The Last Patriot

CHAPTER 55

It was just before nine-thirty in the morning local time when the Bombardier jet touched down at Ronald Reagan National Airport.

A Signature Flight Support representative met Harvath and Nichols at their plane. She helped steer them quickly through the private aviation passport control and customs area, and when the men politely declined complimentary breakfast and hot showers, she escorted them outside to where a gray Buick was waiting for them.

The men threw their bags in the trunk and Harvath slid into the front passenger seat next to the driver, while Nichols climbed in back.

“How was the flight?” asked Lawlor as he pulled away from the curb.

“Beats a cold C-130 any day of the week,” replied Harvath as he peeled off his disguise and introduced Anthony Nichols.

As they merged onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway, Harvath asked about Tracy.

“The doctors at the American Hospital have been in touch with her surgeons back here,” said Lawlor. “They still have her under observation.”

“Has the swelling gone down?”

“Not as much as they would like. They’ve started her on a new medication.”

Harvath didn’t like the sound of that. “Is she in any pain?”

Lawlor shook his head. “Apparently, the pain is the one thing they have managed to get under control.”

“Have you spoken with her?”

“No, but someone from the embassy has. She’s hanging tough and not telling anyone anything.”

Harvath looked out at the sailboats and other watercraft dotting the Potomac despite overcast skies. “How are the French authorities treating her?”

“Her medical treatment is still first and foremost. But with three cops dead and a bunch of civilians killed and wounded at the bombing, there are certain elements pressing to be allowed to interrogate her.”

“I suppose I can understand that,” Harvath admitted.

“The sooner we accomplish things on our end,” replied Lawlor, “the sooner we can give the French enough to hopefully get Tracy released.”

“Hopefully?”

“You know what I mean,” grated Lawlor.

The men rode the rest of the way in silence.

Forty minutes later, Lawlor swung the car off the road and rolled to a stop in front of a nondescript, padlocked gate. “Do you want to do the honors?” he asked, holding up a key.

Harvath took it and stepped out of the car. It was a bittersweet feeling to return home after all this time without Tracy.

Harvath unlocked the gate and pushed it open wide enough for Lawlor to drive through.

Pulling even with Harvath, Lawlor rolled down his window. “Do you want to get back in, or do you want to walk?”

“I think I’ll walk,” said Harvath.

He noticed the sign for his alarm company lying in the weeds and replanted it, then swung the gate shut behind him.

He watched as Lawlor and Nichols disappeared down the winding, tree-lined drive and began walking.

Bishop’s Gate, as the property was known, was a small, eighteenth-century stone church that sat on several acres overlooking the Potomac River, just south of George Washington’s Mount Vernon estate. It was the twin of a small church in Cornwall called St. Enodoc.

Bombarded during the Revolutionary War because of its status as a haven for British spies, Bishop’s Gate lay in ruins until 1882, when the Office of Naval Intelligence, or ONI, secretly rebuilt it and turned it into one of the ONI’s first covert-officer training schools.

Eventually the ONI outgrew the Bishop’s Gate location and the stubby, yet elegant church with its attached rectory was demoted to a document storage site before being cleared out and abandoned.

As a token of his appreciation for everything Harvath had done for his country, President Rutledge had deeded Bishop’s Gate in its entirety to Scot in a ninety-nine-year government lease with a token rent of one dollar per annum. All that was required of Harvath was that he maintain the property in a manner befitting its historic status and that he vacate the premises within twenty-four hours if ever given notice, with or without cause, by its legal owner, the United States Navy.

It had been more than fifty years since the Navy had any use for Bishop’s Gate other than as a file graveyard, yet Harvath had been overwhelmed by the president’s gift. Not including the garage, the unique house formed by the church and the attached rectory came to over four thousand square feet of living space. All Harvath had to do was make sure the grass was mowed and his dollar-a-year rent was paid on time.

As he walked down the driveway, he was reminded of the president’s generosity and how much they had been through together over the years. Though he still harbored resentment over how he had been treated, he wondered if Tracy had been right. Maybe it was time to forgive Jack Rutledge and move on.

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.

“Finney and Parker have him,” replied Harvath.

“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.