by Brad Thor
Lawlor and Nichols were standing outside the front door waiting for him.
“You’ve got a key,” said Harvath as he approached. “What are you standing out here for?”
“It didn’t seem right,” said Lawlor. “It’s your house, after all.”
Harvath took the key from Lawlor and unlocked the sturdy front door. As he walked in, he was greeted by the solid scent of stone and timber.
Hanging on the wall in the vestibule was a beautiful piece of wood he had discovered in the rectory attic carved with the Anglican missionaries’ motto TRANSIENS ADIUVANOS—I go overseas to give help.
He had discovered it on his first visit, and it had struck him as a sign that he and Bishop’s Gate were meant to be together. It was prophetically fitting for the career Harvath had chosen for himself.
For a moment, he was reminded of why he had devoted his life to combating the terrorist threat to America at home and overseas.
He was also reminded of Tracy and how rather than make him choose between her and aiding the president, she had selflessly removed herself from the equation. Harvath allowed himself a sliver of belief that maybe he could have both the career he wanted and a fulfilling family life.
“What did you and Tracy do with Bullet?” asked Lawlor who had followed Harvath inside and interrupted his train of thought.
Nichols asked, “Who’s Bullet?” as he admired the extraordinary old church.
“Biggest dog you’ve ever seen in your life, even as a puppy,” replied Lawlor. “They call them Caucasian Ovcharkas. The Russian Military and the former East German Border Patrol loved them. Fast as hell, smart and incredibly loyal. Those things can weigh upward of two hundred pounds and they stand over forty-one inches at the shoulder.”
Nichols let out a whistle of appreciation.
“Finney and Parker have him,” replied Harvath.
“Those guys are good pals,” said Lawlor with a laugh. “Dogzilla is probably eating them out of house and home.”
“Where’d you find a dog like that?” inquired Nichols.
Harvath looked up the stairs toward the bedroom he’d been sleeping in when Tracy had been shot and said, “Don’t ask.”
Harvath wasn’t in the mood to discuss his odd acquaintance with a dwarf named Nicholas who dealt in the purchase and sale of highly classified information and who was known throughout the intelligence world as the Troll.
“I put groceries in the fridge,” stated Lawlor. “Let’s get some coffee on and talk about what we need to do.”
“Sounds good to me,” replied the professor.
“I’ll be there shortly,” said Harvath as he walked away. He needed a few more minutes alone to gather his thoughts and process being home before he would be ready to talk about what would come next.
CHAPTER 56
Lawlor was a master with Tracy’s French press, something Harvath had never gotten the hang of. He didn’t know if it was because he was too lazy to bother with it or if he just liked watching Tracy go through the effort for him.
Either way, by the time Harvath came into the kitchen, Lawlor was pouring three steaming cups of fresh coffee. He took his and sat down at the table where Nichols and Lawlor joined him.
Nichols was the first to speak. “So I understand that this is now my new home?”
“For the time being,” replied Harvath as he took a sip of coffee.
“What about all of my research materials? My books? My toothbrush even?”
“Make a list and we’ll get it for you,” said Lawlor.
Harvath held up his hand as he set his coffee cup down. “This guy Dodd is good, Gary, very good. We have no idea where he is or who he’s working with. He could have already left Paris and be on his way here for all we know. Professor Nichols needs to be protected ’round the clock.”
Lawlor nodded. “You’re right,” he said. Turning back to Nichols he added, “Scot will get you everything you need. You and I will stay here.”
“We also need to lay some ground rules,” said Harvath.
The professor looked at him. “Like what?”
“For one, no phone calls, no exceptions. Gary will set you up on a secure server for e-mails. Follow his protocols and don’t deviate.
“Two, you are not to leave the property under any circumstances. If you want to take a walk, Gary or I will go with you. We need to know where you are at all times. Understood?”
Nichols nodded.
