Harvath was finally going to have to face Jack Rutledge.
After checking on Nichols and giving him the flash drive as well as the other items he’d collected from his office at UVA, Harvath walked into the kitchen. Putting on water for coffee, he suddenly thought better of it and turned it off.
He’d been on edge for the last several hours. His nerves were raw and his jet lag was kicking in. He didn’t need to be downing cups of coffee, what he needed was rest.
Harvath headed upstairs and, ignoring the picture of him and Tracy on his nightstand, lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. He worked on quieting his mind and clearing it of all thoughts.
Slowly he was able to disconnect until he finally stepped off the edge into a deep, dreamless sleep. He stayed in that state for several hours until he was awakened by the sound of Lawlor coming back down the driveway.
Though his body fought him on it, Harvath dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom. He took a long, hot shower, letting the water beat down on his neck and shoulders.
When he’d had enough, he threw the temperature selector all the way to cold and stood there for as long as he could. The shock was better than a double espresso.
Climbing out of the shower, Harvath shaved, dried his hair and then picked out a suit. It might have been Saturday, but he was going to the White House to meet the president and he would dress appropriately.
When he was dressed, he followed the smell of coffee down to the kitchen. Lawlor was working his magic again with the French press.
“Any news on Tracy?” he asked.
“No,” replied Lawlor as he handed him a cup. “But the two guys you laid out at UVA have come back with interesting backgrounds.”
“Such as?”
“Apparently, they’re Saudi nationals with several aliases. Some of the information suggests they may have been with Saudi Intelligence.”
“Were these guys being run by the Saudis?” asked Harvath as he took a sip of coffee. “Or were they freelancers like Dodd?”
“Based on the crown prince’s interest in what the president has been up to, we think the Saudis were running them,” said Lawlor. “My guess is that they were sitting on Nichols’s office and his apartment in case he showed up. I don’t think they followed you to UVA. I think they were already there.”
“Me too,” said Harvath.
Lawlor handed him a set of car keys. “Black Tahoe outside. I had the OnStar and the other GPS gear removed.”
“Thanks.”
Harvath slid the keys into his pocket and took his coffee cup with him into the church. After sliding back the altar, he walked down into the crypt and laid out two pistols, his tactical rifle, and a handful of frag grenades.
While he didn’t plan on encountering any trouble on his quick roundtrip to the White House, he’d felt the same way before leaving for UVA.
But unlike his trip to UVA, this time, he was going to be bringing back a critical package and he had no intention of letting anyone but Anthony Nichols get their hands on it.
CHAPTER 62
THE WHITE HOUSE
Carolyn Leonard met Harvath at the vehicle entrance on 17th and Pennsylvania Avenue. The president had instructed that Harvath be cleared all the way through and not searched. Knowing Harvath and the nature of the work he did for the president, Leonard assumed it was because he would be coming armed; probably heavily armed.
After the retractable bollards had been lowered and Harvath had driven through, Leonard hopped in the passenger seat and rode with him through one more checkpoint before having him park between the Treasury Department and the East Wing on East Executive Drive.
“Should I leave my nine iron in the car?” asked Harvath as he patted his side.
“If it was up to me, yes, but the president has made it clear that you have a full pass. So it’s your call,” she replied as she climbed out.
Harvath preferred to have at least one weapon under his control at all times. Not that anyone was going to break into his vehicle on the White House grounds and sabotage his gear, but being just a little bit paranoid was what kept people in his line of work alive. He decided to retain his sidearm.
Leonard radioed that they were on their way in and Harvath walked alongside her across the street.
It was a strange feeling being back at the White House. Harvath had spent many nights in the residence while on the president’s Secret Service detail and it was eerie how quiet the building could be-almost like a church.
There was no staff visible as they made their way into the main elevator and Leonard pressed the button for the third floor. “Solarium?” ventured Harvath.
The woman shook her head in response.
When the elevator opened on the third floor, Harvath heard the crack of billiard balls and had his answer. Leonard led him across the central hall to the game room on the south side of the residence.
As they approached, Harvath studied the president’s detail agents standing at their posts outside-one male, one female. Harvath didn’t recognize either of them. They gave him the same considered once over he had bestowed many times upon Rutledge’s visitors as a Secret Service agent. He knew that they lived by the maxim:
“Excuse me, Mr. President,” said Leonard as she knocked on the game room door. “Scot Harvath is here.”
Rutledge, his sleeves rolled up and his tie discarded, leaned his cue against the Brunswick pool table and replied, “At last, somebody who can hold their own in here. How are you doing, Scot?”
“I’m fine, sir,” said Harvath as he met the president halfway and they shook hands.
“Would you like a beer?” asked Rutledge, as Leonard left the room and closed the door behind her.
Harvath tapped his hip, indicating he was carrying his weapon.
“Watching your waist?” joked the president as he walked over to a small refrigerator and opened its door. “How about a Diet Coke?”
“That would be great,” replied Harvath. “Thank you.”
Rutledge pulled out a can of Diet Coke for Harvath and a bottle of St. Pauli Girl for himself and opened them up. He handed the can to Harvath and clinked his bottle against it. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Harvath replied.
“Did you know that President Lincoln was a confessed billiards addict?” asked the president.
“No, I didn’t,” replied Harvath, who had played pool once or twice with Rutledge on the road, but never in the White House game room.
“Lincoln called it a health-inspiring, scientific game that lends recreation to an otherwise fatigued mind. Why don’t you choose a cue and we’ll lag for break.”
Harvath took a sip of his Diet Coke, removed his jacket, and then selected a cue. He beat the president just barely on the lag and was given the honor of the break.
They settled on a straight game of eight ball. Harvath had learned a long time ago that the key to a clean break was the same as a good shot off the golf tee. It was all about a smooth backswing and clean follow- through.
Drawing the cue back farther than most in order to put extra power into his shot, Harvath struck the cue ball and sent it rocketing forward. There was an impressive crack as the cue met the other balls, sending three spinning into pockets.
