Brad Thor Collectors' Edition #3 Read online

  Harvath’s stomach dropped. He wasn’t surprised, but it didn’t make having it confirmed any easier to take. “Where?” he asked.

  “She showed up at a Parisian hospital about an hour ago and turned herself in.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “She’s undergoing a medical evaluation,” replied Lawlor. “The police have her under guard.”

  Harvath was quiet for a moment and then said, “How did you find out about it?”

  “The French have video of you at the bombing and the shooting at the Grand Palais. Because of your involvement the president brought me in to help contain things.”

  “What about Tracy?” asked Harvath, more concerned about her welfare than his own. “What’s going to happen to her?”

  “They’re going to arrest her, book her, the whole deal, but her medical treatment is their first priority. She’s undergoing a CAT scan now.”

  “Where? What hospital?”

  “No way,” replied Lawlor. “You wouldn’t get within two blocks of it.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  Lawlor knew he was right, but that wasn’t the point. “Okay, you could get to her, but it’s not worth the risk, not right now. She’s being taken care of. As head of DHS’s Office of International Investigative Assistance, the president has me helping the French coordinate their investigations into the bombing and the shooting at the Grand Palais.”

  “I want to talk to her at least.”

  “Not a chance. For all intents and purposes, she’s in French custody now, and just because she happens to be in a hospital doesn’t mean she magically gets afforded any more special treatment than if she was in a jail cell. Besides, I already tried to call her. The French cops took the phone out of her room. They claim they don’t want her colluding with anyone.”

  “That’s nuts. You know we had nothing to do with any of this,” said Harvath.

  “Well, the French have lots of video that makes them believe otherwise.”

  “Rutledge has to help us out of this,” demanded Harvath. “Or at least, Tracy. He owes her that much.”

  “We’ll talk about the president in a minute,” said Lawlor. “First I want you to take me through everything that has happened. From the beginning.”

  Harvath’s old life had sucked him back in so far he couldn’t even see daylight. With Tracy now in French custody, there was nothing he could do to fight it anymore. He took a deep breath, readjusted himself in his seat to help take some of the pressure off of his battered ribs, and started to speak.

  CHAPTER 44

  METROPOLITAN POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “There are a lot of photos in there,” said Aydin Ozbek. “Take your time.”

  “Nope,” replied Andrew Salam, turning the laptop around. “That’s him.”

  “You’re sure?” asked Rasmussen.

  “Positive. That’s the man who recruited me.”

  Ozbek looked at Rasmussen and then turned his eyes back to Salam. “I know you’ve been through this extensively with the FBI, but we need you to go through it with us once more. We need to know how you communicated with him. When and where did you meet? Did he ever come to your home, your office? Did you ever go to his home or office? All of it.”

  “You know who this guy is, don’t you?” asked Salam. “He’s CIA, isn’t he?”

  “Let’s just take this one step at a time,” said Rasmussen.

  “Fuck one step at a time,” retorted Salam. “You know I’m telling the truth. My recognizing this guy proves it.”

  He studied the faces of the men sitting across from him. There was something about all of this that he couldn’t quite grasp. Then suddenly, it hit him. “Holy shit. My handler is your assassin, isn’t he? He and al-Din are the same person. That’s why you’re back here talking to me.”

  “We don’t know any of that for sure,” replied Rasmussen.

  Salam laughed. “All along, the FBI has been panicked that he was one of theirs and now it turns out he’s one of yours.”

  “We’re still putting this together—”

  Ozbek interrupted his colleague. “The man you ID’d in that photo is Matthew Dodd. He faked his death and disappeared a little over five years ago.”

  “About the time he converted to Islam,” offered Salam.

  “If what you’ve told us is accurate, then that does seem to fit the timeline.”

  “As does recruiting me and setting up the Glass Canyon operation.”

  Ozbek nodded, slowly. “Give or take.”

  “Then that’s it. You’ve got your proof,” stated Salam. “I’m innocent. You can get me out of here.”

  “Identifying Dodd as your handler is one thing. Proving he was, as well as proving that someone other than you killed Nura Khalifa, is something else.”

  “But you can help me,” insisted Salam. “If you tell the FBI that Matthew Dodd was my handler, it’ll help prove that I’m telling the truth.”

  “We don’t have to tell them anything,” replied Rasmussen.

  Ozbek waved him off. Putting his elbows on the table, Ozbek clasped his hands together and rested his chin on his thumbs. “We might be able to help you,” he said, thinking, “but first you have to help us.”

  “With what?” asked Salam.

  Rasmussen looked at him. “Don’t be stupid, Mr. Salam.”

  Once again, Ozbek waved him off. “We’ve got a pretty good idea where Dodd is. We may even know who his target is—”

  “Is it Dr. Khalifa?” interrupted Salam. “Was Nura right about it being her uncle?”

  “We have reason to believe that Dr. Khalifa is already dead and that there may be another target.”

  “So Nura was right,” said Salam, more to himself than to the CIA operatives.

  “We don’t know that Dodd killed him,” replied Ozbek. “Not for sure. Not yet. But we believe that there is something larger at play here, and we need to know what that something is.”

