by Brad Thor
After retrieving the man’s weapon, Harvath jumped out and used the camera phone he had confiscated to take two quick pictures of the driver and then one of the license plates.
He repeated the process with the corpse in the windbreaker, who as he had suspected wasn’t carrying ID either, and then pitched the men’s guns into the back of his Trailblazer.
Using two ratty towels he kept in back, he quickly wrapped them around his front and rear license plates and hopped into his SUV.
Screaming out of the parking space, he put as much distance between himself and the University of Virginia as fast as he could.
CHAPTER 60
UM AL-QURA MOSQUE
FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA
“What’s he doing here?” said Abdul Waleed as he walked into Sheik Omar’s office.
Matthew Dodd, his face badly scratched, was sitting on the couch. “As sala’amu alaikum, brother,” he replied. Even though he’d been wearing the female CIA operative’s vest at his apartment when he’d been shot, his chest still hurt like hell. It was difficult to speak or breathe deeply.
Waleed hesitated a moment and then replied, “Walaikum as sala’am.”
“Our operation in Paris was unsuccessful,” stated Omar. “There are other problems as well.”
Waleed’s eyes shot back to Dodd. This was not what he needed to hear right now. He had spent the morning getting grilled by the FBI about Nura Khalifa and Andrew Salam. His nerves were shot. Pointing his finger at Dodd, he said, “All of the problems have been your fault.”
“Stop,” ordered Omar as he waved the director of FAIR to a chair. The sheik didn’t want another fight in his office. He’d already gone apoplectic with Dodd and his blood pressure was just now finally coming back under control. “When what we want doesn’t happen, we must learn to want what does.”
More proverbs, thought Waleed. “Mahmood, the FBI know everything.”
“Everything?” questioned the sheik. “I don’t think so. They know only what Andrew Salam has told them and Salam is a liar and a murderer.”
“But even liars sometimes tell the truth,” replied Waleed, tossing a desert proverb right back into the imam’s lap. “I’m telling you the FBI believes what Salam is telling them.”
“How can you know this?”
“Because I saw it on every one of their faces. I heard it in their voices; in every one of their questions. They know what we have been doing. And what they don’t know, they assume and their assumptions are correct!”
“Calm down,” said Omar. “We need to remember to believe what we see and lay aside what we hear.”
Waleed shook his head in disgust. “We have underestimated them.”
“They have no evidence. The American people will never allow a Muslim witch hunt. Islamophobia, remember?”
“Omar, listen to me. The American people are not with us. They are afraid of us. But they are more afraid of being politically incorrect, and we have made that work for us. Make no mistake, though, there is a limit even to that, and we are getting very close to having overplayed our hand. If we are not absolutely careful, absolutely vigilant, the tide of political correctness will turn against us.”
The sheik laughed.
“You think this is funny?” asked Waleed.
Omar looked at the man. “You overestimate the people of this nation. They are soft and stupid. The reason political correctness and multiculturalism exists is because they are too lazy to hold others to what it once meant to be an American. This nation is dying and we are not the problem; we are the solution. Islam—true, pure Islam—is what will save America.”
“If Paris was a failure, though, there may no longer be a true, pure Islam. Not as we know it at least.”
“Paris was unsuccessful because we overreached,” said Dodd as he looked at Omar. “That is not going to happen anymore.”
The inference was clear and Waleed found it quite bold. Dodd was blaming Omar for what happened in Paris. Looking at the sheik, Waleed said, “You mentioned other problems. What other problems?”
“The CIA located my apartment in Baltimore,” replied Dodd.
“How?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that as a result, one of their operatives is dead and another is wounded. It will be chaos at Langley.”
“What matters,” clarified Waleed, “is the timing of all of this. The information had to have come from Salam.”
“But he had no idea who his handler was,” interjected Omar. “He believed he was working for the FBI.”
“Abdul is right,” said Dodd as he tried to unravel it. “Somehow the authorities were able to make the connection. It had to have come from Salam.”
“You need to disappear again,” stated Waleed. “Go anywhere. Just get out of the country and stay hidden.”
Omar held up his hand. “Not yet. Not until his work here is done.”
“What work? The professor who was assisting Marwan Khalifa? Anthony Nichols?” asked Waleed.
The sheik nodded.
“Let your talented Saudi operatives handle him. No, wait, I forgot. They’re the reason Salam is still alive in the first place.”
Omar’s blood pressure was rising again. He didn’t need Waleed’s sarcasm. He was just about to rebuke the man when the telephone on his desk rang. Picking it up, he listened for a moment and then hung up. Reaching for his television remote he said, “There’s been a shooting at the University of Virginia. A bad one. Apparently, it is all over the news.”
CHAPTER 61
With the windshield missing and bullet holes on each side, Harvath knew he wouldn’t make it very far in his Trailblazer. After several minutes of driving, he discovered a heavily wooded access road that bordered the 573-acre Boar’s Head Inn Resort.
