Brad Thor Collectors' Edition #3 Read online

  Aouad watched as Harvath laid a small jeweler’s mat on the desk and then delicately unwound the strip of fabric from the tome.

  As Nichols had warned him, the book was in poor condition. Harvath tsked loudly and shook his head as he explored its original limp vellum binding.

  “Had the book been in perfect condition,” offered the director, concerned that Harvath was mounting a case for a lower offer, “the price would have been much higher.”

  Harvath ignored him and continued his examination. The book was exactly the size the professor had said it would be, but it was heavier than they had expected.

  Harvath placed the series of images which had been e-mailed to Nichols off to the side of the box and gently opened the more than four-hundred-year-old book to its first page.

  Readily visible were the first edition hallmarks Harvath had been told to look for. There was the dedication to the Duke of Bejar, a descendant of the royal family of the ancient kingdom of Navarra, as well as the Latin phrase, “After the shadows I await the light.”

  He compared the images to the aging book before him and then slowly turned to its twenty-sixth chapter. Nichols had instructed him that only the first edition bore a description of Don Quixote forming a rosary from his shirt tails. In subsequent editions it was changed to “oak galls” in order to appease seventeenth-century Spanish censors. Someone who truly knew how to authenticate the book would have known to look for this and Nichols had made sure that Harvath, who spoke limited Spanish, knew exactly where to find it.

  It took him several minutes, but Harvath finally found it. It was amazing. Out of an original four hundred copies of Don Quixote only eighteen first editions were known to still exist. What Harvath now held in his hands was the nineteenth.

  It was an incredible discovery made even more remarkable by its provenance and the secrets it promised to unlock. Harvath was left with only one final item to authenticate.

  Jefferson was known to insert his private mark, or more accurately his initials, at very precise locations in his books. At that time, signature marks were placed on the bottom of certain pages to help guide the bookbinder in the proper assembly or “gathering” of a manuscript, as it used to be called, into book form.

  Each section of a book was issued a different signature, normally letters which progressed in alphabetical order. Jefferson’s mark consisted of writing the capital letter T before the signature letter J. And at the printed signature letter T, he would follow it with his own letter J.

  Harvath took his time as he patiently looked for both marks. His heart beat faster as he found the handwritten T mated to the publisher’s J and then the handwritten J following the printed T. This was Thomas Jefferson’s Don Quixote. Harvath was sure of it. There were notes on multiple pages, but he had no idea which contained the secret to the order of the wheel cipher discs. That would be for Nichols to unravel.

  Harvath forced himself to take a breath. This was the hard part. Placing the book upon the jeweler’s mat, he cautiously reached into his briefcase with his other hand.

  Suddenly, a piercing siren erupted from the other side of the room.

  CHAPTER 38

  Namir Aouad spun toward the door. He was startled and had no idea what was happening.

  Within seconds, Big Bird and Whistles had burst back into the room, their hands menacingly hovering inside their jackets.

  Harvath shook his hands in the air as he limped around the desk. “My fault,” he yelled as he wobbled to where the men were gathered around his suitcase. “I’m sorry.”

  He removed his gloves and fumbled with the combination lock on the outermost zippered compartment while the deafening shriek continued. Other people from the mosque were now sticking their heads in the director’s office to see what was going on and Aouad yelled at Big Bird to shut the door.

  Finally, Harvath got the combination lock open and unzipped his bag. Fishing out a device the size of a garage door opener he depressed a series of buttons and the earsplitting alarm stopped.

  “Wow,” said Harvath as he swung the device from the lanyard he had attached to it. “Can you imagine what would have happened if that had gone off while I was on the airplane? Maybe I should take the batteries out.”

  Big Bird and Whistles glared at him.

  Harvath held the object up a little higher so they could see it better. In reality, it was a poor man’s car alarm that was made to be clipped to a visor. It reacted to breaking glass, movement in the vehicle, or in Harvath’s circumstance the panic button on a remote key fob from across the room. With Tracy’s help, he had been able to boost the sensor and replace a small part of the suitcase material to look like a patch, but which in reality helped the key fob to connect with the alarm. “You hang this on your doorknob,” lied Harvath, “in case someone tries to get into your hotel room.”

  “Monsieur Winiecki, are you quite finished?” asked Aouad, who had already returned to his desk to make sure nothing had happened to the Don Quixote.

  “Not really,” said Harvath as he hobbled back.

  “Please hurry up. Evening prayers will be starting soon.”

  Harvath put his gloves back on, pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, and squeezed past the mosque director.

  He focused on the book’s title page, comparing it repeatedly to the image that René Bertrand had e-mailed to Nichols.

  Finally, Harvath closed the book, delicately rewrapped it in the faded strip of muslin, and placed it back inside Jefferson’s box. Closing the lid, he gathered his items and began placing them into his briefcase.

  “And?” said Aouad, his eyebrows raised. “Are you satisfied?”

  “With the item’s authenticity, yes. But its condition leaves much to be desired.”

  “Monsieur Winiecki, as I said—” began the man.

