The Last Patriot - Brad Thor [93]
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&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!”
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