Harvath pulled off the road and drove as far as he could into the woods before shutting down the engine. Sticking to the trees, he crept around the edge of the golf course until he reached the inn. The valets were extremely busy, and it didn’t take Harvath long to find what he was looking for.
A queue of cars, with their keys in the ignitions, sat waiting to be parked. Harvath never liked doing things the hard way if he didn’t have to. Walking up to a green Volvo sedan like he owned it, Harvath slid inside, started it up, and pulled away from the inn.
It took him a few moments to get his bearings and find the access road, but once he did, he drove straight to the spot in the woods where he had hidden his Trailblazer.
Harvath took the license plates off his SUV and transferred everything, including all of the weapons, into the trunk of the Volvo and then carefully made his way home.
“I’ll send a team down to pick up your car and have them drop the one you borrowed where it’ll be found,” said Lawlor as Harvath removed the last of his gear from the Volvo. “I’ll get to work on the police at UVA as well.”
Harvath reached into his pocket and removed the memory card from the camera phone. “This has photos of the two men I shot,” he said as he handed it to Gary, “as well as a picture of their license plate.”
“The car’s probably stolen, but we’ll run it anyway. Do you need anything else while I’m out?”
Harvath shook his head.
“Okay,” said Gary as he got into the Volvo. “I’ll requisition a car for you and be back by seven so you’ll have plenty of time to make it into D.C.”
Harvath watched as Lawlor drove off from Bishop’s Gate. A visit to the White House was about the last thing he was in the mood for. He had not seen Jack Rutledge face-to-face since shortly after Tracy’s shooting and had no desire to see him now. It had been Harvath’s idea for Nichols to remain in seclusion and work on the missing Koranic texts at Bishop’s Gate. But to do that he needed Jefferson’s wheel cipher and the other documents the president had in his possession. And though Rutledge could have given them to Gary to bring back to Bishop’s Gate, the president had insisted that Harvath come and pick them up personally. It se
emed that like it or not, Harvath was finally going to have to face Jack Rutledge.
After checking on Nichols and giving him the flash drive as well as the other items he’d collected from his office at UVA, Harvath walked into the kitchen. Putting on water for coffee, he suddenly thought better of it and turned it off.
He’d been on edge for the last several hours. His nerves were raw and his jet lag was kicking in. He didn’t need to be downing cups of coffee, what he needed was rest.
Harvath headed upstairs and, ignoring the picture of him and Tracy on his nightstand, lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. He worked on quieting his mind and clearing it of all thoughts.
Slowly he was able to disconnect until he finally stepped off the edge into a deep, dreamless sleep. He stayed in that state for several hours until he was awakened by the sound of Lawlor coming back down the driveway.
Though his body fought him on it, Harvath dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom. He took a long, hot shower, letting the water beat down on his neck and shoulders.
When he’d had enough, he threw the temperature selector all the way to cold and stood there for as long as he could. The shock was better than a double espresso.
Climbing out of the shower, Harvath shaved, dried his hair and then picked out a suit. It might have been Saturday, but he was going to the White House to meet the president and he would dress appropriately.
When he was dressed, he followed the smell of coffee down to the kitchen. Lawlor was working his magic again with the French press.
“Any news on Tracy?” he asked.
“No,” replied Lawlor as he handed him a cup. “But the two guys you laid out at UVA have come back with interesting backgrounds.”
“Such as?”
“Apparently, they’re Saudi nationals with several aliases. Some of the information suggests they may have been with Saudi Intelligence.”
“Were these guys being run by the Saudis?” asked Harvath as he took a sip of coffee. “Or were they freelancers like Dodd?”
“Based on the crown prince’s interest in what the president has been up to, we think the Saudis were running them,” said Lawlor. “My guess is that they were sitting on Nichols’ office and his apartment in case he showed up. I don’t think they followed you to UVA. I think they were already there.”
“Me too,” said Harvath.
Lawlor handed him a set of car keys. “Black Tahoe outside. I had the OnStar and the other GPS gear removed.”
“Thanks.”
Harvath slid the keys into his pocket and took his coffee cup with him into the church. After sliding back the altar, he walked down into the crypt and laid out two pistols, his tactical rifle, and a handful of frag grenades.
While he didn’t plan on encountering any trouble on his quick round-trip to the White House, he’d felt the same way before leaving for UVA.
But unlike his trip to UVA, this time, he was going to be bringing back a critical package and he had no intention of letting anyone but Anthony Nichols get their hands on it.
CHAPTER 62
THE WHITE HOUSE
Carolyn Leonard met Harvath at the vehicle entrance on 17th and Pennsylvania Avenue. The president had instructed that Harvath be cleared all the way through and not searched. Knowing Harvath and the nature of the work he did for the president, Leonard assumed it was because he would be coming armed; probably heavily armed.
After the retractable bollards had been lowered and Harvath had driven through, Leonard hopped in the passenger seat and rode with him through one more checkpoint before having him park between the Treasury Department and the East Wing on East Executive Drive.
“Should I leave my nine iron in the car?” asked Harvath as he patted his side.
