by Brad Thor
He examined it from every angle, but couldn’t find a way to access its inner workings.
He then attempted to manipulate the scribe and discovered that it was hinged and could be tilted back about forty-five degrees, but for what purpose, no one understood.
When next he tried to gently twist the figure and nothing happened, he tried pushing it down like a child safety cap on a bottle of pills. Suddenly there was a click and the top of the clock popped loose.
Harvath had Nichols hold the flashlight as he removed the top and looked inside.
The elegance of the workmanship was astounding. Harvath couldn’t believe he was looking at something that was not only designed, but fabricated and assembled over eight hundred years ago.
“How does it work?” asked Moss.
“It was probably powered by water,” replied Nichols, “at least when it came to telling time.”
“But something tells me this device does a lot more than just tell time,” said Harvath as he looked at the underside of the lid and found a small pocket.
Sliding the tips of his fingers inside, he coaxed out a delicate gear that was identical to the one in the mechanical schematic. Panning the light over it, he located the Basmala.
Without needing to be asked, Nichols retrieved the mechanical diagram and set it on the desk next to the device.
Harvath took a deep breath and reminded himself to go slowly. He needed to take great pains not to damage anything while remembering each move he made in case any of them were incorrect and he had to back up and do something over again.
He wished that Tracy could have been there. Despite what had happened to her in Iraq, as a Naval EOD tech she was exceptional at handling this exact kind of situation. Harvath’s hands were not made for this type of work.
Even so, he wouldn’t have wanted anyone else in the room doing what he was doing right now.
Nichols held the light steady as Harvath tried to reposition the gears as Jefferson had indicated in his diagram. He had no idea what kind of metal or alloy that they had been crafted from, but they were incredibly clean and free of rust even after hundreds of years.
It took him twenty minutes, but as he positioned the Basmala gear, he finally fully exhaled for what felt like the first time. His sense of relief, though, was short lived.
As he snapped the gear in place, something within the device sprung loose. The entire inner mechanism, which rested on a series of small legs inside the housing, dropped a quarter of an inch. One of the razor-sharp gears nicked the tip of Harvath’s left thumb.
Cursing, Harvath snatched his hand back. It was already starting to bleed.
“Are you okay?” asked Nichols.
“I’m fine,” said Harvath as he untucked his shirt and used the bottom of it to apply pressure to stop the bleeding.
Ozbek walked over to the toolbox and tossed Harvath a tube of Krazy Glue. “Here,” he said, “use this.”
Harvath employed his teeth to help unscrew the cap and then applied some of the compound to his wound and pinched it shut.
Turning his attention back to the device, he noticed that when the mechanism had dropped, a hidden door on the side of the housing had opened. Protruding from it was a small handle. It reminded Harvath of the crank for a child’s jack-in-the-box.
“I think I know how we’re supposed to power this,” he said.
CHAPTER 84
As Harvath turned the tiny handle, they all watched the scribe circle and glide across the top of the drum. It was amazingly graceful and fluid, but no one had any idea what its purpose was.
“How many letters are there in the Arabic alphabet?” asked Nichols as he withdrew a piece of paper from his folder.
“Twenty-eight as far as basic letters are concerned,” replied Ozbek. “Why?”
“This could be some sort of code. Maybe Scot’s winding the handle too fast. Let’s slow it down and watch what the scribe does in relation to the hour markers.”
“But there are only twenty-four of those.”
“Can’t hurt to try,” replied the professor.
Harvath thought he was right and began turning the handle more slowly.
Each time Nichols thought the scribe was pointing to a specific number, he wrote it down. The more Harvath watched, though, the more he had the feeling this wasn’t about numbers.
Tucking his shirt back in, he noticed the blood on it and that gave him an idea. Turning to Nichols, he said, “Give me that piece of paper for a second.”
As he did, Harvath grabbed his Poplar Forest information packet and spread its contents on the desk.
