The Last Patriot

Harvath held the object up a little higher so they could see it better. In reality, it was a poor man’s car alarm that was made to be clipped to a visor. It reacted to breaking glass, movement in the vehicle, or in Harvath’s circumstance the panic button on a remote key fob from across the room. With Tracy’s help, he had been able to boost the sensor and replace a small part of the suitcase material to look like a patch, but which in reality helped the key fob to connect with the alarm. “You hang this on your doorknob,” lied Harvath, “in case someone tries to get into your hotel room.”

“Monsieur Winiecki, are you quite finished?” asked Aouad, who had already returned to his desk to make sure nothing had happened to the Don Quixote.

“Not really,” said Harvath as he hobbled back.

“Please hurry up. Evening prayers will be starting soon.”

Harvath put his gloves back on, pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, and squeezed past the mosque director.

He focused on the book’s title page, comparing it repeatedly to the image that René Bertrand had e-mailed to Nichols.

Finally, Harvath closed the book, delicately rewrapped it in the faded strip of muslin, and placed it back inside Jefferson’s box. Closing the lid, he gathered his items and began placing them into his briefcase.

“And?” said Aouad, his eyebrows raised. “Are you satisfied?”

“With the item’s authenticity, yes. But its condition leaves much to be desired.”

“Monsieur Winiecki, as I said-” began the man.

Harvath held his hand up as he closed the lid of his briefcase. “The price reflects the book’s condition, I understand. I can tell you that neither Professor Nichols, nor the university, is going to be happy with what I have seen here tonight.”

Namir Aouad was no fool and he smiled. “Monsieur, you and I both know that your university is going to be thrilled to have this book.”

Harvath didn’t reply.

“I’ll tell you what. For an additional twenty thousand, I would be happy to include this handsome wooden box.”

“Five,” replied Harvath as he watched the director run his hand over its lid.

“Fifteen,” countered Aouad.

“Ten and that’s my last offer.”

The mosque director held out his hand. “It is acceptable,” he said.

Harvath shook the man’s hand and then picked up his briefcase. “I’ll inform Professor Nichols and he will have the university wire the money to René Bertrand’s account.”

“Excellent,” replied Aouad as he walked his guest to the door and helped him retrieve his rolling bag. “I believe you have a cab waiting?”

The man was well informed. “I do.”

“Wonderful. Then I will wish you a bon voyage and as soon as Monsieur Bertrand informs us that the funds have been received, we will arrange to have the book and the box delivered to Professor Nichols.”

Harvath nodded and followed Whistles and Big Bird to the front of the warehouse. The mosque was beginning to fill up.

Harvath smiled at Aouad’s two goons as they stopped the torrent of people flooding in so that he could exit the front door. Once again, the men just glared at him.

Outside on the pavement, the evening air was chilly and crisp. As Harvath exhaled, he could see his breath. Gripping the handles of his briefcase and suitcase, he looked both ways before crossing the street.

The cab was still there; parked only a few lengths away. When Harvath reached it, he saw that it was empty and he made a beeline for the café. The sooner he got off the streets, out of Clichy-sous-Bois, and back to the Sargasso safe house, the better he was going to feel.

Harvath entered the rundown café and paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the poor lighting. The scent of apple-flavored tobacco filled his nose as his eyes began to pierce the semi-darkness. Men sat on cushions around low tables paying their bills, draining coffee cups, and taking final tokes on hookah pipes before heading off to evening prayers.

At the end of the comptoir, Harvath saw his driver, Moussa. The young man was standing not far from an older man in a knit cap with a bushy red beard.

As Harvath approached, the man in the cap looked up and their eyes met. There was something familiar about him. It was more like a feeling, but Harvath couldn’t place it. The wheels in his brain spun, trying to figure out how he knew the man. There was something about his eyes.

Suddenly it hit him-the Grand Palais!

Harvath had already dropped his suitcase and was charging for the door when Matthew Dodd reached under his shirt and pulled out his weapon.

CHAPTER 39

Had Harvath had more time beforehand, he would have thoroughly scouted Clichy-sous-Bois before ever approaching the mosque. Having a “rabbit hole,” as it was known in tradecraft terms, where he could safely disappear and change his appearance would have been invaluable. But at this point all he had were his instincts and they told him to run like hell.