The Last Patriot

As Bertrand doubled over, Harvath kicked open the fire door and dragged the man outside.

At Cours La Reine , Harvath stopped a 1970s Renault, pulled its teenage driver out, shoved René Bertrand in, and sped off across the Pont Alexandre III bridge back toward the barge.

After ditching the car several blocks from the Quai de la Tournelle, Harvath screwed the sound suppressor onto the end of his Taurus for effect and warned the book dealer what would happen to him if he didn’t cooperate. The two then covered the rest of the distance to the Sargasso safe house on foot, stopping repeatedly to duck into doorways as police cars sped past.

When they reached the péniche, Harvath opened the door of the wheelhouse and shoved René Bertrand down the stairs.

Nichols, who was in the galley brewing tea, and Tracy, who was lying on the couch, were both startled by the commotion.

“Professor,” said Harvath as he slammed Bertrand into a chair at the dining room table, “I need you to find me some rope. There’s probably some up on deck.”

“Right away,” said Nichols as he turned off the stove and disappeared up the stairs.

Tracy swung her feet onto the floor and asked, “This is our rare-book dealer I presume?”

“It certainly is,” replied Harvath.

Tracy studied him. His skin was pale to the point of almost being translucent, and he was drenched with sweat. Though he kept licking them, his lips were dry and cracked. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing. Yet,” said Harvath. “I think our pal here is pretty tight with Harry Jones. Aren’t you, René?”

“He’s a heroin addict?” asked Tracy.

“Who had the French police looking for him at the Grand Palais. That’s why you’re so paranoid, isn’t it, René?”

The book dealer refused to look Harvath in the eye.

“What happened?” said Tracy.

Harvath pulled up a chair and kept his eyes glued to the book dealer’s as he spoke. “René and I were just on our way out of the exhibition hall to discuss our transaction when his 3:30 showed up and stuck a gun in my back.”

Tracy was stu

“Apparently, René’s clients are very protective of him,” continued Harvath. “Anyway, whoever this guy was, he was marching us toward the front door when the cops spotted René and yelled for him to stop. The guy behind me fired at them and now two of the cops are probably dead and the third was wounded pretty badly.”

“How did you get away?”

“Our friend René thought it would be a good idea to sneak out one of the emergency exits, and I concurred. Someone was kind enough to lend us a car, which we ditched a couple of blocks away and here we are.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t you the cops were looking for?” asked Tracy.

As Harvath was about to answer, Nichols came down the stairs with a length of rope. “Got it,” he said.

Harvath accepted the rope and began binding the book dealer to his chair.

Nichols blanched, remembering his experience at the hotel. “Are you going to torture him?” he asked.

“It’s going to feel like torture,” replied Harvath, “but I’m not going to lay a finger on him. As soon as he’s ready, Monsieur Bertrand is going to tell us everything we want to know. Aren’t you, René?”

Bertrand remained silent.

Harvath patted him down and found what he was looking for. In the man’s left breast pocket was an oversized silver cigarette case. Harvath opened it up and placed it on the table where the book dealer could clearly see it. He knew the stress of the Grand Palais had pushed Bertrand over the edge. Now, only inches away, was the heroin his body was crying out for.

CHAPTER 27

UM AL-QURA MOSQUE

FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA

“Of course I’m angry,” said Abdul Waleed as he paced. “We agreed it would look like a murder/suicide. But Nura Khalifa is dead and Andrew Salam is still alive!”

Sheik Mahmood Omar stood from behind his ornate desk crafted of Damascus steel and gestured toward a carpet in the center of the room with large silk pillows. A tea tray had been set upon a cloth known as a sufrah. “We learn little from our successes, but much from our failures,” offered the imam as he sat down.

“Maybe you don’t understand,” responded FAIR’s chairman as he took a seat across from him. “Salam is going to tell the police everything, if he hasn’t already. The FBI is probably already involved. Either way, somebody is going to come and question me.”

Sheik Omar raised a polished serving pot and poured Arabic coffee into two, small handleless cups. The heady aroma of coffee mixed with cardamom and saffron filled the office.

“And what will they learn?” asked Omar.

Waleed wondered if the imam was losing it. “What will they learn? Where should I start?”

Handing his guest the traditionally half-filled cup, the sheik stated, “While the words are yet unspoken, you are master of them; when once they are spoken, they are master of you.”

“Enough Bedouin proverbs, Mahmood. We need to have a plan.”

Omar took a sip of his coffee. “The evidence planted at their homes and at your offices is still there?”

Waleed nodded.

“The security cameras were not functioning at the memorial?”

“Correct,” said Waleed.

“Then we don’t need to do anything. We have left enough to convince the authorities that Nura was meeting with Salam to tell him that their affair was over. She was ashamed at having debased herself before marriage and was going to beg her family for forgiveness. Salam decided that if he couldn’t have her, then no one would.”

“You underestimate the FBI.”

“Do I?” asked Omar. “A woman is tragically murdered; a Muslim woman from the FAIR offices. There is evidence pointing to a spoiled relationship between her and the man who killed her. Unless you do something foolish, the investigation will end there.”

“And what about Salam? What about his story? What about the training he received? What about my personal co

“When the FBI asks you about those, you admit to them. You met Salam when he started attending this mosque. He was bright, charming, and extremely creative. That’s why you hired his P.R. firm to work on FAIR’s public and media relations. He worked closely with Nura and you suspected something more than just business might be going on between them, but you never knew for sure. She was very discreet about her private life-”

Waleed interjected, “But what about the man Salam believed to be his handler? And what about the evidence on us Salam was amassing?”

“His handler made sure Salam turned over everything each time they met. He was taught never to keep any information that could compromise him.”

Waleed shook his head.

Omar set down his coffee cup. “Would you rather that the real FBI had gotten to Nura and turned her? Or any of the others we have working for us?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Operation Glass Canyon was a brilliant idea, and our benefactors in Saudi Arabia are quite pleased. By infiltrating ourselves, we’re better equipped at discovering outside attempts from Zionist groups or agencies like the FBI or DHS trying to penetrate our organizations. We also often receive better information from our spies than our most loyal people. McAllister amp; Associates has paid for itself several times over and is a profitable venture in more ways than one.”

“But Salam is in jail. Do our benefactors know that?”

The imam shrugged his shoulders. “For every glance behind us, we have to look twice to the future. We’ll find someone to replace him. Life will go on.”

Waleed wished he shared the sheik’s confidence. “I still think Salam knows too much and is a danger to us. He has been well trained. His story will sound too real.”