The Last Patriot

CHAPTER 82

Moss’ eyes popped out about as far as his Adam’s apple when Harvath explained what he wanted to do.

“I’m sorry,” said the director, “but the Corporation for Poplar Forest would never allow that.”

Nichols pulled his wallet from his pocket. “What if I was willing to pay for putting everything back exactly the way it was afterwards?”

“I’m sorry, professor, but we can’t just allow one of our mantelpieces to be ripped away from the wall.”

“I’d also be willing to make a contribution,” said Nichols.

Moss pursed his lips in thought. Looking at the architectural document the professor was holding in his hand, he asked, “What about that?”

The professor held it up. “What about it?”

“Seeing as how it has such an intimate connection to Poplar Forest, what are the chances of it being donated to our collection?”

“I think I might be able to convince its owner to consider loaning it on a long-term basis.”

“And the other document?” asked the director. “With the Arabic writing?”

“It would depend on your cooperation.”

“Very well,” replied Moss. “It’s imperative that mantelpiece come off as delicately as possible. Do we understand each other?”

“Of course.”

“We’re going to need some tools,” said Harvath.

“We have plenty of those,” replied Moss. “Follow me.”

Half an hour after Moss stopped complaining about the damage Harvath and Ozbek were doing to the mantelpiece as well as the plasterwork around it, they had it separated and leaned up against the adjacent wall.

Nichols and Harvath stood next to each other and examined the brickwork of the fireplace.

“Let me see the diagram again,” said Harvath.

The professor handed it to him as Harvath rubbed his finger over a hole in one of the bricks that had been filled with mortar.

“Why do you suppose this is here?” he asked.

Nichols shrugged. “Maybe it was an anchor point for the mantelpiece.”

“That’s what these are here,” said Harvath as he pointed to similar features on both sides of the firebox.

Walking back to the tools Moss had helped them gather, Harvath removed a cordless drill and inserted a narrow masonry bit.

“We only talked about removing the mantelpiece,” objected Moss. “We never discussed drilling into the bricks.”

Harvath looked at Ozbek, who was standing near Moss. The former Special Forces soldier put his hand on the director’s shoulder and said, “Let’s indulge him a little.”

After securing the bit, Harvath set to work drilling out the mortar.

It took over ten minutes and when the hole was finally clear, two things were readily apparent. Not only was this not an anchor point, but the hole was deep, very deep.

Harvath sent Ozbek and Moss in search of something solid that they could slide down the hole and probe with. They came back five minutes later with an oak dowel rod half an inch in diameter.

Placing the tip just inside the hole, Harvath fed it forward until it wouldn’t go any further. He gripped the thin rod with both hands and tried to force it further down, but nothing happened.

Ozbek walked over to the toolbox, retrieved a hammer, and brought it back to Harvath.

Steadying the rod, Harvath tapped it with the hammer. When nothing happened, he gave it another tap and followed it with another, harder and harder each time, but to no avail.

“What exactly are you trying to—?” began Moss, but Nichols signaled for him to be quiet.

Harvath drew back the hammer once more and swung it with considerable force.

There was a crack as the hammer splintered the rod, but there was also something else — a faint sound of brick grating against brick as the rear portion of the fireplace pivoted open on a central pin, just like the revolving serving door in the dining room at Monticello.