Page 90 of Edge of Honor

“I remember,” said Harvath, glad to have him on board. He decidedto keep it to himself that he had already begun making plans on how to infiltrate the estate.

“What do you need from me?”

“I can get myself to the shore, but I’ll need a clear path up to the carriage house. Ground sensors, IR cameras, anything like that is going to have to be disabled.”

After taking a deep breath, Nicholas exhaled. “Everything on the Willis property is state-of-the-art. At least everything we recommended to them in our review. It’s all self-contained and supplemented by AI. I can’t hack my way into their systems and shut things off. Even if we attempted to cut the power, they still have a backup for that.”

Harvath didn’t like where this was going. “In a perfect world, if you could pull any tool from your toolbox, what would it be?”

Nicholas smiled. “I’d detonate an EMP right above the estate. Fry everything.”

“Something tells me it’s going to be pretty hard to get our hands on one of those between now and tomorrow morning. I think we should narrow our focus and think a little bit smaller.”

“That’s it,” Nicholas said, a spark igniting in his brain.

“What is?” asked Harvath.

“Somethingsmaller. I know how we can do this.”

“I’m all ears.”

Nicholas smiled once again, running the plan through his head. “It’s an old trick of mine. In fact, the first time you saw it, was the very first night we met.”

CHAPTER 46

The biggest issue Harvath had yet to sort out was a boat that could drop him in the water near the Willis estate. The Chris-Craft back at the safe house on Kent Island would have been perfect, but it was too far away. He needed something closer. He also needed someone he could trust to pilot it—someone who wouldn’t ask a lot of questions. There was only one person he could think of who ticked all those boxes.

When Harvath had moved into the old church property known as Bishop’s Gate, his first unannounced visitor had been a retired U.S. Navy officer who lived down the road. Out walking his dog one morning, he had noticed an uptick in activity at the house and so decided to investigate.

Admiral David Tyson was in his early seventies but had the energy and stamina of a man half his age. He was a good neighbor and always kept an eye on the house when Harvath was away.

The Admiral was also a good salesman and had talked Harvath into becoming a member of the Mount Vernon Yacht Club, a volunteer-based, neighborhood social organization two miles down from the house. The MVYC had a small marina, a twenty-five-meter pool, and a three-story, year-round clubhouse complete with a gym and a small bar.

By nature, Harvath wasn’t much of a “joiner,” but it was nice to have a local spot where he could drop by for a drink or jog down to in the mornings for a swim.

As far as the members were concerned, Harvath was a global securityconsultant who consulted for businesses around the world. The Admiral, however, had seen enough over the course of his career to know that there was a lot more to Harvath than met the eye.

To his credit, he never pushed for more information. Not when they sat and swapped Navy stories at the bar, or on the handful of times he had taken Harvath out on his boat—a forty-foot Sea Ray cabin cruiser he had christenedPier Pressure.

As laid-back as the yacht club was, they had two rules that were sacrosanct inside the clubhouse: no smoking and absolutely no cell phones.

As his call had gone to voicemail and he hadn’t received an answer to the text he’d sent, Harvath figured the Admiral had either left his phone in the car or had turned the ringer off. Either way, the man was probably holding court at the club bar. Telling McGee that he would be right back, he hopped in the Bronco and drove down to look for him.

Harvath knew a handful of other club members with boats, but none he trusted like Tyson. If the Admiral wasn’t around, he was going to have to come up with another plan.

Pulling up to the club, he was relieved to see Tyson’s car parked outside. He parked in the row behind it and headed in.

The snowy-haired, barrel-chested Admiral was at his usual spot. Upon seeing Harvath, he called out his name and waved him over.

There was a big crowd for a Wednesday night and as Harvath made his way to the bar, he saw many faces he recognized.

Because he’d only been in for early-morning workouts, there were lots of folks who hadn’t seen him for six months and wanted to say hello. Eventually, he made it over to Tyson.

“Not even married a year and already sneaking out to the pub,” the man said as he greeted him.

“Sølvi sends her regards,” Harvath replied.

“Tough business up at the Norwegian Embassy the other night. I hope you all didn’t know anyone who was mixed up in all that.”

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