The Last Patriot

“But why would Jefferson have left the box behind when he returned to America?” inquired Harvath.

“Because,” said Nichols, “when he left, he didn’t know he wouldn’t be coming back. He was barely off the boat back in America before George Washington asked him to accept a position as his secretary of state. Congress moved quickly to approve the appointment and Jefferson’s life changed in the blink of an eye.”

“But he would have sent for his things.”

“Of course he did. But in 1789 he couldn’t just pick up a phone. Arrangements had to be made and they took time. The French Revolution was in full swing and before he could claim his belongings from the Carthusian monastery, it had been sacked and burned by the Parisian mobs.”

“And with it, presumably, the belongings Jefferson had left there,” said Tracy, “including the hidden box.”

“So where’s the Don Quixote now?” asked Harvath. “Do the French have it?”

“No. The laborers suspected they were under surveillance and recruited the two teens that were killed to deliver the rest of the cache to several intermediaries.

“The boys were leaving a meeting with the laborers when the French authorities decided to move in. They were hoping to get the two laborers who were the ringleaders, but the men gave them the slip. The boys were the next best thing. The authorities pursued the teens, but we know how that ended.

“The laborers disappeared, presumably back to North Africa. The French are rumored to have retrieved some of the documents, but they never got the book-probably because they didn’t realize its significance and their focus was on the documents themselves.

“A friend of one of the teens filled in the pieces for the security services, confirming most of what they’d already learned in their investigation. A CIA operative based out of the American Embassy was having dinner with a French counterpart who filled her in on the whole case. The Frenchman thought it would be amusing to her because of the Jefferson connection. She reported back to the head of station, who briefed Langley, and the report made it to the president, who shared it with me.

“When I discovered that a rare first-edition Don Quixote was going to be on sale at this year’s International Antiquarian Book Fair here in Paris, I contacted the dealer, and without tipping my hand, made an inquiry into the provenance of the book. He was somewhat standoffish, but the book world is filled with strange characters.

“He agreed to send me scans of the first couple of pages. There was an annotation and it looked to be a match for Jefferson’s handwriting. I made an appointment to see him so I could examine the book.

“When I got there, he told me he had already decided to sell the book to someone else. Nothing I could do would persuade him. Someone had offered him a lot more money for it. The president couldn’t raise that kind of money; at least not right away.”

Harvath raised an eyebrow. “The president had trouble getting funding?”

“This isn’t a government operation. He has been financing this out of his own pocket. I asked the dealer to agree to wait until close of business today before he went through with the other party. He gave me until three o’clock.

“I was leaving the meeting when I passed you and the bomb detonated.”

“When we first saw you, you were coming out of a bookstore. Does the dealer work there?”

“No, the store has a small café in back. He wanted a neutral place to meet. He’s very paranoid.”

As he should be, thought Harvath.

And so should you. Nichols was in way over his head. “Do you have any idea who is bidding against you?” he asked.

“A first-edition Don Quixote with all of its original mistakes that Cervantes personally corrected for the next edition? It could be any bibliophile or lover of literary history.”

“Or it could be the people who have been trying to kill you,” said Harvath as he looked at Tracy. “I think we need to find out.”

CHAPTER 22

CIA HEADQUARTERS

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

“You’re sure that’s the whole list?” asked Aydin Ozbek as he walked into his office with Steve Rasmussen and motioned for him to close the door.

Rasmussen shut the door and dropped onto the couch with three file folders and a legal pad. “Selleck gave it to me personally,” he said as he reached over and picked up Ozbek’s wooden puzzle.

Ozbek poured himself a cup of coffee and studied the printout. “He sure pulled it together fast, didn’t he?”

“Make mine black,” said Rasmussen when his colleague failed to offer him any.

Without taking his eyes off the list, Ozbek poured a second cup, walked to the sitting area, and set it down on the coffee table.

Rasmussen picked it up. “Oz, if you had a small fleet of Lamborghinis, you’d know where they were 24/7, 365 too. Selleck was able to crank that out so quickly because Transept is a tight operation.”

“So he can vouch for all of these operatives?” asked Ozbek as he sat down.