“Good,” said Harvath. “You can work in my study. Gary will get you settled in. In the meantime,” he added as he leaned over to his breakfront and removed a pad and pen from one of its drawers, “let’s get cracking on the list of things you need from your apartment as well as your office in Charlottesville. The sooner I get that trip out of the way, the better I’m going to feel.”
Nichols was still working on his list when Harvath topped off his cup with more coffee and left him in the kitchen with Lawlor.
Scot walked down the narrow stone hallway from the rectory and took one of the discreet side doors that opened into the little church.
In its day, Bishop’s Gate must have been a real espionage paradise because beneath its sturdy foundation, it was replete with secret rooms and passages. Harvath was amazed that the ONI had never discovered them. Then again, maybe they had, but out of respect had left them untouched.
Harvath, though, had seen their incredible potential and had put the best of the passages and subterranean chambers to use.
He had uncovered them when trying to move the baptismal font to the other side of the church. The font contained an intricate locking mechanism that took Harvath an entire week to repair. Once he had it working, he discovered that the church’s stone altar could be moved forty-five degrees, revealing a narrow set of circular stairs that led into an area Harvath fondly referred to as his “crypt.”
Harvath winced as he squeezed down the stairs and remembered what a royal pain in the ass it had been getting all of the materials down there. But it had been worth it. Here, Harvath stored the tools of his trade.
A hidden ventilation system assured a constant flow of fresh air which concealed dehumidifiers dried and circulated. The crypt maintained a constant temperature and electricity was provided via a set of rechargeable marine batteries which powered the overhead lights.
Harvath flipped on the light switch and the long, slightly rectangular room was bathed in a fluorescent glow. Steel racks lined each wall, while a wide stainless steel table ran down the center of the room.
Scot Harvath had a lot of friends, both within the special operations community and within the community of those dedicated to providing America’s top operatives with all the gear and equipment they needed to get the job done and get it done right.
A fellow SEAL who had started the world’s preeminent tactical equipment company, Black-hawk Industries, made sure that Harvath had every item they had ever made. Harvath had introduced them to a brilliant young frontline doctor who had designed a new battle dress uniform with built-in tourniquets that was going to revolutionize what military and law enforcement members wore into battle. Blackhawk had snatched the doctor up and now hanging in one of Harvath’s steel cages were several pairs of new tourniquet pants, which every military expert was saying was the greatest battlefield innovation since body armor.
Beyond Harvath’s collection of Blackhawk Warrior Wear, Under Armour clothing, demolitions gear, communications equipment, night vision accoutrements, his pistols and his knives was finally, his heavy equipment.
Next to his Beretta, Benelli, Remington, and Mossberg shotguns were two pristine Robar RC 50 rifles and hanging next to those works of art were his heavy-use items.
Having contributed multiple design suggestions to H&K while with the SEALs’ Dev Group, Harvath had one of almost every Heckler & Koch machine and submachine gun model produced in the last twenty years. He also had variants of M16 Clinic’s awesome Viper.
While they were all exceptional, H
arvath’s most lethal, most effective and most accurate piece came out of a quiet, sophisticated shop in Leander, Texas, called LaRue Tactical that stamped all of their gear Live Free or Die.
Harvath’s pal and his dog’s namesake, Bullet Bob Herrington, had turned him on to Mark LaRue, and no matter what crazy requests Harvath had ever thrown at his shop, the folks at LaRue Tactical had always come back with something better than he had asked for. Many people joked that Mark was a Texas version of James Bond’s Q and that as a proud Texan, maybe his codename should be BB-Q. LaRue Tactical was a SEAL and Delta Force–preferred supplier, and it was easy to understand why.
Harvath reached over and took down his custom built, short-barreled LaRue M4 “stealth” tactical rifle. It looked like an ordinary door-kicker weapon, but it was anything but. It was so incredibly accurate that with the right high-powered optics on it Harvath could shoot three-inch groups at six hundred yards.