  Salam looked at his interrogator. “And you think I can help you figure it out?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” said Ozbek. “But you might be able to point us in the right direction.”

  “By giving you the same information I gave to the FBI?”

  Ozbek nodded.

  Despite having been duped by his so-called FBI recruiter, Andrew Salam wasn’t stupid. In fact, he was far from it. “How do I know that you won’t take the information I give you, find Dodd and feed him into a wood chipper somewhere, then deny we ever had this conversation?”

  “You don’t really have much choice,” said Rasmussen. “You’re going to have to trust us.”

  Salam laughed once more. “Yeah, right. The way I see it, I’ve got lots of choices. I can talk to the FBI, D.C. Metro Police, or wait until I’m finally given a lawyer and then talk to the press. If anybody doesn’t have much of a choice here, I think it’s the CIA.”

  Rasmussen was ramping up with a retort, but Ozbek pointed toward the door. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

  “What?” replied Rasmussen.

  “Let us have some time alone,” said Ozbek. “Go get a cup of coffee or something.”

  Rasmussen sat there for a moment in disbelief. Then, with a grunt, he stood and exited the interrogation room.

  Once the door had closed, Salam said, “I thought you guys were okay at first, but he’s starting to turn into an asshole.”

  Rasmussen’s specialty was operating in the field, not an interrogation room, and Ozbek let the remark go unchallenged. Reaching into his jacket he removed a new digital camera and powered it up. “The last time we were in here you asked about your dog,” he said as he handed the device to him. “I thought you’d want to see these.”

  Salam’s face softened as he scrolled through the pictures. “So the police did take care of him.”

  “Not really,” said Ozbek. “They were a lot more concerned with ripping your house apart. They were going to put him in the pound, but I got it
all sorted out. He’s with one of your neighbors now.”

  “Which one?” Salam asked apprehensively.

  “The older guy across the street.”

  “Who? The veteran with the P.O.W. flag?”

  “Yep,” said Ozbek. “Any problem with that?”

  “No,” replied Salam. “He’s a good guy. He did a couple of tours in Vietnam. I don’t think he cared for me much when I moved in, but he came around and has always been polite. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Now—”

  “What’s your thing with dogs anyway?”

  “I’ve got a black Lab.”

  “Nice dog,” said Salam. “Smart.”

  “Yes, they are,” replied Ozbek. “Listen, Andrew, you need to know that the FBI has uncovered e-mails between you and Nura Khalifa as well as some other pieces of evidence that suggest you two were having a relationship.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “The evidence suggests that Nura had met with you to tell you that the relationship was over.”

  “But there was no relationship,” insisted Salam. “It was strictly professional.”

  Ozbek shrugged. “I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.”

  “What other pieces of evidence do they have?”

  “Whatever they are, it seems to point to an if I can’t have her no one can motive for murder.”

  “But I didn’t kill her. We were attacked. I told you that. I’m not an idiot. If, and the key word here is if, I was going to kill somebody, do you think I’d be dumb enough to choose a location where I’d have to disarm Park Police security cameras? I couldn’t even do that if I had wanted to.

  “You have to believe me. Nura and I were both targets. They wanted us dead and when I survived they planted all of that BS information to make it look like we had a relationship and that I wanted to kill her because she was going to leave me.”

  “That’s a lot of work,” said Ozbek.

  “So is knocking out surveillance cameras at the Jefferson Memorial.”

  Ozbek couldn’t argue with that.

  “These people aren’t the turban-wearing morons most of our politicians think they are,” continued Salam. “They’re extremely sophisticated, and have resources you can’t even begin to imagine. If you knew the places their operatives had wormed their way into, you wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. They have armies of sympathizers, legions of apologists, and one of the best crafted public relations and media strategies ever created. These people make the Nazis look like amateurs.

  “This is the most dangerous threat this nation has ever faced, and yet I’m going to hang for trying to do my duty as an American to take them down. This isn’t justice, it’s bullshit.”

  Ozbek looked at him. “You’re right. It is bullshit.”

  “So you believe me, then?”

  Ozbek nodded. “But I have to be honest with you. There is a limit to how much we can do for you. This investigation belongs to the FBI and D.C. Metro. The CIA has no official role in it whatsoever.”

  “What about Dodd? Capturing him would change things, wouldn’t it?”

  “Probably,” replied Ozbek, “but he could turn around and cut a deal with the CIA to give them something of greater value.”

  Salam shook his head. “And I’d still be screwed.”

  “It happens. I just want you to be aware of that.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Andrew, you’re in a tough position. Based on how the deck is stacked against you, nobody would blame you at this point for clamming up and waiting for a lawyer.”

  “Why are you telling me all of this? If I go to the press about Dodd, it could be very embarrassing for the CIA.”

  “They’re big boys and girls,” said Ozbek. “They’ve got people who know how to handle spin.”

  “But still,” replied Salam, pressing his point.

  “You’re a good guy, Andrew. Somebody screwed you big time, yet you’ve cooperated every step of the way with us. And I think you’ve cooperated because you know you haven’t done anything wrong. More importantly, you know what you were doing was for the good of your country and that’s what honorable people in this nation do.

