The Last Patriot - Brad Thor [80]
It had been more than fifty years since the Navy had any use for Bishop’s Gate other than as a file graveyard, yet Harvath had been overwhelmed by the president’s gift. Not including the garage, the unique house formed by the church and the attached rectory came to over four thousand square feet of living space. All Harvath had to do was make sure the grass was mowed and his dollar-a-year rent was paid on time.
As he walked down the driveway, he was reminded of the president’s generosity and how much they had been through together over the years. Though he still harbored resentment over how he had been treated, he wondered if Tracy had been right. Maybe it was time to forgive Jack Rutledge and move on.
Emerging from the final twist of the wooded drive, Harvath laid eyes on his house. Bishop’s Gate was even more beautiful than he remembered.
Lawlor and Nichols were standing outside the front door waiting for him.
“You’ve got a key,” said Harvath as he approached. “What are you standing out here for?”
“It didn’t seem right,” said Lawlor. “It’s your house, after all.”
Harvath took the key from Lawlor and unlocked the sturdy front door. As he walked in, he was greeted by the solid scent of stone and timber.
Hanging on the wall in the vestibule was a beautiful piece of wood he had discovered in the rectory attic carved with the Anglican missionaries’ motto TRANSIENS ADIUVANOS—I go overseas to give help.
He had discovered it on his first visit, and it had struck him as a sign that he and Bishop’s Gate were meant to be together. It was prophetically fitting for the career Harvath had chosen for himself.
For a moment, he was reminded of why he had devoted his life to combating the terrorist threat to America at home and overseas.
He was also reminded of Tracy and how rather than make him choose between her and aiding the president, she had selflessly removed herself from the equation. Harvath allowed himself a sliver of belief that maybe he could have both the career he wanted and a fulfilling family life.
“What did you and Tracy do with Bullet?” asked Lawlor who had followed Harvath inside and interrupted his train of thought.
Nichols asked, “Who’s Bullet?” as he admired the extraordinary old church.
“Biggest dog you’ve ever seen in your life, even as a puppy,” replied Lawlor. “They call them Caucasian Ovcharkas. The Russian Military and the former East German Border Patrol loved them. Fast as hell, smart and incredibly loyal. Those things can weigh upward of two hundred pounds and they stand over forty-one inches at the shoulder.”
Nichols let out a whistle of appreciation.
“Finney and Parker have him,” replied Harvath.
“Those guys are good pals,” said Lawlor with a laugh. “Dogzilla is probably eating them out of house and home.”
“Where’d you find a dog like that?” inquired Nichols.
Harvath looked up the stairs toward the bedroom he’d been sleeping in when Tracy had been shot and said, “Don’t ask.”
Harvath wasn’t in the mood to discuss his odd acquaintance with a dwarf named Nicholas who dealt in the purchase and sale of highly classified information and who was known throughout the intelligence world as the Troll.
“I put groceries in the fridge,” stated Lawlor. “Let’s get some coffee on and talk about what we need to do.”
“Sounds good to me,” replied the professor.
“I’ll be there shortly,” said Harvath as he walked away. He needed a few more minutes alone to gather his thoughts and process being home before he would be ready to talk about what would come next.
CHAPTER 56
Lawlor was a master with Tracy’s French press, something Harvath had never gotten the hang of. He didn’t know if