governments and their naval developments.
Because of its isolated, yet prime location not far from Washington, DC, Bishop’s Gate was secretly rebuilt and funded as one of the ONI’s first covert officer training schools.
As the oldest continuously operating intelligence service in the nation, the ONI eventually outgrew the Bishop’s Gate location. The stubby yet elegant church with its attached stone rectory was relegated to a declassified document storage site. Apparently, the fate of Bishop’s Gate was not out of the ordinary. As Harvath read the letter, he learned that the Navy often was forced to mothball assets that served no immediate need, but might at some point in the future. This “laying away” of properties, many of them historic like Bishop’s Gate, might be for a short term, an intermediate, or an undetermined period. Regardless of how the properties might once again be used, while still under the jurisdiction of the Navy, the Navy was obligated to protect and preserve their historic significance, as well as maintain their physical integrity.
Most of the Navy properties suitable for use as dwellings were saved for high-level defectors and other political personages the United States government found themselves responsible for. In Harvath’s case, the secretary of the Navy, a former ONI officer, was apparently quite pleased to see such a distinguished American entrusted with the property. The fact that Harvath was an ex-SEAL probably didn’t hurt his standing with the secretary either.
Bishop’s Gate in its entirety—the church building and the rectory that had been converted into a nice-sized house, an outbuilding that had been converted into a garage, and the extensive grounds—were deeded to Harvath in a ninety-nine-
year government lease with a token rent of one U.S. dollar due per annum. All that was required of Harvath was that he maintain the property in a manner befitting its historic status and that he vacate the premises within twenty-four hours if ever given notice, with or without cause, by the United States Navy.
It had been over fifty years since the Navy had any use for Bishop’s Gate other than as a file graveyard, but Harvath was still stunned to have been offered it. Not including the garage, the unique house formed by the church and the attached rectory came to over four thousand square feet of living space, and all Harvath had to do was make sure the grass was mowed and his one-dollar-a-year rent was in on time. He couldn’t help but wonder at what he might do with the real rent payments he wouldn’t have to make anymore if he accepted the president’s generous offer.
Of course, the practical side of Harvath would plow as much of the windfall into investments as he could, but there was also part of him that had always wanted a sailboat, and now that he had the opportunity to live right on the Potomac, it didn’t seem like such an unreasonable goal.
He spent the better part of the day wandering the property and exploring the old church buildings as he tried to make up his mind. Though not a particularly spiritual person, he hoped somewhere along the way he’d be shown a sign. It was in the rectory attic that he found one—literally.
On a beautifully carved piece of wood was the motto of the Anglican missionaries. It seemed strangely fitting for the career Harvath had decided to remain in:TRANSIENS ADIUVA NOS—I go overseas to give help.
At that moment, Harvath knew he was home. What’s more, he didn’t need Emily Post to tell him that turning down a gift, any gift, from the President of the United States was not only impolite, but also a very bad career decision for a federal employee.
Though he still had reservations about accepting such a lavish reward, Bishop’s Gate had taken hold of Harvath, and it seemed a shame to allow it to go uninhabited for another day.
With the help of a few buddies, including Kevin McCauliff, Harvath rented a truck and spent that following Saturday moving his belongings from his small apartment in Alexandria over to Bishop’s Gate.
While his friends marveled at his luck, they were unanimous in their agreement that Harvath had a lot of work to do on the place. His pal Gordon Avigliano even joked that it looked to him that the Navy had actually gotten the better part of the deal. Not only did they now have a free night watchman in Harvath, but the sap was also paying them for the privilege. It didn’t matter that it was only a dollar a year. Nobody believed Harvath anyway.
Once the last of the beer had been consumed and all but the pizza boxes had been eaten, Harvath politely gave his friends five minutes to vacate his new estate before he threatened to release the hounds. It got a good laugh, and as he let them go, he secured promises that they’d be back to help him with the renovation work. There was a lot that needed to be done.
After a quick shower, he pulled on jeans and a Polo shirt, then hopped into his car for the airport. On a lark, he had decided to call Tracy Hastings to see if she wanted to come down and spend some time with him at his new place.
Hastings was thrilled and had booked one of the last seats on the shuttle for that night. They picked up takeout from A La Lucia in Alexandria and had a wonderful dinner picnic-style in front of the rectory’s fireplace.
The next morning, Tracy allowed Harvath to sleep in. He was exhausted from his last assignment, as well as the move, and was still recovering from the injuries he had suffered in New York. In all fairness, she hadn’t exactly gone easy on him either. Damn, they were good together.
With a smile on her face and a cup of coffee in her hand, Tracy opened the door and stepped outside. It was a gorgeous summer morning, and she took in a deep breath and tried to pinpoint the wonderful smells that seemed to be coming at her from all directions. She was worlds away from Manhattan, and bei
ng here with Scot was like nothing she had ever known. If their lives would let them, she could stay here forever and never leave.
As she bent down to pick one of the flowers growing wild alongside the rectory she noticed that someone had dropped off a beautiful wicker hamper. A large satin ribbon was tied to the top and she could hear rustling coming from inside.
Lifting the hamper’s lid, Tracy discovered a beautiful white puppy. Along with it was a book on Caucasian Ovcharkas and a note. Picking up the puppy and holding it to her chest, she read the crisp white card. Thank you for saving Argus. I will forever be in your debt. A friend.
Tracy had no idea who the note had come from, but she figured Scot might. Either way, he was absolutely going to love this dog. She just knew it. It was time that both of their lives started being filled with things that were good.
Nuzzling the puppy under her chin, Tracy Hastings turned to go back inside, but before she could cross the threshold, a bullet with her name on it came ripping through the trees.
As the weapon was disassembled, the assassin from Scot’s past took a perverse pride in knowing that this was only the beginning of the pain and retribution that was coming Harvath’s way. Harvath was about to learn that you never buried anyone unless you were absolutely certain they were dead.
Author’s Note
I make no secret about the deep respect I hold for the brave American men and women who selflessly serve our nation in our military, law enforcement, and intelligence communities. As someone who wanted to do more than just write about these extraordinary people, I became involved with several different organizations that strive to serve them and their families. I strongly urge you to visit my Web site for a list of these organizations, but I want to single out one in particular here.
