The Last Patriot

One of the unit’s few female operatives, an attractive, fiercely intelligent brunette in her mid-thirties named Stephanie Whitcomb, responded, “According to preliminary reports, the shooter was seen with two other men. One is a French National and sometimes rare-book dealer named René Bertrand.

“Bertrand has a long history of drug-related offenses. He was being sought for questioning in relation to a smuggling ring out of Morocco.”

“So the police spotted him at the book festival,” said Ozbek, “and that’s when the shooting began?”

“Correct,” she replied. “The other man in the shooter’s party is presumed to be an American.”

“How do we know?”

“A witness overheard him earlier speaking English with a woman and a man, also presumed American. The shooter had the book dealer and the other man walk directly in front of him and probably had his weapon drawn, but hidden somehow. When the police ID’d René Bertrand and ordered him to stop, the guy started firing.”

Rasmussen jumped in, pantomiming an elbow to the back of his chair. “At that point, the American turned and struck the shooter, knocking him down.”

“Interesting,” replied Ozbek.

“In the chaos,” said Whitcomb, “the book dealer fled into the exhibit hall. The American chased after him and fired a shot from his own weapon into the air. Less than a minute later, the American fired two more shots. He then grabbed the book dealer by the neck and they were seen exiting the Grand Palais via a fire door.”

“What happened to the first shooter?”

“He disappeared,” she said.

“We’ve got our video,” said Rasmussen as he directed the unit’s attention back to the monitor. “According to our liaison with the French internal security service, the first shooter was very careful not to let his face be seen, but he screwed up.”

The group watched as Rasmussen ran the footage and continued to narrate. “The man in the white suit is René Bertrand. The other man is our American. And right behind them is the original shooter.”

Ozbek peered at the monitor. “I can’t see his face.”

“Keep watching,” said Rasmussen

They watched as the shooting unfolded. There were several different angles included with the feed. “Here it comes,” he said. “Right as he gets elbowed by the American, he doubles over and goes down. Everyone is running by this point; mass pandemonium. But when our shooter straightens up and searches for the other two men, he accidentally reveals his profile for a fraction of a second.”

“Can you enhance that?” asked Ozbek, thinking he recognized the face.

Rasmussen isolated the image and then enlarged it.

“Now run it against the Transept images. Start with our Killed in Action No Remains Located pal. Pull up his left side profile.”

Rasmussen found it and put it up in a split screen. Nobody said a word. After a pause, Rasmussen combined the images by sliding one on top of the other. It was a perfect match.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Ozbek. “Matthew Dodd aka Majd al-Din.”

“Holy shit,” replied Whitcomb.

“Holy shit indeed,” repeated Ozbek as everyone stared at the screen. “Now, our next question is, what the hell is he up to?”

Rasmussen tapped a few keys on his laptop and said, “Thanks to the French, we may have an idea.”

CHAPTER 32

Rasmussen uploaded another stream of CCTV footage to the conference room monitor. “This is from the scene of the bombing earlier today. It was taken from a bank across the street.”

The Dead Poets Society team members watched as the first car was stolen and then replaced with the Mercedes carrying the bomb.

Rasmussen split-screened the footage with a feed from another camera and using a laser pointer said, “See these two customers sitting outside at the café? Once the Mercedes is in place, they get up and leave.”

“Almost like they knew what was about to happen,” said Whitcomb.

“Who are they?” asked Ozbek. “Can you enhance that?”

Rasmussen shook his head. “The footage is from a bank camera meant to monitor an ATM, not the café across the street. It gets too blurry, but it doesn’t matter. Look at this.” Clicking a few more keys, Rasmussen brought up the café from a different angle. “This is from a hotel security camera right up the street.”

Ozbek stood up and walked over to the monitor. “Stop it right there. Can you go in tighter?”

Rasmussen did.

“That’s him. Our American from the Grand Palais.”

“It gets better,” said his colleague. “Watch this.” Rasmussen clicked his keys again and another angle came up. “This is from a second bank across the street.”