The Last Patriot

“Every police officer in this city has our pictures by now,” said Harvath as he withdrew the weapon and tucked it into his waistband. “How far do you think she’s going to get?”

“Probably not far and I think she knows that. I also think she feels that she was only slowing you down by staying here.”

“You do, huh?” Harvath replied rudely.

“Scot, her headaches were worse than she was letting on,” stated Nichols.

“So you’re a doctor now?”

“She didn’t want to put you in a position of having to decide between her and what we need to accomplish.”

Harvath looked at Nichols. “What we need to accomplish?” he repeated.

“She said you weren’t going to be happy about it.”

“You know what? Don’t tell me what my girlfriend thinks or feels anymore, okay?” snapped Harvath as he crossed to the tiny desk, fished the headset out of its drawer, and powered up the laptop.

The professor realized they were done talking and quietly backed out of the room.

Harvath chose an e-mail address from the host of anonymous accounts he maintained and sent a message to both Ron Parker’s cell phone and his desktop.

It took some time before he appeared in the video chat room.

“You look like shit,” said Parker as he came on line from the Sargasso conference room in Colorado. He was in his late thirties, about Harvath’s height with a shaved head and a dark goatee.

Parker was normally a wiseass until he understood the severity of a situation, so Harvath ignored the remark. “What took you so long?”

“I was doing a training exercise with SEAL Team 10 on the other side of the property, and my Ducati only moves so fast. What’s up? Your message said it was urgent.”

“Tracy’s gone.”

Parker straightened up and leaned forward into his camera. “What happened?”

“She left while I was out. She said she needed to find a doctor.”

“For what? Is she injured?”

“She’s had headaches. Bad ones, apparently.”

“What do you mean apparently?” asked Parker. “You don’t know?”

“She didn’t want me to know,” replied Harvath. “She’d been taking painkillers under the radar.”

“If you sit tight, she’ll probably come back in a bit. Don’t worry.”

“Ron, I am worried. Every cop in this city has to be looking for us. You’ve got contacts here that I don’t. How quickly can you find out where she is?”

The video chat room was not as fast as Harvath would have liked and it took a moment for Parker’s response to be piped back.

“I’ll reach out to my guys now, but Tracy could be anywhere-a hospital, a doctor’s office. I’ll try my embassy sources first. We’ll see if anyone contacted them looking for a referral.”

“No,” replied Harvath. “No one from the embassy. I want this kept off their radar screen.”

“That might be tough.”

“Why?”

Parker adjusted his camera so Harvath could see the owner of the Sargasso Intelligence Program, Tim Finney, who was sitting off to his side.

Finney was a former Pacific Rim shootfighting champion now in his early fifties who towered over Harvath by at least seven inches and rang in at an impressive two hundred seventy-five pounds of solid muscle. He had intense green eyes and, like Parker, his head was completely shaved-a similarity that Harvath had often attributed to Finney’s resort having the world’s laziest or most uncreative barber. But despite his size and his reputation as an absolutely ruthless, no-holds-barred fighter in the ring, Finney, like Parker, was one of the best friends an honest man could ever have.

Finney held up a pink telephone message sheet while Parker said, “Gary Lawlor is looking for you. He’s called twice already. He says he has a message from the president.”

“Why would he call you two?”

Finney took the microphone away from Parker and said, “Don’t be an idiot, Scot. He knows damn well there’s only two numbers you dial when you’re in trouble and since his phone hasn’t been ringing, it isn’t hard to figure that you reached out to us. Now what should we tell him?”

“How much does he know?”

“He knows you’re in Paris.”

“How does he know that?” asked Harvath.

“He says that’s what the president wants to talk to you about.”

Harvath had told Nichols not to make any calls or to use the computer while he was gone. He wondered if the professor had disobeyed him. He doubted it. More than likely, the French had already ID’d him and had contacted the president. Either way, things were now even more screwed up than before.

“Gary asked if we were putting you up,” continued Finney, “and how he could contact you.”

Harvath had no desire to hear what the president had to say. “What’d you tell him?”

“We told him that if we heard from you, we’d tell you to check in with him.”

“Did he buy it?”

Finney put his hands up. “I’ve got no idea, Scot. He’s your boss.”

“Was my boss,” clarified Harvath.

“Whatever. Why don’t you call him and ask him yourself?”

“I’ll think about it,” he lied.