The Last Patriot

The professor handed it to him as Harvath rubbed his finger over a hole in one of the bricks that had been filled with mortar.

“Why do you suppose this is here?” he asked.

Nichols shrugged. “Maybe it was an anchor point for the mantelpiece.”

“That’s what these are here,” said Harvath as he pointed to similar features on both sides of the firebox.

Walking back to the tools Moss had helped them gather, Harvath removed a cordless drill and inserted a narrow masonry bit.

“We only talked about removing the mantelpiece,” objected Moss. “We never discussed drilling into the bricks.”

Harvath looked at Ozbek, who was standing near Moss. The former Special Forces soldier put his hand on the director’s shoulder and said, “Let’s indulge him a little.”

After securing the bit, Harvath set to work drilling out the mortar.

It took over ten minutes and when the hole was finally clear, two things were readily apparent. Not only was this not an anchor point, but the hole was deep, very deep.

Harvath sent Ozbek and Moss in search of something solid that they could slide down the hole and probe with. They came back five minutes later with an oak dowel rod half an inch in diameter.

Placing the tip just inside the hole, Harvath fed it forward until it wouldn’t go any further. He gripped the thin rod with both hands and tried to force it further down, but nothing happened.

Ozbek walked over to the toolbox, retrieved a hammer, and brought it back to Harvath.

Steadying the rod, Harvath tapped it with the hammer. When nothing happened, he gave it another tap and followed it with another, harder and harder each time, but to no avail.

“What exactly are you trying to-?” began Moss, but Nichols signaled for him to be quiet.

Harvath drew back the hammer once more and swung it with considerable force.

There was a crack as the hammer splintered the rod, but there was also something else-a faint sound of brick grating against brick as the rear portion of the fireplace pivoted open on a central pin, just like the revolving serving door in the dining room at Monticello.

CHAPTER 83

The original mantelpiece must have been attached somehow to a rope system which burned in the fire,” said Nichols.

“Leaving the hole, which not knowing what its true purpose was, someone had plugged up,” replied Harvath as he crouched down and stepped into the fireplace.

The wall was solid brick and it took some force to get it the rest of the way open. Harvath removed his Night-Ops flashlight from his pocket and cast its bright light into the alcove behind the fireplace. In the center was a weathered captain’s chest.

Grabbing it by one of its handles, Harvath slid the chest out of the alcove and into the room. Wiping the lid clean of dust and soot he noticed an engraving-Captain Isaac Hull, United States Navy. Hull had commanded the USS Argus and had helped plan the historic attack on the city of Derna in the First Barbary War.

The chest wasn’t locked and as Nichols, Ozbek, and Moss gathered behind him, Harvath carefully raised its lid. Inside was an object about the size and shape of a hat box with a peak in the middle. It was wrapped in what looked like waxed canvas or sail cloth.

Harvath reached inside and picked it up. It felt solid and very heavy. Concerned that the aged lid of the captain’s chest might not be able to support its weight, Harvath took the object over to the parlor’s desk and unwrapped it.

It was absolutely extraordinary. Sitting atop a twelve-inch-high, perfectly round metallic drum was a four-inch-tall figurine. It was crafted in the form of a bearded scribe who was sitting cross-legged, complete with turban, robes, and a quill in his outstretched right hand. The scribe had been painted with an enamel of some sort and appeared incredibly lifelike.

Engraved in a circle around him were what appeared to be the hours of the day. Everyone was speechless.

Moss was the first to say something. “Al-Jazari?”

Nichols nodded.

“Is it a clock?” asked Ozbek.

“I think so,” said Harvath as he inspected the device.

He examined it from every angle, but couldn’t find a way to access its inner workings.

He then attempted to manipulate the scribe and discovered that it was hinged and could be tilted back about forty-five degrees, but for what purpose, no one understood.

When next he tried to gently twist the figure and nothing happened, he tried pushing it down like a child safety cap on a bottle of pills. Suddenly there was a click and the top of the clock popped loose.

Harvath had Nichols hold the flashlight as he removed the top and looked inside.

The elegance of the workmanship was astounding. Harvath couldn’t believe he was looking at something that was not only designed, but fabricated and assembled over eight hundred years ago.

“How does it work?” asked Moss.

“It was probably powered by water,” replied Nichols, “at least when it came to telling time.”