The Last Patriot

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 i

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 begi

“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 pi

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.