  Harvath held his hand up as he closed the lid of his briefcase. “The price reflects the book’s condition, I understand. I can tell you that neither Professor Nichols, nor the university, is going to be happy with what I have seen here tonight.”

  Namir Aouad was no fool and he smiled. “Monsieur, you and I both know that your university is going to be thrilled to have this book.”

  Harvath didn’t reply.

  “I’ll tell you what. For an additional twenty thousand, I would be happy to include this handsome wooden box.”

  “Five,” replied Harvath as he watched the director run his hand over its lid.

  “Fifteen,” countered Aouad.

  “Ten and that’s my last offer.”

  The mosque director held out his hand. “It is acceptable,” he said.

  Harvath shook the man’s hand and then picked up his briefcase. “I’ll inform Professor Nichols and he will have the university wire the money to René Bertrand’s account.”

  “Excellent,” replied Aouad as he walked his guest to the door and helped him retrieve his rolling bag. “I believe you have a cab waiting?”

  The man was well informed. “I do.”

  “Wonderful. Then I will wish you a bon voyage and as soon as Monsieur Bertrand informs us that the funds have been received, we will arrange to have the book and the box delivered to Professor Nichols.”

  Harvath nodded and followed Whistles and Big Bird to the front of the warehouse. The mosque was beginning to fill up.

  Harvath smiled at Aouad’s two goons as they stopped the torrent of people flooding in so that he could exit the front door. Once again, the men just glared at him.

  Outside on the pavement, the evening air was chilly and crisp. As Harvath exhaled, he could see his breath. Gripping the handles of his briefcase and suitcase, he looked both ways before crossing the street.

  The cab was still there; parked only a few lengths away. When Harvath reached it, he saw that it was empty and he made a beeline for the café. The sooner he got off the streets, out of Clichy-sous-Bois, and back to the Sargasso safe house, the better he was going to feel.

  Harvath entered the
run-down café and paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the poor lighting. The scent of apple-flavored tobacco filled his nose as his eyes began to pierce the semi-darkness. Men sat on cushions around low tables paying their bills, draining coffee cups, and taking final tokes on hookah pipes before heading off to evening prayers.

  At the end of the comptoir, Harvath saw his driver, Moussa. The young man was standing not far from an older man in a knit cap with a bushy red beard.

  As Harvath approached, the man in the cap looked up and their eyes met. There was something familiar about him. It was more like a feeling, but Harvath couldn’t place it. The wheels in his brain spun, trying to figure out how he knew the man. There was something about his eyes.

  Suddenly it hit him—the Grand Palais!

  Harvath had already dropped his suitcase and was charging for the door when Matthew Dodd reached under his shirt and pulled out his weapon.

  CHAPTER 39

  Had Harvath had more time beforehand, he would have thoroughly scouted Clichysous-Bois before ever approaching the mosque. Having a “rabbit hole,” as it was known in tradecraft terms, where he could safely disappear and change his appearance would have been invaluable. But at this point all he had were his instincts and they told him to run like hell.

  Hitting the pavement outside the café, Harvath cut back across the street and used the people entering the mosque for cover. He had no idea why he thought it would work. If this really was the shooter from the Grand Palais, he’d already gunned down three cops. What would a bunch of civilians matter?

  They probably wouldn’t, but they would afford Harvath some cover and make him harder to target and so he ran straight for the crowd and plunged into their midst on the sidewalk in front of the Bilal.

  A million questions like Who the hell was this guy? and How had he found me? were pounding on the door of Harvath’s mind but he refused to devote any attention to them. Right now his entire mind had to be focused on staying alive.

  He didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know that the shooter was right behind him. Out on the street, Harvath was still a sitting duck, so he did the only thing he could—he plowed his way back into the mosque.

  There was a murmur of dissent from the men as Harvath continued pushing, jabbing, and shoving his way through the crowd. Indignation rose as he grew even more aggressive.

  Men cursed at him in French and Arabic—one even spat, but it had little effect. The Secret Service had taught him how to fight his way through a crush of people and he was exceedingly good at it.

  Two men made the mistake of trying to block Harvath’s path. He had no time to negotiate with them. The man closest to him received a knee strike to the common peroneal nerve in his upper thigh, rendering him unable to stand. Harvath then rammed his shoulder into him, tumbling the man into his associate as he fought his way deeper inside the mosque. All the while, he kept a death grip on his briefcase.

  Suddenly, men began shouting behind him and then he heard gunfire. The mob of worshippers panicked. The shouts turned to screams.

  As the panicked mass crushed forward, Harvath’s eyes searched for a way out. The only chance he had was to find an exit of some sort at the rear of the mosque, but nothing short of a bulldozer was going to clear the way fast enough. If he didn’t do something soon, he was going to be trampled and possibly even killed.

  Fighting his way out wasn’t an option. The people around him were packed too tight. They were nothing more than sheep and Harvath had learned a long time ago that sheep had only two speeds—graze and stampede. And once the stampede started, the only thing that could save you was to get the hell out of its way.

  As the crowd surged deeper still, a three-paneled screen was knocked to the floor. That’s when Harvath saw his way out—a recessed doorway that had been hidden by the screen.