With an Aimpoint CompM4 red dot sight system for day-to-day usage, a Xiphos NT rail light, and an FSL Laserlyte laser, the weapon was one of his most prized possessions. In honor of Harvath’s Norseman call sign, Mark LaRue had laser-engraved the magazine well with the mythological hammer of Thor, the Norse god of thunder.
For his sidearm, Harvath selected an HK 45 caliber USP Tactical, 230-grain Winchester SXT&P ammo and extra mags along with Gemtech suppressors for both weapons. He then unfolded a cleaning mat on the table and set about cleaning and oiling each weapon to make sure they were in absolutely perfect working order.
After loading several black polymer Magpul magazines with twenty-eight rounds of 77-grain Black Hills Mk262 ammo, he loaded the tactical rifle, its suppressor and mags into a special case while everything else went into a low-profile, Blackhawk messenger-style over-the-shoulder bag. Harvath then shut down the lights and exited the crypt.
After putting the altar back in place, he assembled his gear near the front door and walked back into the kitchen. Professor Nichols was at the stove scrambling eggs while Lawlor sat at the table reading his handwritten list.
“Is that it?” Harvath asked as he entered.
Lawlor pushed the piece of paper to the edge of the table and took off his glasses. “That’s it,” he said.
“Do you want breakfast before you go?” asked Nichols as he lifted Tracy’s cast iron skillet off the stove.
“Sure,” replied Harvath, hoping that he wouldn’t need any of the equipment he had just spent all that time assembling.
Nevertheless, Better to have it and not need it was one of Harvath’s favorite maxims. Actually his favorite maxim was Better to have a lot of it and not need it, but that was beside the point. If anything happened, he wanted to make sure that he was prepared.
CHAPTER 57
Even though it was Saturday, Harvath hadn’t been able to find parking right away. Like any college campus, street parking at UVA was on a first-come-first-served basis. As a result, he ended up having to park several blocks away from the Corcoran Department of History.
He didn’t mind. After the drive down, it felt good to get out and stretch his legs. It also felt nice to be on a university campus again. He was surprised to see how busy and vibrant it was even on a weekend.
After a short walk, Harvath arrived at a three-story brick building called Randall Hall. Nichols’ office was on the second floor, and Harvath used the keys the professor had given him to let himself in. He was quite surprised at what he found. It was a lot different than he had expected.
Instead of vintage academia, the décor was quite stylish. The furniture was sleek and modern. Oil paintings of early American scenes were interspersed with tasteful black-and-white photography. Nichols was turning out to be somewhat of an iconoclast.
The focal point of the room was a stunning, dark wooden Bauhaus desk positioned in front of the windows with a ribbed leather desk chair and matching blotter. A vintage 1930s black Bakelite telephone retrofitted for modern use sat next to a sleek Apple computer. The desk was polished to such a shine that Harvath could actually see his reflection in it.
Wooden file cabinets ran the length of one wall while bookshelves ran the length of the other. There were the requisite historical texts one would expect to find in the office of a Jefferson scholar, as well as tomes by leading Democratic authors from the last several decades. Removing a couple of them, Harvath noticed that many had been signed. It was an impressive collection.
He tracked down the two Jefferson volumes the professor had asked for and slid them into his bag.
In the far corner of the room, just as Nichols had said it would be, was his blue KIVA-brand athletic bag with a tennis racquet and info on UVA’s Snyder Tennis Center sticking out of it. Though Nichols claimed he was the only one with keys to his office, Harvath had worried that his choice of a hiding spot for his flash drive might have been a little too attractive for thieves.
Unzipping the main compartment of the bag, Harvath removed a pair of shorts and a Clinton/Gore T-shirt, and then found what he was looking for.
Pulling the plastic lid off a can of tennis balls, he dumped them into his hand. He had to give the professor credit. In practice, it actually was a rather ingenious way to hide his flash drive. Harvath probably never would have looked there. He found the razor-thin incision in the last ball and ripped it the rest of the way open.