“If it was up to me, yes, but the president has made it clear that you have a full pass. So it’s your call,” she replied as she climbed out.
Harvath preferred to have at least one weapon under his control at all times. Not that anyone was going to break into his vehicle on the White House grounds and sabotage his gear, but being just a little bit paranoid was what kept people in his line of work alive. He decided to retain his sidearm.
Leonard radioed that they were on their way in and Harvath walked alongside her across the street.
It was a strange feeling being back at the White House. Harvath had spent many nights in the residence while on the president’s Secret Service detail and it was eerie how quiet the building could be—almost like a church.
There was no staff visible as they made their way into the main elevator and Leonard pressed the button for the third floor. “Solarium?” ventured Harvath.
The woman shook her head in response.
When the elevator opened on the third floor, Harvath heard the crack of billiard balls and had his answer. Leonard led him across the central hall to the game room on the south side of the residence.
As they approached, Harvath studied the president’s detail agents standing at their posts outside—one male, one female. Harvath didn’t recognize either of them. They gave him the same considered once-over he had bestowed many times upon Rutledge’s visitors as a Secret Service agent. He knew that they lived by the maxim: Be polite to everyone you meet, but have a plan of how to kill them. It was a habit Harvath still employed to this day.
“Excuse me, Mr. President,” said Leonard as she knocked on the game room door. “Scot Harvath is here.”
Rutledge, his sleeves rolled up and his tie discarded, leaned his cue against the Brunswick pool table and replied, “At last, somebody who can hold their own in here. How are you doing, Scot?”
“I’m fine, sir,” said Harvath as he met the president halfway and they shook hands.
“Would you like a beer?” asked Rutledge, as Leonard left the room and closed the door behind her.
Harvath tapped his hip, indicating he was carrying his weapon.
“Watching your waist?” joked the president as he walked over to a small refrigerator and opened its door. “How about a Diet Coke?”
“That would be great,” replied Harvath. “Thank you.”
Rutledge pulled out a can of Diet Coke for Harvath and a bottle of St. Pauli Girl for himself and opened them up. He handed the can to Harvath and clinked his bottle against it. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Harvath replied.
“Did you know that President Lincoln was a confessed billiards addict?” asked the president.
“No, I didn’t,” replied Harvath, who had played pool once or twice with Rutledge on the road, but never in the White House game room.
“Lincoln called it a health-inspiring, scientific game that lends recreation to an otherwise fatigued mind. Why don’t you choose a cue and we’ll lag for break.”
Harvath took a sip of his Diet Coke, removed his jacket, and then selected a cue. He beat the president just barely on the lag and was given the honor of the break.
They settled on a straight game of eight ball. Harvath had learned a long time ago that the key to a clean break was the same as a good shot off the golf tee. It was all about a smooth backswing and clean follow-through.
Drawing the cue back farther than most in order to put extra power into his shot, Harvath struck the cue ball and sent it rocketing forward. There was an impressive crack as the cue met the other balls, sending three spinning into pockets.
After a short run of the table, Harvath scratched and handed control over to the president.
“I’ve been waiting for this meeting for a long time,” said Rutledge.
Harvath leaned on his cue and took another sip of his Diet Coke. Though he made up his mind to let bygones be bygones, the air was still thick with tension. “I know you have, sir,” he replied.
“Scot, I need to tell you in person how sorry I am for what happened. If I had known any harm was going to come to you or the people you care about, I would have warned you.”
“Mr. President,” Harvath began, but Rutledge stopped him.
“I made a deal with terrorists,” he continued, “and you personally suffered because of it. Though they violated the nature of the agreement, I still held you back from getting involved and protecting those around you. That was wrong, and I take full responsibility.
“You have proven yourself time and again to this administration and to your country. I have repeatedly told you what an asset you are, yet when my back was against the wall I shunned your help and forced you to decide between protecting the people important to you and being labeled a traitor and I’m sorry for that.”
After his phone call with the president from Paris, Harvath hadn’t expected the subject to be brought up again. The president’s humility spoke to the strength of character that Harvath had always admired in him.
Rutledge came around to Harvath’s side of the table and extended his hand once more. “I only want you to take it if you truly accept my apology.”
Harvath didn’t need to think about it and he didn’t need to hear any more. Firmly and without hesitation, he gripped the president’s hand and forgave him.
“Good,” said Rutledge as he lined up his next shot. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I can give you what you came for.”
CHAPTER 63
Aydin Ozbek sat in his house alone with the lights out and only a bottle of Maker’s Mark to keep him company. It had been one of the worst days of his life.
Rasmussen’s gunshot wound was more serious than he had thought. Without the tourniquet pants he would have bled out and died in the apartment. He was lucky to be alive.
Then there was Stephanie Whitcomb. Her throat had been slashed ear-to-ear. When Ozbek found her, she was already dead. There was nothing he could have done to save her.
Her body lay in the back of his truck under a blanket while he transported Rasmussen to the nearest level one trauma center and dumped him at the Emergency Room entrance.