The Last Patriot - Brad Thor [122]
With the beach towel over his arm and the Glock hidden beneath, Harvath crept soundlessly up the sun-bleached stairs of the cottage.
When he stepped onto the veranda he moved to the wall and kept himself pressed up against it as he continued forward.
He reached the first set of windows, their sheer curtains moving in and out with the breeze. Looking through the bedroom, Harvath could see Dodd’s outline through the open doors on the other side silhouetted by the faint glow of light from the harbor.
The assassin’s back was to him. It was time.
Harvath ducked beneath the windows and stood up on the other side. At the corner of the cottage, he listened and with nothing changed, he raised his weapon and stepped out directly behind Dodd.
As he did, Dodd shot out of his chair and leapt to his feet, but the reaction had nothing to do with Harvath.
CHAPTER 88
Harvath was surprised to see one of the Defense Department’s highest-ranking officials, Imad Ramadan, standing at the other end of the veranda with a suppressed SIG Sauer pistol in his hand.
He was a balding, barrel-chested man of average height in his mid-fifties with a thick gray goatee and dark eyes.
“You’re a long way from D.C., Imad,” said Harvath, his Glock up and at the ready.
Upon hearing the voice from behind, Dodd spun to see who it was and almost lost his balance. He had to reach out and grab the table to keep from falling over. Even then, he was so drunk he couldn’t stop swaying.
“Whoever you are,” said Ramadan, “none of this concerns you.”
“Why? Is this an official Defense Department matter now?” asked Harvath as he adjusted his aim. The levels of government the Islamists had been able to infiltrate and the degree to which they were working together was astounding. Nevertheless, Harvath had no reservations about killing him if he had to. The Navy would probably even give him a medal for it.
“I’m going to guess,” continued Harvath when Ramadan didn’t answer, “that the Defense Department has no idea you’re here. Somehow you wormed your way into the loop and were able to access Mr. Dodd’s classified whereabouts. So where does the defense secretary think you are? Sick day?”
“Shut up,” replied Ramadan.
To his list of unsavory accomplishments as an Islamist apologist and enabler whose loyalty was to Islam above all else, the United States could now add traitor. Harvath wanted to choke the man with his bare hands.
Looking at Dodd, Harvath saw that he was still swaying slightly from side to side. “What happened to the device you took from us at Poplar Forest?” he asked.
Dodd was silent for a moment. Finally, he slurred, “I took care of it.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Ramadan.
“I did what was right.”
“Right for whom?”
“Right for my religion.”
“Your religion,” exclaimed Ramadan. “What are you talking about?”
“What did you do with it?” interjected Harvath, who knew all too well that this was not the right way to conduct an interrogation. “Where is it?”
“Who cares where?” Dodd slurred.
More people than you can possibly imagine, thought Harvath, but he didn’t want to get into that argument. What he wanted were answers, and so he changed tack. “What about the Don Quixote and everything else you took from my house?”
“It’s all gone.”
That was exactly what the president had been afraid of and if the truth be told, so had he. There was zero incentive for Dodd and his extremist cohorts to hold onto any of the materials that so threatened them. All the same, Harvath needed to be absolutely certain the assassin was telling the truth and for that he needed Dodd all to himself, someplace quiet, preferably out in open water on his sailboat. First, though, he had to deal with Ramadan. “Put your weapon down, Imad,” he ordered. “Right now.”
The Pentagon official ignored him. Instead he asked Dodd, “Are you aware that Sheik Omar and Abdul Waleed were killed in an explosion yesterday?”
“Yes,” mumbled Dodd, his eyes glassy.