He didn’t have to wait long. When he entered, the assassin acted without hesitation.
CHAPTER 73
Harvath awoke to the sound of his doorknob slowly turning. Grabbing his pistol from on top of the nightstand, he leapt out of bed and shot across the room to the wall near the door.
Flattening himself against it, he watched as the knob stopped turning and the door began to quietly swing open. Twisting his torso, Harvath drew his pistol to his chest and allowed his left hand to hover slightly in front of his body.
As a figure appeared in the doorframe, Harvath grabbed a handful of shirt, pushed his gun into the man’s face and spun him a hundred and eighty degrees into the room. He slapped up hard against the wall where his head hit with sharp crack. At that moment he suddenly realized who it was.
“Are you crazy?” snapped Harvath as he let go of Nichols. “I specifically warned you against doing things like this. I could have killed you.”
The professor was seeing stars, but he ignored them. “Gary’s down,” he said in a panicked whisper.
Immediately, Harvath’s mind went back into danger mode. “Where is he?”
“The kitchen. There’s blood all over the floor.”
Harvath was about to respond when he heard the creak of a floorboard outside the room. He raised his index finger to his lips and then held his hand out signaling Nichols not to move. The man nodded and pressed himself up against the wall.
Harvath heard another board groan. It was closer this time. He raised his pistol and prepared to fire.
A fraction of a second later, Ozbek spun into the doorway, his pistol up and ready to fire. When he saw Harvath, he lowered his weapon. “What the hell is going on?” he asked.
“Gary’s been hit in the kitchen,” replied Harvath.
Ozbek stood back so Harvath could pass. “Let’s go.”
Harvath ordered Nichols to stay put and lock the door. Then, he and Ozbek made their way toward the staircase.
It was shades of Tracy’s attack all over again and Harvath struggled to keep the images of coming down the same set of stairs to find her lying in a pool of blood from taking over his mind. There was a threat in his house and if he didn’t keep it together, he was going to get himself killed.
Harvath slammed an iron door down in his mind and focused on what needed to be done.
He and Ozbek covered each other as they swept down the stairs. In the vestibule, Harvath noticed that not only was the front door ajar, but the alarm key pad showed the system was still armed and fully functioning. Obviously, that wasn’t the case.
Harvath signaled to Ozbek and they crept down the narrow hall to the kitchen. Even before they got inside, Harvath could make out Lawlor’s shoes and the cuffs of his trousers.
Cautiously, the two men inched into the kitchen checking every possible point of concealment until they were satisfied it was clear. Ozbek then stood guard as Harvath rushed to Lawlor.
A pool of blood had spread out on the floor beneath his head. Harvath’s throat tightened as he reached for Gary’s carotid in the hopes of finding a pulse.
To his relief, he found one. Lowering his ear, he noticed that he was still breathing.
As best he could, Harvath scanned his face and neck for any signs of an entry or exit wound. There were none. Snatching a kitchen towel from the oven door, he gently slid it under Gary’s head. There was nothing more he could do for his friend until he caught whoever was in his house.
Standing up, Harvath saw the tactical rifle sitting on the counter. The magazine had been removed and placed alongside it, as well as the round that had been in the chamber.
Harvath snatched up the round and tucked the magazine into his back pocket so the weapon couldn’t be used against them. He then rejoined Ozbek, and the two men swept the rest of the house.
Arriving at the study, Harvath knew that whoever had broken in was now long gone. The desk that Nichols had been working at was almost completely bare. All of the papers, Nichols’ laptop, his notes, as well as Jefferson’s puzzle box with his wheel cipher had vanished. The only things remaining were a stack of general reference books on Jefferson.
Harvath didn’t need to see any more to know what had happened. Matthew Dodd had found his house. The only question he had at this point was
It would have to wait, though. Harvath left Gary with Ozbek and Nichols, grabbed a flashlight, and headed outside. The materials that had been taken were beyond priceless. Even though he was certain Dodd was long gone, maybe he had left behind some sort of clue. With so much at stake, Harvath couldn’t just let him vanish.
Harvath swept the grounds until he found an area of bent grass and underbrush where the assassin must have been hiding. It was perfectly clean and devoid of anything useful.
Harvath traced the man’s path back toward the main road to the spot where he must have tapped into the Bishop’s Gate alarm system. While Harvath could have someone out to dust for prints, he doubted Dodd would have been careless enough to leave any. Besides, he didn’t need some technician telling him what he already knew. Matthew Dodd had broken into his home, he was certain of it. The information Harvath most needed was where Dodd had gone.
Harvath kept searching until Gary’s ambulance arrived, but he didn’t find anything else. Dodd had disappeared.
With the theft of all the Jefferson material, Harvath and his colleagues, not to mention America, had been dealt a staggering setback.
CHAPTER 74
UM AL-QURA MOSQUE
FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA
Dodd had gone to great pains to try to explain to Sheik Omar that professional assassins did not kill indiscriminately. They killed only when necessary. But it was an exercise in futility. Though Omar was a devout and exceedingly intelligent man, he was incapable of grasping subtlety.
He and Waleed hated nonbelievers more than anything else-and this included Muslims who didn’t follow their purist interpretation of the Koran. Nonbelievers were considered
Waleed was more pragmatic and would have understood the dangers inherent in trying to stumble through a dark house he wasn’t familiar with to attempt to kill everyone there. Neither man, however, would have understood why Dodd chose to strike a target across the back of the head with the butt of his pistol rather than kill him. So instead, he lied.
Sheik Omar sat at his desk, spinning the wheels of Thomas Jefferson’s cipher device, which rested upon the
“With the time I had available it wasn’t feasible,” replied the assassin.
Waleed stopped leafing through the pages. “You had all night.”
“I could have had two nights. It still would have been very problematic.”
Omar raised his eyebrows. “Why?”
“Whoever these men are, they are highly trained operatives.”
“Even so,” interrupted Waleed.
Dodd raised his voice and rolled right over him, “I wouldn’t expect you to understand what situational awareness means.”
