Chapter 46
T he 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 security consultant 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 christened Pier 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.
“S?lvi 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.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t good. Listen, Admiral, can I have a moment of your time outside?”
“Sure, let’s have a drink first. Then I can show you the boat. Just got her detailed. She looks fantastic.”
When Harvath had seen what a primo parking space the Admiral had snagged, he should have realized that the man had gotten to the club early. Seeing the glassiness in his eyes, and picking up a hint of a slur in his speech, it appeared that he was already a couple of rounds in.
“I’d love to see her,” Harvath replied. “In fact, let’s go now before it gets too dark.”
Thinking for a moment, the Admiral realized that was probably a good idea. Setting his almost-empty drink on the bar, he stated, “We’ll be right back.” Then, turning to Harvath, he motioned to the glass doors facing the water and said, “After you.”
Sitting on Dogue Creek, just past Ferry Point, the Mount Vernon Yacht Club’s narrow marina boasted over one hundred slips. Pier Pressure was about halfway down.
As they walked—and once they were out of earshot of anyone else—Harvath explained the favor he needed.
“That’s it?” the Admiral asked. “I shove you off the stern and head home?”
“That’s it,” Harvath replied.
“Do I get to carry a gun?”
Harvath laughed. “I bet you already do.”
“True, but not when I am drinking. Which, I need to be honest with you about. I’ve already had a couple.”
“How about this? We can move Pier Pressure from here up to my dock. I’ll drive and we can tie up there. You come up to the house, have some coffee, and watch SportsCenter for a bit. By the time we need to set sail, you’ll be shipshape. Sound good?”
Harvath preferred this option since it would allow him to privately load all his gear via his own dock, rather than driving it down to the club and running the risk of witnesses. The fewer people who knew even the smallest of details, the better.
The Admiral gave him the thumbs-up. “Okay. I’m in.”