The Last Patriot

Even with Nichols’ help, the chance of finding the man among the massive crowds was slim at best. Nevertheless, the trio had to make the attempt.

The glass ceilings of the Grand Palais gave visitors the impression of walking through the world’s largest greenhouse. The overcast sky above matched Harvath’s mood. Every time he saw a police officer, he discreetly steered Tracy and the professor in another direction. They couldn’t be too careful. There was no way of knowing if the French police were looking for them already or not. But that wasn’t the only thing weighing on Harvath.

Before leaving the péniche, he’d allowed Nichols to check the balance of the bank account the president had established for him. No new deposits had been made. They had precious little to bargain with.

Published more than four hundred years ago, only eighteen first-edition copies of Don Quixote were known to exist worldwide. Hailed as the first “true novel,” a first-edition Quixote was quite literally worth more than its own weight in gold.

The group spent the next twenty minutes surreptitiously weaving their way through the crowd.

Fifteen minutes before the rendezvous time, Harvath told Tracy and Nichols to stay put and did a quick sweep of the area. When he came back, they were gone. Something wasn’t right.

Immediately, Harvath went into a state of heightened alert. His mind was full of questions as his hand slid beneath his coat and gripped the butt of his Taurus pistol. Had the people who’d targeted Nichols gotten to them? Was it the police? Was he next?

He fought to keep his heart rate and breathing under control. Quickly and quietly, he did another sweep. Forty-five seconds later he found them behind a booth sitting on a bench. Nichols was holding a cup of water in his left hand while his right arm was around Tracy’s shoulders.

“What happened?” asked Harvath as he forced his eyes away from Tracy and kept scanning the area.

“I’m fine,” she replied.

“She’s not fine,” said Nichols. “She’s sick.”

“I’m fine,” Tracy repeated.

Harvath looked at her. “Is it the headaches?”

“She needs to see a doctor,” Nichols interjected.

“I don’t need a doctor. Would you two cut it out?”

Time was running out. “Can you stand up?” asked Harvath.

“Give me a minute,” said Tracy. “I’m just a little dizzy. It’ll pass.”

They didn’t have a minute. Harvath needed to make a difficult call.

Reaching into his pocket, he peeled off several euro notes and shoved them into Nichols’ hand before Tracy could object. “Get her back to the boat and stay with her,” he ordered. “Don’t use the phone or the computer until I get back. Do you understand me?”

Nichols nodded. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to get that book,” said Harvath as he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

CHAPTER 24

When René Bertrand appeared at the appointed time, he wasn’t hard to spot. Even in the quirky world of rare-book dealers, Bertrand was a real character.

The flamboyant dandy in a white three-piece silk suit stood about five-foot-seven. The only thing thinner than his emaciated frame was the pencil-thin mustache that hovered above his almost nonexistent upper lip. His hair was parted on the left and slicked back with some sort of pomade while a pair of gray eyes darted nervously back and forth beneath two overly manicured eyebrows. A pocket watch on a gold chain sat nestled inside his vest pocket. On his feet, the rare-book dealer wore a pair of highly polished black and white spectators while a brightly colored handkerchief billowed from his breast pocket.

There were dark circles under his eyes, and given his overall physical appearance, Harvath wondered if there was more to Bertrand’s paranoia than just being in possession of one of the world’s most valuable books.

Harvath waited as long as he dared and then finally approached the man. “Monsieur Bertrand?”

“Yes?” the book dealer replied in heavily accented English.

Harvath had run through how he was going to play this. Nichols had explained that Bertrand was very careful. He had shown the professor only copies of the first few pages of the Don Quixote with its dedication from Cervantes to the Duke of Bejar, a phrase in Latin that read “After the shadows I await the light,” and of course the handwriting of Thomas Jefferson.

Bertrand was certainly not going to be carrying the book with him. It would be kept someplace safe until a price had been settled upon and he had received his money.

“I work with Professor Nichols,” said Harvath.

“And why is he not here?”

“He’s getting the rest of your money together.”

René Bertrand smiled; his teeth stained from a lifetime of cigarettes and coffee. “That is very nice, but he has yet to make me an offer I can accept.”

Harvath noticed that Bertrand was perspiring. “Are you feeling okay, Monsieur?”

The smile never wavered. “The offer, please?” he asked.