  “I can’t promise I can unfuck everything you’re in, but if you help me, I will promise that I’ll do everything I can to track down Matthew Dodd and make sure that he and his Islamist pals won’t do any further harm to America.”

  Salam thought about it. It didn’t take long. He knew what the right thing to do was. “Take out a pen,” he said. “You’re going to need it.”

  CHAPTER 45

  PARIS

  Dodd had found the director of the Bilal Mosque in his office. “The police are on their way!” he screamed at Dodd in French after the assassin had kicked in his door and entered his office.

  “They’ll come all right,” replied Dodd as he closed the door behind him, “but not until they have amassed many men. Your neighborhood doesn’t exactly have the best reputation. Frankly, the police are just as terrified of coming here as everyone else.”

  Namir Aouad eyed the intruder’s weapon. “What do you want?”

  “Why was the American here?”

  “What American?”

  Dodd removed the suppressor from beneath his shirt and screwed it onto the threaded barrel of his pistol. “Why was he here?” he repeated.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Aouad stammered.

  The assassin didn’t like being lied to. He raised his H&K and fired, slamming a round into the wall just above the mosque director’s head. “Tell me why the American was here or I’ll find something other than the wall for my next shot.”

  Aouad studied the man’s thick beard, clothing, and distinctive Islamic cap. “You look like a Muslim.”

  “I am.”

  “Then you cannot shoot me,” declared Aouad. “It is forbidden for a Muslim to harm another Muslim.”

  For a moment, Dodd’s mind drifted to his deceased wife and child and what he imagined their deaths had been like. His eyes then went cold. “When you choose to aid an infidel over another Muslim, you are no longer a Muslim.”

  “I have not aided any infidels,” protested the director.

  “Tell me about René Bertrand.”

  Aouad’s eyes looked up and to the right. “I do not know this man.”

  Dodd had his pistol up before the man had even finished his lie. He pulled the trigger and drilled a round through the mosque director’s shoulder.

  Aouad screamed in pain as his hand flew to the wound. Within seconds, a dark, moist stain began to spread across his sweater. He drew his hand back and almost passed out from the sight of the blood. “The American came for the book,” he wailed. “He came for the book.”

  The assassin was amazed. “Bertrand left the book with you?”

  “Please, I need an ambulance,” pleaded the injured mosque director.

  “You’ll need a hearse if you don’t answer my questions,” threatened Dodd.

  “I was holding the book for its owners.”

  “You mean the men who stole it,” clarified the assassin.

  The mosque director nodded eagerly. He was losing a lot of blood and did not want to be shot again. “Please! I need an ambulance,” he repeated.

  Dodd wasn’t paying attention. He was too preoccupied with his own thoughts. The assassin was stunned that the book had been in the mosque all this time. If only he had known! “We would have paid you much more money for that book.”

  Aouad was confused. “You?”

  “Yes, you idiot,” yelled the assassin as he raised his pistol again. “Who was he? How did Bertrand make contact with him? I must have that book.”

  Aouad was starting to feel dizzy. “It’s gone. The American stole it,” he said pointing at the wooden box on top of the file cabinet.

  The assassin crossed to the cabinet.

  “Please,” moaned Aouad. “Let me call an ambulance.”

  “Shut up
,” snapped the assassin.

  He opened the lid and looked inside. An old volume lay on top of an aged piece of cloth. The cover was rough and faded.

  Dodd was an expert on many things, but rare books wasn’t one of them. He only had the recollections of what René Bertrand had e-mailed him to go on. As he opened the Don Quixote and scanned the first several pages, he couldn’t understand what the mosque director was talking about. They looked exactly as he remembered them.

  Leafing beyond those pages, though, he soon figured out what had happened. The first few pages had been glued into the book instead of being stitched. It was a fake.

  “You fool,” he roared as he turned to face Aouad.

  The mosque director opened his mouth to reply only to have the enraged assassin fill it with four rounds from his silenced pistol.

  Matthew Dodd waited for his breathing to come back under control and then wiped his prints from all of the surfaces he had touched. Stepping out of the director’s office, he exited the mosque and stepped into the street.

  He blamed Omar for this, all of it. If only the man had listened to him from the beginning, this business with the book would have already been finished.

  A cold rain began to fall again, but it did little to cool Dodd’s anger. Nichols and his people had the book now. The assassin could lay the blame anywhere he wanted, but in the end, he had failed and he didn’t like the taste of failure, especially when something so significant was at stake.

  Dodd started walking. He needed to get himself under control. As he walked, he was so busy fuming that he almost missed the dark blue Opel driven by two North African–looking men as it sped past him.

  Deciding that it wasn’t a threat, the assassin filed the car and its two occupants away in the back of his mind and turned his attention to what he was going to do about that book.

  Up ahead, the Opel turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

  CHAPTER 46

  By the time Dodd got to the corner, he had come to the conclusion that if Nichols and the book hadn’t already left the country, they would very soon. The assassin was mulling how he might still head him off, when he arrived at the corner and the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up.