The Last Patriot

“It is I,” said the assassin.

“Allah be praised. We have been so worried about you since your last call. We barely had any time to speak. Did you find it? The invention of al-Jazari?”

“I did.”

“Allahu Akbar, my brother. Allahu Akbar.” The sheik was overjoyed. “Allah’s work-our work is now secure. Allahu Akbar!”

“Are you at your desk?” asked Dodd.

“Of course I am. You’ve called me on my private line.”

“And Abdul is with you?”

“He is sitting right here,” replied Omar. “Just as you requested. When can you bring us the device?”

Dodd had no intention of staying on the phone any longer than he needed to. “Stay right there and don’t move,” he said. “I will call you back in thirty seconds.”

Omar, though frustrated, respected the need for security. What’s more, he was so happy with his assassin that at this point the man could have asked anything of him and he would have gladly obliged. “I understand,” he said. “We will be right here waiting. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar!”

Dodd hung up with the words Allahu Akbar, God Is Great, ringing in his ears.

A man of his word, the assassin began dialing the digits almost immediately, except they weren’t for the sheik’s private line. They belonged to a cell phone attached to an improvised explosive device that had been hidden behind Omar’s desk.

CHAPTER 87

BITTER END YACHT CLUB

THE NEXT EVENING

As the last rays of daylight faded, Scot Harvath watched Matthew Dodd drain the final drops out of the bottle he was drinking and stumble inside his cottage.

Having watched the man drink himself into a stupor, Harvath liked his odds. It didn’t mean the assassin wasn’t still dangerous, but it did mean his reflexes and his situational awareness would be significantly dulled.

Harvath put away his binoculars and grabbed his dry bag, grateful to finally be going topside. Though he had rented a sizeable sailboat for the operation, being cooped up belowdecks with not much of a breeze for the better part of the afternoon was not his idea of the perfect Caribbean getaway.

Needless to say, he was here to work, not to play. But a luxury yacht beat any of the snake-, scorpion-, or bug-infested hide sites he’d been forced to endure over the course of his career. Life, especially an enjoyable one, was all about perspective and as Harvath checked the restraints in the cabin he had prepared for Matthew Dodd, he reminded himself of that.

Darkness was settling in as Harvath stepped outside and took a deep breath. The evening breeze felt great against his sweat-soaked body. Quickly, he wiped himself down with fresh water and then tossed his gear into the Zodiac RIB he’d kept moored on the opposite side of the sailboat.

After casting off, he started the engine and moved toward shore, the noise from the small outboard engine just one of several that would be making their way in from the deep water harbor to the Bitter End for cocktails and di

Harvath pulled the boat onto the beach just out of sight of Dodd’s cottage and unloaded his dry bag and a small beach towel. The.40 caliber suppressed Glock 23 he had been issued for this assignment was meant to be a tool of last resort. Plan A was a new waterproof TASER that had been developed for the SEAL teams along with a potent drug cocktail that would keep Dodd sleeping like a baby until Harvath could get him back aboard the sailboat and out into the ocean where he’d be able to start his interrogation.

As Harvath got closer to the cottage, he stopped to listen for signs of what was going on. The last he had seen of Dodd, the rogue CIA operative had come back onto his veranda with another bottle and had round two of the drinking Olympics well underway.

Keep going, my friend, Harvath had thought to himself. You’re only making it easier.

The cottages were built on stilts with wooden staircases on each side of the verandas. Based on how Dodd had positioned himself to look out over the harbor, Harvath decided to come up the south set of stairs and hit him from behind.

Stopping once more at the bottom of Dodd’s staircase, Harvath listened. There was the sound of glass on glass as Dodd poured another drink and then silence.

With the beach towel over his arm and the Glock hidden beneath, Harvath crept soundlessly up the sun-bleached stairs of the cottage.

When he stepped onto the veranda he moved to the wall and kept himself pressed up against it as he continued forward.

He reached the first set of windows, their sheer curtains moving in and out with the breeze. Looking through the bedroom, Harvath could see Dodd’s outline through the open doors on the other side silhouetted by the faint glow of light from the harbor.

The assassin’s back was to him. It was time.

Harvath ducked beneath the windows and stood up on the other side. At the corner of the cottage, he listened and with nothing changed, he raised his weapon and stepped out directly behind Dodd.

As he did, Dodd shot out of his chair and leapt to his feet, but the reaction had nothing to do with Harvath.

CHAPTER 88

Harvath was surprised to see one of the Defense Department’s highest-ranking officials, Imad Ramadan, standing at the other end of the veranda with a suppressed SIG Sauer pistol in his hand.

He was a balding, barrel-chested man of average height in his mid-fifties with a thick gray goatee and dark eyes.

“You’re a long way from D.C., Imad,” said Harvath, his Glock up and at the ready.

Upon hearing the voice from behind, Dodd spun to see who it was and almost lost his balance. He had to reach out and grab the table to keep from falling over. Even then, he was so drunk he couldn’t stop swaying.

“Whoever you are,” said Ramadan, “none of this concerns you.”

“Why? Is this an official Defense Department matter now?” asked Harvath as he adjusted his aim. The levels of government the Islamists had been able to infiltrate and the degree to which they were working together was astounding. Nevertheless, Harvath had no reservations about killing him if he had to. The Navy would probably even give him a medal for it.

“I’m going to guess,” continued Harvath when Ramadan didn’t answer, “that the Defense Department has no idea you’re here. Somehow you wormed your way into the loop and were able to access Mr. Dodd’s classified whereabouts. So where does the defense secretary think you are? Sick day?”

“Shut up,” replied Ramadan.

To his list of unsavory accomplishments as an Islamist apologist and enabler whose loyalty was to Islam above all else, the United States could now add traitor. Harvath wanted to choke the man with his bare hands.

Looking at Dodd, Harvath saw that he was still swaying slightly from side to side. “What happened to the device you took from us at Poplar Forest?” he asked.

Dodd was silent for a moment. Finally, he slurred, “I took care of it.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Ramadan.

“I did what was right.”

“Right for whom?”

“Right for my religion.”

“Your religion,” exclaimed Ramadan. “What are you talking about?”

“What did you do with it?” interjected Harvath, who knew all too well that this was not the right way to conduct an interrogation. “Where is it?”

“Who cares where?” Dodd slurred.

More people than you can possibly imagine, thought Harvath, but he didn’t want to get into that argument. What he wanted were answers, and so he changed tack. “What about the Don Quixote and everything else you took from my house?”

“It’s all gone.”

That was exactly what the president had been afraid of and if the truth be told, so had he. There was zero incentive for Dodd and his extremist cohorts to hold onto any of the materials that so threatened them. All the same, Harvath needed to be absolutely certain the assassin was telling the truth and for that he needed Dodd all to himself, someplace quiet, preferably out in open water on his sailboat. First, though, he had to deal with Ramadan. “Put your weapon down, Imad,” he ordered. “Right now.”