The flash drive had fit perfectly inside. So snug was it that someone could have bounced the tennis ball and not even heard the device rattling within. Harvath removed the drive and slid it into his pocket. He had at least a two-hour drive in front of him and he still needed to swing by Nichols’ house to pick up his clothes, as well as some other items. Exiting the professor’s office, he pulled the door shut and locked it behind him.
Once outside, Harvath headed toward the central part of campus where his SUV was parked.
He entered the dramatic, colonnade-lined commons known as the Lawn. At the very top was the Rotunda, the architectural and intellectual heart of UVA, which Jefferson had designed himself and based upon the Pantheon in Rome.
The thought of the Pantheon brought back a flood of memories for Harvath. The last time he had seen it he’d almost been killed.
With that realization, a strange feeling washed over him. It took him a moment to realize that the feeling had nothing to do with cheating death all those years ago in Italy. It had to do with right here and right now.
As the hair on the back of his neck stood up, Harvath’s hand slid into his bag and searched for the butt of his Heckler & Koch.
Somebody was following him.
CHAPTER 58
Hamza Ayyad and Rafiq Sa’id were no strangers to killing. Ex–Saudi Intelligence operatives, they had been steeped in every facet of tradecraft and the black arts known to man.
As well as being especially skilled at taking lives, they were exceptional stalkers who could seemingly appear and disappear at will. At least that was how things operated in the Middle East. In the United States, it was a bit different.
While the two men were of average height and unremarkable facial features, their Arab appearance made it harder for them to blend into American crowds, even on a diverse campus like UVA. What’s more, they were stalking a professional—someone who instinctively checked for tails.
Failing to kill Andrew Salam when Hamza and Rafiq had had the chance was an unforgivable offense. Salam should have died alongside Nura Khalifa. The only thing that had redeemed the two Saudi operatives in Sheik Omar’s eyes was the exceptional job they had done planting the evidence of a failed relationship between the young man and woman.
Mistakes did happen, but that was not what Hamza and Rafiq were being paid for. Omar had brought them to America for results. He would not react well to another failure, which was all the more reason they had to succeed now.
Monitoring Randall Hall and Professor Nichols’ campus apartment had been a tedious chore, but Omar had insisted on it. The operation in Paris had been a total failure and the sh
eik was beyond angry.
Al-Din, Omar’s American assassin, had e-mailed the sheik French security-cam photos of the man and woman who had been helping Nichols. Hamza and Rafiq had been told by Omar in no uncertain terms what he expected them to do if they came across Nichols or any of his associates.
Hamza had been surveilling Randall Hall when the man had shown up. After checking his photo against the one he’d been given by Omar, he called Rafiq and instructed him to pick up their car and get over to Randall Hall as soon as possible.
They both carried pistols, but they were for self-defense only. Even suppressed firearms made noise and could draw unwanted attention. Any killing these men did was usually up close and personal, with their bare hands or a wide variety of quiet weapons like knives, needles, karambits, or any one of dozens of everyday items.
Just by how the man acted and carried himself while walking into Randall Hall, Hamza could tell that he was a professional. He was fit and agile, his eyes wary and alert. Though he dressed down with the clothes he wore, the man also had a formidable build. Even with the element of surprise, Hamza knew he would not be an easy kill. Too many things could go wrong and that was something they could not afford. That was why he had called for Rafiq. Together, the two of them could take him down without incident.
That was until he had suddenly left the building.
The man had been inside for less than ten minutes. As Hamza waited and then fell in a safe distance behind him, he used his Bluetooth headset to carry on a conversation with Rafiq and keep him informed of their position.
Dressed in jeans and hiking boots with a windbreaker over a denim shirt, Hamza carried a small backpack to better blend in with the student body population. It was a beneficial side effect of the 9/11 attacks that while Americans might be more suspicious of people who appeared to be Muslim, they had tied themselves in such politically correct knots that even campus police, fearing professional and personal discrimination lawsuits, would think four times before questioning someone who looked like Rafiq or Hamza. As a result, the two Saudi hit men had been able to roam the UVA campus with impunity.