The Last Patriot

Sitting in the center of the box, the book lay wrapped in a long strip of muslin discolored with age. Carefully, Harvath removed the book and set it upon the desk. “Do you mind?” he asked as he reached right across Aouad’s chest and adjusted the gooseneck lamp to better the lighting.

“Be my guest,” said the man as he stepped around to the opposite side of the desk to give Harvath more room to work.

Harvath spun his briefcase around and removed a pair of white cotton gloves. Now, a portion of Aouad’s desk was obscured from the mosque director by both the lid of Jefferson’s box and of Harvath’s briefcase.

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.