official named Imad Ramadan to have it destroyed because it was “offensive” to Muslims and more particularly to Muslim sailors of the U.S. Navy. Ramadan claimed it was beneath the country’s dignity to denigrate Muslims in such a fashion.
Harvath had met Ramadan twice while working at the White House and had thought he was full of shit. From what he could remember, the man had been born somewhere in the Middle East and had immigrated to America for college, after which he spent two decades with the Air Force before joining the Department of Defense. Though his position involved defense affairs, the only affairs he seemed concerned with were those of Muslims- American or otherwise.
He had come as part of a Pentagon delegation to discuss Muslim outreach programs with the president, who had been wise enough to distance himself from the groups Ramadan was trying to get invited into the oval office for cozy photo ops.
Like many Islamic apologists, Ramadan seemed to be in a state of perpetual outrage. Coming on the heels of his orchestrating the firing of the Defense Department’s Islamic jihad specialist for telling the truth about Islam and how it inspires violence, his call to tear down the Tripoli monument rang absolutely hollow. The majority of the people engaged in the war on terror wondered how this Islamist in sheep’s clothing was able to keep his job, especially at a place like the Pentagon. The running joke was that if Ramadan had his way, pretty soon you wouldn’t be able to make it past the E ring without first taking a foot bath.
Harvath tried to push the irritation from his mind and glanced at his Kobold. “Your pal Marwan is late.”
“He’ll be here,” said Nichols.
Standing next to the monument on the manicured grounds between the Naval Academy museum and the admissions office, Harvath felt like a sitting duck. His eyes kept sweeping the windows, doorways, and rooftops searching for anything unusual; any sign of trouble.
The O amp;F Club was known for its Sunday brunch and because of the exceptionally agreeable weather this morning, there were lots of people walking past the monument.
“We’ll give him ten more minutes,” replied Harvath. “That’s it.”
Nichols nodded and went back to scanning the faces of the people as they walked by.
Suddenly, Harvath’s earpiece crackled to life. “Heads up,” said Gary Lawlor. “You’ve got somebody headed in your direction across the grass from the south. Blue jeans, dark tennis shoes, hooded black sweatshirt with a bag slung over his shoulder.”
Harvath turned. “I’ve got him,” he replied. “Stay sharp.”
“Roger. Standing by.”
Harvath looked at Nichols and said, “Get behind me.” He then reached under his coat and drew his weapon, careful to keep it concealed.
He didn’t like any of this. The man in the sweatshirt had his hood up over his head so that his face couldn’t be seen. Instead of using the brick walkway, he was cutting across the lawn. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t a pro. No one would have announced themselves like that. Nevertheless, Harvath was definitely on his guard.
As the man approached, he slowly removed his hood. He was of average height and bland features. He had short hair and wore glasses. If Harvath had to guess his age, he’d put him somewhere in his thirties. “Is one of you guys Anthony Nichols?” the man asked.
“I’m Anthony Nichols,” the professor replied before Harvath could stop him.
At that moment the man slid his hand into the bag hanging across his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” demanded Harvath, his finger tightening on the trigger of his weapon.
The man looked at him like he was nuts. “I was told to come here and ask for an Anthony Nichols and then give him an envelope.”
With one eye on the man with the bag, Harvath quickly scanned their immediate area. He was about to ask him who had sent him when Lawlor’s voice exploded over his earpiece. “Scot! Watch out!”
CHAPTER 66
A new man burst out of a small group of people passing the monument and Harvath was just able to cover Nichols and knock him to the ground before the figure barreled into the hooded man with the bag.
Harvath had no idea what was happening. All he knew was that the new man was straddling the chest of the man with the bag and had a suppressed Beretta pressed up underneath his chin. That made him a threat.
Harvath’s training as a Secret Service agent was telling him to get Nichols the hell out of there, but he wanted answers. Ignoring Lawlor’s repeated demands to know what the hell was happening, Harvath pulled his pistol from beneath his jacket and pointed it at the man with the Beretta. “Drop your weapon,” Harvath ordered.
The man with the Beretta ignored him. With his free hand, he pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and shook it open. From where Harvath was, he could see it was a picture of some sort. The man studied the face on the paper against the visage of the man underneath him. “Who the fuck sent you here?” he demanded as he scanned the area looking for heaven knew what.
“Drop your weapon,” Harvath ordered once more.
“I work for a messenger service,” stuttered the man with the bag. “I was told to come here and drop off an envelope.”
Harvath had had it. “Drop your weapon or I’ll shoot.”
The man relaxed his grip so that he was only holding the weapon via his index finger in the trigger guard.
“Now set it down,” ordered Harvath.
The man did as he was told.
“Now get the hell off that guy.”
The minute people had seen the weapons, they had cleared out of the area. Harvath knew that momentarily USNA Police would be all over the place.
“Don’t you want whatever this guy has in his bag?” asked the man after he set down his gun.
Harvath couldn’t believe the balls on this guy. “I want you off of him and on your knees,” he ordered. “Right there. Hands behind your head.”
“I’m a friend of Carolyn Leonard’s,” the man said.
“Gary,” Harvath said over his radio. “I need you over here now.”
“On my way,” replied Lawlor from his hide site.
Harvath turned his attention to the hooded messenger. He actually did want to see what the man had for Nichols. “Very slowly,” he said as he trained his pistol on him, “open the top of your bag.”
The messenger did as he was told.
“Now,” continued Harvath, “lean forward, stick the bag out as far as you can, and shake the contents onto the ground.”
When the items spilled out, most of them the personal effects of the messenger, it wasn’t hard to spot the small, padded envelope with Nichols’s name written across it in thick, black ink.
“That’s it. I’m just a messenger. Seriously,” he said.
Harvath believed him, but he still frisked him and had him sit tight. Next he turned his attention to the other man. “How do you know Carolyn Leonard?”
“I’m the one who tipped her that Matthew Dodd was hunting you in Paris.”
“You know who we are?”
“Scot Harvath and Anthony Nichols,” replied the man. “But anything else should be discussed away from here,” he added as the sound of sirens grew closer. “I don’t want to spend the day being interrogated by the cops.”
“Where are you parked?” asked Harvath.
“Close,” replied the man.
A few minutes later, Harvath and Nichols climbed into the man’s black SUV. As it started up and pulled away from the curb, Harvath pulled out his BlackBerry. Keeping his weapon trained on the driver, he dialed Carolyn Leonard’s number.
