The Last Patriot

“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?”

“No, he hasn’t been let go. Officially, Ozbek is on unpaid leave from CIA pending a disciplinary review. Unofficially, he is continuing his unsanctioned surveillance of Omar and Waleed, but let’s talk about Tracy for a minute.”

This was the topic Harvath was most apprehensive about getting to. He felt certain the other shoe was about to drop and that it was going to be full of bad news.

“The French are playing hardball,” said Rutledge, “big time. To tell you the truth, I can’t say that if the situation was reversed we wouldn’t act the same.

“They’re aware of the fact that we know more than we’re letting on. The only way they’ll cooperate with us is on a quid pro quo basis. They won’t consider turning Tracy over until we give them something of equal or greater value.”

“Like what?” asked Harvath.

“Like Matthew Dodd.”

“But we don’t even know where he is.”

“That’s about to change,” replied the president.

Harvath leaned forward. It was the first piece of good news he had heard in days.

“We just learned that Dodd used a satellite phone to contact Omar. He was smart. He kept the call short in order to make it difficult to trace.”

“But you did,” said Harvath, “correct?”

“We know he was calling from somewhere outside the United States.”

“That’s it?”

The president held up his hand. “The Defense Department has a new satellite program that we’ve started using in Iraq and Afghanistan, to track high-value targets who make short SAT phone transmissions. The secretary of defense has his best people standing by. If Dodd uses his phone again, we’ll be able to pinpoint his whereabouts no matter how short the call.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Harvath.

“I have a plane at Andrew’s ready to go. When we find out where Dodd is, I want you on it. I’m authorizing you to do whatever is necessary to recover the al-Jazari device. Once we have what we need, we can get to work on finalizing Tracy’s exchange. Any questions?”

Harvath shook his head and stood.

As he was nearing the door, the president stopped him. “By the way. Your report mentioned that before Dodd took the device, you managed to get a small bit of writing out of it.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Harvath. “Just one word.”

“What was it?”

Harvath looked back across the Oval Office and said, “Peace.”

CHAPTER 86

VIRGIN GORDA

BRITISH VIRGIN ISLANDS

Located on the North Sound of the small island of Virgin Gorda was one of the best-kept secrets in the world. Accessible only by sea, the Bitter End Yacht Club was the last island outpost before the open waters of the Atlantic.

It was where Matthew Dodd and his wife, Lisa, had spent their honeymoon and to where Dodd had now returned.

He had flown into Tortola’s Beef Island airport and walked the three hundred yards to Trellis Bay where the boat he had chartered was waiting. Though he could have taken the high speed ferry to Bitter End, Dodd didn’t want to mingle with other people. He had come to be alone.

After leaving Poplar Forest, he had come to a painful conclusion. Just as he had duped Andrew Salam, he himself had been duped. He had been playing with fools; engaging in business with men who weren’t properly equipped to further Islam’s aims. The entire religion was being subverted by men who pursued Islamic supremacism at all costs. They were neither worthy of the fealty Dodd had sworn to them, nor were they worthy of their exalted positions as spokespersons and representatives of true Muslim faith in America. They hungered for power under the guise of Islam rather than for the sake of Islam. They were apostate.

Dodd was also begi

The assassin checked in at the front desk with only a backpack slung over one shoulder. The cottage built above the beach looking out over the aquamarine Caribbean water was just as he remembered it. Nothing had changed. As Dodd quietly unpacked his few possessions, he thought about the better times in his life.

He remembered Lisa’s love of snorkeling and her delight over the Bitter End’s brilliant array of wrasses, damselfish, and parrotfish. He smiled as he recalled the hours she had spent among the colorful sponges and corals just offshore.

Removing his clothes, the assassin slid into a pair of trunks and walked down to the beach. He’d dealt with sand extensively over the last several years-in his hair, in his eyes, his food, his weapons, but not between his toes where it really belonged. It felt good as the warmth radiated up through his body.

Dodd walked into the wet sand and allowed the sea to lap at his feet. Slowly he moved forward until he was up to his waist in the warm water.

After marking the time on his watch, he submersed himself beneath the surface and began swimming.

He pulled with long, powerful strokes for over half an hour. When he stepped back onto the beach, his breathing was shallow and his pulse rapid. His mind felt clear and sharp.

Outside the cottage, he cleaned the sand from his feet and then opened the screen door and stepped inside.

He stripped out of his swimsuit and rinsed off in a hot shower. With his hair slicked back and a towel wrapped around his waist, he retrieved his backpack, a glass, and walked out onto the wraparound veranda.

He placed everything on the table, sat down, and powered up his satellite phone. As it worked to establish a signal, Dodd opened one of the bottles of Arundel rum he’d bought at the airport in Tortola and poured three fingers into his glass. He and Lisa had gone through at least two bottles of it during their honeymoon.

The brown liquid burned as it went down and though it had been years since he had had a drink, the taste and the sensation were pleasant and familiar, like coming home.

His Koran should not have been sitting right there next to a bottle of alcohol. He knew that, just as he knew that he should not begin drinking again. Alcohol had only added to the darkness and despair of losing his wife and son, but here he and his Koran were anyway.

He had prayed relentlessly for guidance, but none had come. After retrieving the al-Jazari device, he had studied his heart and made his plans accordingly.

The assassin looked down at the glass in his hand and laughed. Though he was far from soft, he certainly wasn’t exhibiting much self-discipline at the moment.

Islam was the answer for America. He felt more certain of that than anything else. He was just without any idea of how to bring such a shift about.

Nevertheless, he knew that Omar with his hate-spewing mosques and Waleed with his laughably corrupt Foundation on American Islamic Relations were all standing in the way of the truly good work Islam could do in America. The two men were not part of the solution. They were abominations and unquestionably part of the problem.

Dodd poured himself another drink. He sipped slowly at it as he watched the minutes tick away on his watch.

At the appointed time, he picked up the satellite phone and dialed Sheik Omar’s private number.

Omar picked up on the first ring. “Is that you, Majd?” he asked.