The Last Patriot

CHAPTER 60

UM AL-QURA MOSQUE

FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA

“What’s he doing here?” said Abdul Waleed as he walked into Sheik Omar’s office.

Matthew Dodd, his face badly scratched, was sitting on the couch. “As sala’amu alaikum, brother,” he replied. Even though he’d been wearing the female CIA operative’s vest at his apartment when he’d been shot, his chest still hurt like hell. It was difficult to speak or breathe deeply.

Waleed hesitated a moment and then replied, “Walaikum as sala’am.”

“Our operation in Paris was unsuccessful,” stated Omar. “There are other problems as well.”

Waleed’s eyes shot back to Dodd. This was not what he needed to hear right now. He had spent the morning getting grilled by the FBI about Nura Khalifa and Andrew Salam. His nerves were shot. Pointing his finger at Dodd, he said, “All of the problems have been your fault.”

“Stop,” ordered Omar as he waved the director of FAIR to a chair. The sheik didn’t want another fight in his office. He’d already gone apoplectic with Dodd and his blood pressure was just now finally coming back under control. “When what we want doesn’t happen, we must learn to want what does.”

More proverbs, thought Waleed. “Mahmood, the FBI know everything.”

“Everything?” questioned the sheik. “I don’t think so. They know only what Andrew Salam has told them and Salam is a liar and a murderer.”

“But even liars sometimes tell the truth,” replied Waleed, tossing a desert proverb right back into the imam’s lap. “I’m telling you the FBI believes what Salam is telling them.”

“How can you know this?”

“Because I saw it on every one of their faces. I heard it in their voices; in every one of their questions. They know what we have been doing. And what they don’t know, they assume and their assumptions are correct!”

“Calm down,” said Omar. “We need to remember to believe what we see and lay aside what we hear.”

Waleed shook his head in disgust. “We have underestimated them.”

“They have no evidence. The American people will never allow a Muslim witch hunt. Islamophobia, remember?”

“Omar, listen to me. The American people are not with us. They are afraid of us. But they are more afraid of being politically incorrect, and we have made that work for us. Make no mistake, though, there is a limit even to that, and we are getting very close to having overplayed our hand. If we are not absolutely careful, absolutely vigilant, the tide of political correctness will turn against us.”

The sheik laughed.

“You think this is funny?” asked Waleed.

Omar looked at the man. “You overestimate the people of this nation. They are soft and stupid. The reason political correctness and multiculturalism exists is because they are too lazy to hold others to what it once meant to be an American. This nation is dying and we are not the problem; we are the solution. Islam-true, pure Islam-is what will save America.”

“If Paris was a failure, though, there may no longer be a true, pure Islam. Not as we know it at least.”

“Paris was unsuccessful because we overreached,” said Dodd as he looked at Omar. “That is not going to happen anymore.”

The inference was clear and Waleed found it quite bold. Dodd was blaming Omar for what happened in Paris. Looking at the sheik, Waleed said, “You mentioned other problems. What other problems?”

“The CIA located my apartment in Baltimore,” replied Dodd.

“How?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that as a result, one of their operatives is dead and another is wounded. It will be chaos at Langley.”

“What matters,” clarified Waleed, “is the timing of all of this. The information had to have come from Salam.”

“But he had no idea who his handler was,” interjected Omar. “He believed he was working for the FBI.”

“Abdul is right,” said Dodd as he tried to unravel it. “Somehow the authorities were able to make the connection. It had to have come from Salam.”

“You need to disappear again,” stated Waleed. “Go anywhere. Just get out of the country and stay hidden.”

Omar held up his hand. “Not yet. Not until his work here is done.”

“What work? The professor who was assisting Marwan Khalifa? Anthony Nichols?” asked Waleed.

The sheik nodded.

“Let your talented Saudi operatives handle him. No, wait, I forgot. They’re the reason Salam is still alive in the first place.”

Omar’s blood pressure was rising again. He didn’t need Waleed’s sarcasm. He was just about to rebuke the man when the telephone on his desk rang. Picking it up, he listened for a moment and then hung up. Reaching for his television remote he said, “There’s been a shooting at the University of Virginia. A bad one. Apparently, it is all over the news.”

CHAPTER 61

With the windshield missing and bullet holes on each side, Harvath knew he wouldn’t make it very far in his Trailblazer. After several minutes of driving, he discovered a heavily wooded access road that boarded the 573-acre Boar’s Head Inn Resort.

Harvath pulled off the road and drove as far as he could into the woods before shutting down the engine. Sticking to the trees, he crept around the edge of the golf course until he reached the inn. The valets were extremely busy, and it didn’t take Harvath long to find what he was looking for.

A queue of cars, with their keys in the ignitions, sat waiting to be parked. Harvath never liked doing things the hard way if he didn’t have to. Walking up to a green Volvo sedan like he owned it, Harvath slid inside, started it up, and pulled away from the inn.

It took him a few moments to get his bearings and find the access road, but once he did, he drove straight to the spot in the woods where he had hidden his Trailblazer.

Harvath took the license plates off his SUV and transferred everything, including all of the weapons, into the trunk of the Volvo and then carefully made his way home.

“I’ll send a team down to pick up your car and have them drop the one you borrowed where it’ll be found,” said Lawlor as Harvath removed the last of his gear from the Volvo. “I’ll get to work on the police at UVA as well.”

Harvath reached into his pocket and removed the memory card from the camera phone. “This has photos of the two men I shot,” he said as he handed it to Gary, “as well as a picture of their license plate.”

“The car’s probably stolen, but we’ll run it anyway. Do you need anything else while I’m out?”

Harvath shook his head.

“Okay,” said Gary as he got into the Volvo. “I’ll requisition a car for you and be back by seven so you’ll have plenty of time to make it into D.C.”

Harvath watched as Lawlor drove off from Bishop’s Gate. A visit to the White House was about the last thing he was in the mood for. He had not seen Jack Rutledge face-to-face since shortly after Tracy’s shooting and had no desire to see him now. It had been Harvath’s idea for Nichols to remain in seclusion and work on the missing Koranic texts at Bishop’s Gate. But to do that he needed Jefferson’s wheel cipher and the other documents the president had in his possession. And though Rutledge could have given them to Gary to bring back to Bishop’s Gate, the president had insisted that Harvath come and pick them up personally. It seemed that like it or not,