The Last Patriot

It was a strange feeling being back at the White House. Harvath had spent many nights in the residence while on the president’s Secret Service detail and it was eerie how quiet the building could be-almost like a church.

There was no staff visible as they made their way into the main elevator and Leonard pressed the button for the third floor. “Solarium?” ventured Harvath.

The woman shook her head in response.

When the elevator opened on the third floor, Harvath heard the crack of billiard balls and had his answer. Leonard led him across the central hall to the game room on the south side of the residence.

As they approached, Harvath studied the president’s detail agents standing at their posts outside-one male, one female. Harvath didn’t recognize either of them. They gave him the same considered once over he had bestowed many times upon Rutledge’s visitors as a Secret Service agent. He knew that they lived by the maxim: Be polite to everyone you meet, but have a plan of how to kill them. It was a habit Harvath still employed to this day.

“Excuse me, Mr. President,” said Leonard as she knocked on the game room door. “Scot Harvath is here.”

Rutledge, his sleeves rolled up and his tie discarded, leaned his cue against the Brunswick pool table and replied, “At last, somebody who can hold their own in here. How are you doing, Scot?”

“I’m fine, sir,” said Harvath as he met the president halfway and they shook hands.

“Would you like a beer?” asked Rutledge, as Leonard left the room and closed the door behind her.

Harvath tapped his hip, indicating he was carrying his weapon.

“Watching your waist?” joked the president as he walked over to a small refrigerator and opened its door. “How about a Diet Coke?”

“That would be great,” replied Harvath. “Thank you.”

Rutledge pulled out a can of Diet Coke for Harvath and a bottle of St. Pauli Girl for himself and opened them up. He handed the can to Harvath and clinked his bottle against it. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Harvath replied.

“Did you know that President Lincoln was a confessed billiards addict?” asked the president.

“No, I didn’t,” replied Harvath, who had played pool once or twice with Rutledge on the road, but never in the White House game room.

“Lincoln called it a health-inspiring, scientific game that lends recreation to an otherwise fatigued mind. Why don’t you choose a cue and we’ll lag for break.”

Harvath took a sip of his Diet Coke, removed his jacket, and then selected a cue. He beat the president just barely on the lag and was given the honor of the break.

They settled on a straight game of eight ball. Harvath had learned a long time ago that the key to a clean break was the same as a good shot off the golf tee. It was all about a smooth backswing and clean follow-through.

Drawing the cue back farther than most in order to put extra power into his shot, Harvath struck the cue ball and sent it rocketing forward. There was an impressive crack as the cue met the other balls, sending three spinning into pockets.

After a short run of the table, Harvath scratched and handed control over to the president.

“I’ve been waiting for this meeting for a long time,” said Rutledge.

Harvath leaned on his cue and took another sip of his Diet Coke. Though he made up his mind to let bygones be bygones, the air was still thick with tension. “I know you have, sir,” he replied.

“Scot, I need to tell you in person how sorry I am for what happened. If I had known any harm was going to come to you or the people you care about, I would have warned you.”

“Mr. President,” Harvath began, but Rutledge stopped him.

“I made a deal with terrorists,” he continued, “and you personally suffered because of it. Though they violated the nature of the agreement, I still held you back from getting involved and protecting those around you. That was wrong, and I take full responsibility.

“You have proven yourself time and again to this administration and to your country. I have repeatedly told you what an asset you are, yet when my back was against the wall I shunned your help and forced you to decide between protecting the people important to you and being labeled a traitor and I’m sorry for that.”

After his phone call with the president from Paris, Harvath hadn’t expected the subject to be brought up again. The president’s humility spoke to the strength of character that Harvath had always admired in him.

Rutledge came around to Harvath’s side of the table and extended his hand once more. “I only want you to take it if you truly accept my apology.”

Harvath didn’t need to think about it and he didn’t need to hear any more. Firmly and without hesitation, he gripped the president’s hand and forgave him.

“Good,” said Rutledge as he lined up his next shot. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I can give you what you came for.”

CHAPTER 63