The Last Patriot

The drug smelled faintly of vinegar as he placed it on the spoon and added a tiny squirt of water from the book dealer’s syringe. Harvath then used Bertrand’s lighter to heat the mixture from underneath and pulled the stopper out of the syringe to act as a stir.

When it was ready, he dropped a small, wadded up piece of cotton into the center of the spoon. The cotton ball was the size of a tic-tac and functioned like a sponge; sucking up the entire mixture.

Bertrand’s previously dry mouth was wet with anticipation and his eyes were glued to Harvath’s every move.

After cleaning the stopper, Harvath inserted it back into the syringe. He placed the needle in the center of the cotton and drew the stopper back ever so slowly. Though the process was designed to filter out any undesirable particles from the mixture, it also served to hone Bertrand’s craving.

Even though he’d done so on multiple occasions, Harvath wasn’t a fan of torturing people. It had its place, but as far as Harvath was concerned it was only called for after all other reasonable alternatives had been exhausted. René Bertrand’s obvious drug problem had provided him a perfect alternative to torture.

Although there probably would have been some who claimed that what Harvath was doing to the man right at this moment actually was torture, they’d be wrong. Harvath knew what real torture was and this wasn’t it. This wasn’t anywhere near it.

Harvath pulled up the right sleeve of the book dealer’s suit jacket and then rolled up his shirt sleeve. Swabbing his arm with another piece of cotton that had been soaked with hand sanitizer he said, “We’ll dispense with the chitchat, Monsieur Bertrand. You have something I want. The sooner you cooperate, the sooner you and Aunt Hazel here can start dancing, understand?”

Harvath watched as the man’s eyes stayed locked on the loaded syringe which Harvath set down on the table. He knew that a heroin addiction was one of the worst addictions a person could have.

When Bertrand finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. “There is a special place in hell for people like you.”

“Tell me where the Don Quixote is.”

The book dealer mustered up a Gallic snort along with a contemptuous roll of his eyes. “So you may steal it from me? What an appealing offer. Is this how American universities do business today?”

This time the snort and a roll of the eyes came from Harvath. “Yeah, it’s a new policy. We voted it in right after we decided to start carrying guns.”

Though his blood was on fire, Bertrand didn’t respond.

“René, we both know I don’t work for any university. We also know you have a book that doesn’t belong to you. It was stolen and I want it back.”

“And who are you?” the Frenchman demanded. “My clients discovered that book. What makes you the rightful owner?”

Harvath was done screwing around with this guy. Picking up the syringe, he held it in front of the book dealer’s nose and depressed the plunger, sending a stream of cooked heroin into the air.

“Putain merde!” the man yelled.

“Tell me where it is, René,” demanded Harvath.

Bertrand refused to comply.

Harvath looked at Nichols. “Open the porthole.”

“Excuse me?” replied the professor.

“Do it,” commanded Harvath gathering up the book dealer’s drug paraphernalia along with the rest of his heroin.

Nichols opened the window and stood back as Harvath walked over and threw everything but the syringe into the river outside.

“Now,” said Harvath as he returned to his seat and held up the needle for the muttering book dealer to gaze at. “This is all that’s left. You tell me where that book is or else you can kiss this good-bye too.”

To emphasize his point, Harvath depressed the plunger again, squirting more of the mixture into the air.

The book dealer fixed Harvath with a look of rage and in his heavily accented English finally said, “Enough. Stop. I will tell you where it is.”

Harvath waited.

Bertrand looked at him like he was insane. “First give me the drug.”

“First tell me where the Don Quixote is.”

“Monsieur,” the book dealer pleaded. “You help me and then I will help you. I promise.”

“I want the book first,” stated Harvath.

“Putain merde!” the man yelled again. “Please!”

Harvath raised the syringe and threatened to eject more liquid.

“I don’t have it!”

“Where is it?”

“I can’t get it,” stammered Bertrand.

“Why not?” asked Harvath as he kept the syringe primed to spill its remaining contents.

“It is being held by a third party. They will not release the book until the money has been transferred.”

“But any intelligent buyer would want to see the book firsthand before parting with that kind of money.”

“But Monsieur-”

“He’s right,” injected Nichols. “Whoever wins the bid would be entitled to examine the book before transferring the funds.”

Bertrand’s face was like stone. “You must be aware that these people do not play around. If you do not pay them, there will be trouble.”