Crouching down so that he could have the device at eye level, Harvath stacked several of the brochures until they came to just beneath the level of the scribe’s quill. He then tilted the scribe back, slid Nichols’ piece of paper atop the brochure and then put his thumb in his mouth and pulled the dried Krazy Glue off his skin with his teeth.
After wetting the scribe’s quill with his blood, Harvath tilted him back down. With the nib against the paper, he started turning the handle again. As he did, Arabic writing began to materialize on the page.
“My God,” said Nichols.
“You mean Allah, don’t you?” joked Ozbek as he slapped Harvath on the back. “Well done.”
Harvath smiled. Looking at Jonathan Moss, he asked, “Do you have any bottles of writing ink anywhere?”
Moss was so amazed it took him a moment to register Harvath’s request. “Yes we do,” he finally said. “I’ll go get some.”
As he left, Harvath wrapped the bottom of his shirt around his bleeding thumb again.
“You know,” remarked Ozbek, “Saddam Hussein had a whole Koran written in his own blood. I thought SEALs were supposed to be tough guys.”
Harvath mumbled a good-natured “Fuck you” as he opened the tube of Krazy Glue again with his teeth and resealed his wound.
“I can’t believe it,” said Nichols as he stared at the scribe clock.
“Believe it,” replied Harvath who retrieved the page from beneath the scribe’s quill and opened the lid to look inside again. “When Moss gets back, we’ll reset it and get the whole message from the beginning.”
“I only wish Marwan could have been here to see this.”
“I know,” said Harvath as he put his hand on the professor’s shoulder and they stood there admiring the machine and the awesome impact it was going to have.
Five minutes later, Poplar Forest’s director walked back into the room. The first thing Harvath noticed was that his hands were empty and he had a look on his face like he was being chased by the Headless Horseman himself. Harvath was about to ask him what was wrong when he noticed someone behind him.
Susan Ferguson began sobbing as she appeared in the doorway with a suppressed weapon tight against her head held by none other than Matthew Dodd.
Harvath and Ozbek drew their pistols.
“Easy, gentlemen,” said Dodd with a smile. “Now, drop the guns on the floor and kick them over here.”
When the men hesitated, Dodd readjusted his aim and shot Jonathan Moss through his left shoulder.
The Poplar Forest director screamed in agony.
“Weapons on the floor and kick them over here now,” yelled Dodd.
Harvath and Ozbek reluctantly complied. Neither of them had even a halfway decent shot. If they’d had, they would have taken it, but as it was, Dodd was using both Susan Ferguson and the doorframe to his utmost advantage.
“Good,” said Dodd, who then shouted at Moss, “Get over here and pick those up.”
The man was crying and rapidly going into shock. His right hand was clamped down over his shoulder which was becoming soaked with blood.
Dodd repeated the command and punctuated it by firing a round into the floor near Moss’ feet.
The director stumbled over to the weapons and picked them up. Remaining near the floor with his head down, he handed them up one at a time to Dodd.
“Now go
get that clock,” ordered the assassin, “and all the papers on that desk.”
Harvath was standing in front of the device, with the back of his legs pressed up against the desk. As Moss approached, Dodd indicated with two quick flicks of his weapon for Harvath to move out of the way.
Harvath knew better than to tempt Dodd. Lowering his hands against his sides, he gestured for Nichols to move to his left, closer to Ozbek. Once Nichols had done so, Harvath followed.
“Bring it here,” said Dodd as the director closed the lid and then struggled to pick the device up.
Wrapping his good arm around it, the man pinned the al-Jazari clock to his chest, grabbed all the papers, and slowly brought everything back over to the assassin.
As he drew even, Dodd motioned for him to stand in the room behind him. Once Moss had passed, the assassin looked straight at Harvath and Ozbek. “I’ve got what I came for,” he said. “Whether anybody dies today is up to you.”
“We’re not even, Dodd,” replied Ozbek. “Not by a long shot.”
