The Last Patriot

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 stu

“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 have 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.