The Last Patriot

Emerging from the final twist of the wooded drive, Harvath laid eyes on his house. Bishop’s Gate was even more beautiful than he remembered.

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.

“Fi

“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, Blackhawk 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 i

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.