  Using all of his strength, Harvath moved laterally through the throngs of terrified people to get right up against the wall.

  Planting one foot in front of the other, he kept a tight grip on the briefcase as he fought his way back to the door.

  By the time he got there, Harvath discovered a father and his young son seeking sanctuary, pressing themselves into its whisper-thin recess.

  The father’s hand was on the doorknob and he rattled it as Harvath approached, demonstrating that it was locked.

  Harvath signaled for the man to move and slammed the bottom of his foot into the door, which splintered and gave way with a crack. As it did, Harvath yelled for the father to get his son inside. He followed right behind and was greeted by damp air and the faint scent of chlorine from the bathhouse.

  Harvath closed the door behind them and wedged a thin piece of lumber beneath the handle in hopes of keeping it shut. At least long enough for him to get away.

  When he caught up to his fellow evacuees, he looked at the father and asked in French where the exit was.

  The man shrugged and gestured around the narrow passageway with palms upturned.

  The time for Harvath to get away was now, while chaos still reigned inside the mosque. Having switched the real Don Quixote with the fake he, Nichols, and Tracy had created, all that mattered was that he get it out of Clichy-sous-Bois and back to the barge.

  He realized that if there was an exit at the back of the mosque, most of the people running in that direction would get out that way. That made chances pretty good that Harvath could exit the back of the bathhouse and get somewhat lost in the crowd as they all spilled out into the neighborhood.

  The only problem was that the shooter was probably thinking the exact same thing. Though he’d have less cover going out the front door, it was the option that made the most sense.

  Making his way through the hammam, Harvath found the reception area and the front doors. He checked for any signs that they were wired to an alarm system. The last thing he wanted to do was draw any more attention to himself.

  As he began to unlock the doors, he decided to remove the Don Quixote from the false bottom he’d created in his briefcase and tuck it into the waistband of his trousers.

  He was in the process of balancing the briefcase on the door handles when a noise from behind caused him to turn.

  As he did, he was hit in the chest and blown through the doors.

  CHAPTER 40

  CIA HEADQUARTERS

  LANGLEY,

  VIRGINIA

  “So that’s it?” asked Aydin Ozbek as he gripped his telephone. “He just kept the camera and said nothing?”

  The CIA operative listened to Carolyn Leonard for a few more moments in dismay. The call was winding down as Stephanie Whitcomb poked her head inside Ozbek’s office. He held up his index finger indicating he was almost finished.

  “Yeah, I understand,” he said into the telephone. “I appreciate your trying. If you come across anything, please let me know.”

  After hanging up, Ozbek turned his attention to Whitcomb, who stood in the doorway with a folder tucked under her arm. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “The FBI agents interrogating Andrew Salam want to access some of our database information.”

  “Why?”

  “The more they talk to him, the more they believe that maybe he didn’t kill that woman at the Jefferson Memorial,” she said.

  “No kidding. I told them the same thing, but what’s that have to do with accessing our databases?”

  “Using Salam’s description of his handler, they pulled photos of their own people going back twenty-five years, loaded them onto a laptop and worked them into a digitized mug book.”

  “And they got nothing,” replied Ozbek.

  Whitcomb looked at him. “What does that tell you?”

  The CIA operative rolled his eyes. It was a stupid question. “Ah, that whoever recruited him wasn’t really an FBI agent?”

  “But what if he was an intelligence operative who just worked for another agency?”

  Ozbek picked up his pen and tapped it on his desk blotter. “The FBI would b
e able to get whatever they wanted from DEA, DHS, DOJ.”

  “But not CIA. Not without asking us first.”

  “Whoa,” cautioned Ozbek. “Maybe the Bureau’s okay with flashing pictures of their people at Salam, but there’s no way in hell we’re going to do that. We can’t.”

  “That’s exactly what I said. No dice.”

  “So why are we even talking about this?” asked Ozbek, who was anxious to get back to work.

  Whitcomb drew the file folder out from under her arm. “The Bureau guys are smart. They came up with a compromise.”

  “Like what?”

  “They brought Salam an Identi-Kit and just sent over this composite,” she said as she pulled a page from her folder. She held it up for Ozbek to see. “They want to know if we can search our databases for any candidates that might be a match for this guy.”

  Even with Whitcomb standing across the room in his doorway, Ozbek recognized the likeness immediately. Matthew Dodd’s face wasn’t one he was ever going to forget.

  CHAPTER 41

  CLICHY-SOUS-BOIS

  Harvath hit the ground with Big Bird’s two-hundred-ninety-plus-pound frame right on top of him. Aouad must have discovered his switch of the Don Quixote.

  With the briefcase still clenched in his right hand, Harvath swung at the giant’s head, but was a second too slow. Big Bird raised his left arm and blocked the blow, forcing Harvath to swing with his other hand.

  He connected with the man’s jaw, but his attacker barely even flinched. As Harvath pulled back for another strike, Big Bird unloaded with both of his enormous hands.

  The man drove two quick punches into Harvath’s ribs, knocking the wind out of him. As Harvath gasped for air, he kept trying to use his legs to lift his body up, but with Big Bird sitting on top of him, it was like being pinned underneath a truck.