“Should we settle up right now?” asked the assassin as he pointed the pistol at the CIA operative’s head.
Nichols looked like he was gearing up to say something and Harvath stepped on his foot to keep him quiet.
“Get moving,” Dodd said as he placed the pistol back against Ferguson’s head and began to back out of the room.
“What about them?” asked Harvath, referring to the two captives. “You don’t need to take them with you.”
“No, I don’t,” Dodd replied, “but I’m going to.”
“The man needs medical attention.”
The assassin stared at Harvath. “He’ll live as long as nobody tries to follow us.”
“Nobody is going to follow you,” said Harvath.
Tightening his grip on Susan Ferguson, the assassin motioned for Moss to start walking and he slowly backed out of the room.
Once he had disappeared from view and they heard the door at the front of the house slam shut, Ozbek said, “Let’s go. Come on.”
“He’s got two hostages,” replied Harvath.
“I understand that, but we can’t just let him disappear with that device.”
“It’s no good to him anyway.”
“What do you mean?” said Ozbek. “All he has to do is slide some paper in there, ink the quill and crank the handle.”
“It won’t work without this,” replied Harvath as he held up the Basmala gear. His fingertips were bloody from having blindly pulled it from the machine behind his back while Dodd’s attention was on collecting their weapons from the floor.
“He still has Susan and Jonathan, though,” protested Nichols. “He’ll kill them.”
“I don’t think he’ll kill them,” replied Harvath as he once again used his shirt to stem his bleeding.
“Why? Because he didn’t kill Gary?” challenged Ozbek.
Harvath looked at him. “That’s exactly why. If we let him go, Moss and Ferguson have a much better chance of surviving and you know it. I want this guy too, but let’s be smart.”
“Fuck ‘smart.’ We’re wasting time.”
Harvath knew Ozbek had lost a member of his team and had another in the hospital because of Dodd, but getting more people killed wasn’t going to fix anything. “Listen to me. Don’t let your desire to make Dodd pay for what he did to your people cloud your judgment.”
Ozbek knew Harvath was right, but it pissed him off. Picking up the hammer, he threw it at the fireplace.
Nichols was about to register another objection when they heard the front door crash open and Jonathan Moss begin screaming for help.
En masse, they ran to the front of the house where Moss lay on the threshold bleeding. “I need a doctor,” he cried.
“What happened?” asked Harvath. “Where did they go?”
“I don’t know. The man told me to turn around and then they just disappeared!”
Ozbek held out his hand to Moss. “Give me your car keys.”
“Aydin, no,” ordered Harvath, but it was too late.
Ozbek pulled the keys from Moss’ jacket pocket and ran for the parking lot.
There was no use in trying to stop him. Instead, Harvath handed Nichols Moss’ cell phone and had him call 911 while he tore open the man’s shirt to assess his wound and rig a makeshift pressure bandage that would slow the bleeding until help arrived.
Moments later, Ozbek reappeared. “Your car and Moss’ are out of commission,” he said to Harvath. “All of the tires have been slashed.”
CHAPTER 85
WASHINGTON, D.C.
TWO DAYS LATER
Harvath had decided it was best to stay away from Bishop’s Gate until a much better security system could be installed. He had returned only once to gather up some things and then camped out at Gary Lawlor’s place in Fairfax.
Though Gary was still in the ICU with a skull fracture, he’d made Harvath give him a full oral debriefing and a written one as well. Harvath knew it would be delivered to the president. He hadn’t thought anything further of it until he received a call from Rutledge asking him to come to the White House ASAP.
Harvath hoped that it wasn’t bad news, and that if it was that it didn’t involve Tracy. He knew from experience, though, that when the president called and told you to get into his office double quick, it wasn’t because you’d won the lottery.
Carolyn Leonard met Harvath at the Southwest Gate and escorted him past security and into the West Wing. “This is your second visit in less than a week,” she said as they walked. “Does this mean we’re going to start seeing more of you around here?”
