The Last Patriot

Ozbek added it all to his notebook, making sure he got everything down.

“Omar was especially amped about this guy,” continued Salam, “because he’d been part of some super-secret program or unit or something at the CIA called the Transept. Does that ring any bells with you?”

Ozbek looked up from his pad, shook his head and lied. “No.”

“Well, this guy al-Din is supposedly like the Terminator. He has been programmed to kill and that’s all he does. Kill. Kill. Kill.”

“A lot of people like to boast that they’ve worked for the CIA,” replied Ozbek.

Salam laughed. “And those people are usually the biggest liars. The I could tell you what I used to do but then I’d have to kill you types.”

Ozbek smiled. “So you can see why this all sounds a little over the top.”

“According to Nura, Omar had been al-Din’s spiritual advisor for several years. The sheik seemed to know a lot about him and his background.”

“Maybe he was bullshitting.”

“Maybe,” said Salam. “But I wouldn’t bet on it. Omar’s a rough character and he’s paranoid as hell. He’s not going to bring a white revert into his i

Ozbek didn’t like the sound of what he was hearing, and neither would the CIA. He noted a few more things and then asked, “Is there anything else you can give me about al-Din? A current address or phone number he might be at?”

“I’m sorry,” said Salam as he lifted the last bite of his meal and then suddenly changed his mind and set the fork down. “Nura was killed before she could tell me anything else.”

Ozbek was sorry too. “Did al-Din ever come by FAIR while Nura was there? Did she ever see what he looked like?”

Salam shook his head and changed the subject. “I’m going to prison, aren’t I?”

“That’s not for me to decide.”

Salam was quiet for a moment. “I told the police about my dog. He only had food and water for a couple of days. Do you think they’ve sent anybody over to my house?”

“I’ll bet they’ve sent tons of people to your house,” said Ozbek.

Salam realized the humor in what he just said and smiled for a moment. “Ninety-nine point nine percent of the Muslims in this country are good people. They love America just like me. I was doing what I thought was right for the United States. I still think that.”

“I know you do,” said Ozbek as he flipped his notebook shut, “and for what it’s worth, I believe you.”

“So you can help me.”

“I’m going to try,” said the CIA operative as he stood up and walked to the door. As he reached it, he asked, “By the way, what kind is it?”

“Excuse me?” replied Salam.

“Your dog. What kind is it?”

“Chesapeake Bay Retriever.”

“That’s a good breed,” said Ozbek. “Very loyal.”

Salam nodded and watched as the man left.

Outside the interrogation room, the D.C. Metro detective handling the investigation was waiting for them. He was a hard, no-bullshit cop in his mid-fifties named Covin with a gray mustache and the build of a college linebacker. “Did you get everything you needed?” he asked.

Ozbek shook his head as he slid the notebook back into his coat pocket.

“He’s full of shit,” stated the detective. “Academy Award performance every time. If you listen to him long enough you actually catch yourself believing him.”

“You don’t?” asked Ozbek, careful not to reveal his own feelings.

Detective Covin looked at him. “Let’s just say that all of this smells.”

Ozbek agreed with him on that. “What kind of personal effects did he have on him when you picked him up?”

Opening the folder he was carrying, the cop read off the list. “Watch. Wallet with credit cards, bank card, cash, and a D.C. driver’s license. Business card case with cards. Car keys. Cell phone-”

“We’d like to take a look at his cell phone,” said Ozbek.

The detective closed the file and looked at the two CIA men. “That means you’re going to have to sign the chain of evidence sheet. At this point, you’ve only come in and asked a couple of questions. The minute you lay a finger on that evidence, you and the CIA are permanently tied to this case.

“I was a prosecutor before I became a cop and I know what a defense attorney would do with the fact that two spooks were left alone with the suspect’s personal effects.”

Rasmussen resented the implication. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying quit while you’re ahead. Questioning the suspect about a possible tie to a CIA operative is one thing. Going through his personal effects is something altogether different.”

“You’re right,” said Ozbek as he signaled for Rasmussen to back off. “We don’t want to get involved with any of the evidence. That could be bad for all of us.” Checking the signal strength on his cell phone he added, “I’m going to need to jump back into the interrogation room for a second.”

“What for?” asked Covin.

“There’s something I forgot to ask the suspect.”

As Ozbek and Rasmussen left D.C. Police Headquarters and headed for their car, Rasmussen asked, “What was that last-minute question you had to ask Salam?”

“I needed his cell phone number.”

“What for?”

“Plan B,” replied Ozbek.

Rasmussen had a pretty good idea of what Plan B was, but he let it slide for the moment. “What’s Plan A?”

“I want to run everything Salam just gave us against the Transept perso

“You want to pull the files for every Transept operative who looks like an accountant and is good with disguises? That’s almost every person in that program, including the women. They were all recruited because they were forgettable.”

“I don’t care. I want the whole team working on this,” insisted Ozbek. “I want to know where every single Transept operative is right now-active, retired, even dead. All of them. And while we’re at it, let’s pull everything we have on the victim’s uncle.”

“Marwan Khalifa from Georgetown?”

Ozbek slid his keys from his pocket and nodded. “I want to know where he is and exactly what he’s working on. If he’s the target, I want to know why.”

“I’ll let Patricia know not to wait up,” muttered Rasmussen. “For either of us.”

CHAPTER 19

PARIS

“Jefferson was a brilliant polymath,” said Professor Nichols as he set the ice bag he’d been applying to his jaw on the coffee table in front of him. “He possessed encyclopedic knowledge in a wide range of areas and was a skilled architect, archeologist, paleontologist, horticulturalist, statesman, author, and inventor. He was also an adept cryptographer who loved puzzles as well as making and breaking codes.

“He could read in seven languages and never read translations if he could read the original. In fact, he taught himself Spanish specifically so he could read Don Quixote on his transatlantic passage to France in 1784. He felt the book was vital to his understanding of the Muslim enemy the U.S. was facing in the Mediterranean.”

“Why?” asked Tracy. “What does Don Quixote have to do with Islamic pirates?”

Harvath had read Don Quixote as a boy and hadn’t thought about it much since. He did remember something interesting that he’d been taught about its author, Miguel de Cervantes, and wondered if that might have been why Jefferson had been interested in the book. “Cervantes got the idea for his novel while in a Barbary prison,” said Harvath. “Didn’t he?”

Nichols nodded. “Miguel de Cervantes was a Spanish soldier who had fought in many battles against the Muslims, including the Battle of Lepanto, a decisive victory for European Christians over invading Islamic forces. Though he was wracked with fever, he refused to stay belowdecks and fought admirably, incurring two gunshot wounds to the chest and one which rendered his left hand, and some say his whole left arm, useless for the rest of his life.