“Maybe,” Harvath replied, more amenable than he had been in a long time to the idea.
At the Oval Office, Leonard checked with Jack Rutledge’s secretary and then knocked. When the president answered, she let Harvath in and closed the door behind him.
Rutledge stood from behind his desk and met his guest in the center of the room. “Thanks for coming, Scot,” he said as they shook hands.
The president pointed toward the couches, indicating they should sit there.
Once they were seated, Rutledge said, “It’s been a rough handful of days.”
The president was obviously concerned with their newly mended fences and was downplaying events.
Though Harvath hadn’t asked for the assignment, he’d accepted it and therefore win or lose, the responsibility for it was his. “I’m sorry, sir, but ‘rough’ doesn’t do it. I failed and I apologize.”
Rutledge leaned over to the coffee table and lifted a leather folder. “I read your briefing. Do you have the Basmala gear?”
Harvath withdrew an envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to him.
Lifting the flap, the president removed the gear and held it up so that he could look at it. “Amazing. And it was at Poplar Forest all this time.”
“I just wish we could have learned what the final revelation was,” said Harvath.
Rutledge set the tooth-studded piece of metal down. “Because of the personal nature of the presidential diary, Anthony Nichols was never allowed to see it in its entirety. I can tell you that Jefferson’s research led him to believe that Mohammed’s final revelation was the only one to have come directly to him from God, not through the angel Gabriel. In a nutshell, if you believe it, Mohammed was told that war and conquest were not the answers. He was told to put down the sword and live peacefully among peoples of other faiths. Jefferson commented that it sounded similar to the conversion of Paul, though Mohammed wasn’t leaving Islam for Christianity. He was just hanging up his sword and encouraging his followers to do the same.”
Harvath was stunned.
“Pretty significant revelation,” said the president. “Isn’t it?”
“It is. And considering the fact that such a large degree of the Muslims’ income was based upon looting and plundering, as well as extorting protection money from Christians and Jews who chose not to convert to Islam, it would hav
e wiped out a sizable source of revenue for their economy. It would have collapsed. No wonder his own people wanted to assassinate him.”
“Well, without the Basmala gear, the al-Jazari clock won’t do much more than tell time now,” replied Rutledge. “If it hasn’t already been destroyed.”
“What about Mahmood Omar and Abdul Waleed? You didn’t have any luck squeezing them?”
“Aydin Ozbek is a good operative,” said Rutledge, “but he was operating way outside the law. We can’t legally use anything he gained to go after those two.”
Harvath was loathe to make such a suggestion, but he felt it had to be said. “I wasn’t necessarily proposing a Marquess of Queensberry approach.”
“I understand,” replied the president. “I also agree. The two gentlemen in question have been watched very closely and we’re also looking into their ties with Saudi Arabia, but as far as we can tell right now they haven’t come into possession of the al-Jazari device.”
“Which means Dodd must still have it.”
“We’ll get to Dodd in a minute,” said the president. “As per the two dead Saudis from UVA, for whom the crown prince is going to be made to answer for, we were able to link them via DNA discovered in their car, as well as additional evidence at the Jefferson Memorial, to the murder of Nura Khalifa, and what has now been classified as the attempted murder of Andrew Salam.
“Mr. Salam was freed last night and is continuing to cooperate with the FBI and D.C. Metro Police.”
Harvath already knew that Susan Ferguson had spent an evening gagged and handcuffed in a rest stop bathroom outside D.C. before being discovered, so he turned his attention to someone else. “How’s Ozbek’s operative, Rasmussen?” he asked.
“He’s going to be fine. He’ll probably be out of the hospital by the end of the week.”
“What about Ozbek?”
The president was quiet for several moments. “Like I said, he’s a good operative, but somebody died under his command in an unsanctioned assignment. From what I’ve been told, he’s an asset we don’t want to lose and I have echoed those sentiments to DCI Vaile.”
“So he’s still with CIA? They didn’t let him go?”