The Last Patriot

The idea did have a certain appeal to it, Harvath had to admit, but they were going to get only one chance to confront those two. He preferred to relegate kidnapping them to Plan B. Right now, the best possible outcome would be to get to the prize before Dodd. Hooking the jumper cables up to Omar and Waleed could very easily buy Dodd the time he needed to beat them to Mohammed’s final revelation. And once that happened, regardless of what Omar and Waleed might tell them, the chances were very good that Dodd would disappear and along with him the revelation.

Harvath swung out from behind the slow moving car in front of them and pushed down hard on the accelerator.

CHAPTER 76

Susan Ferguson, the curator for Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello, met them a quarter mile past the estate in the circular blacktop drive of the International Center for Jefferson Studies. She was a tall, attractive brunette in her early forties casually dressed in blue jeans and a fleece with a walkie-talkie clipped to her waist.

When the professor climbed out of the truck, the two shared an affectionate hug. “It’s good to see you, Anthony,” said Ferguson.

“You too, Susan,” he replied. “Thanks for coming in on your day off.”

“Well, you said it was urgent.” Ferguson’s voice trailed off as she noticed both of the well-built men Nichols was traveling with get out of the vehicle behind him. They had cop

, or soldier, or something she couldn’t exactly describe written all over them. Though she didn’t see any weapons, she had a feeling that they were armed. “What’s going on?” she asked.

Nichols pointed to his companions and said, “Susan, I’d like to introduce you to Scot Harvath and Aydin Ozbek.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Harvath. Ozbek stood to the side and nodded politely.

Ferguson looked at Nichols and waited for a further explanation.

“It’s a long story,” he said. “Maybe we can talk on our way inside?”

The woman hesitated for a moment and then gave in. As they walked, Nichols gave her the short speech Harvath had rehearsed with him in the car about how he was working for a wealthy businessman who was obsessed with security. By the time they reached the library building, the woman seemed less tense about the armed men accompanying her friend and colleague.

Harvath reached over and helped hold the door open as everyone filed inside.

The main wing of the Jefferson Library was a dramatic two-story arcade punctuated by rows of polished bookcases and curved beams of matching wood across the ceiling capped off by a dramatic wall of mullioned glass at the far end.

Pointing to one of the library’s several work tables Ferguson said, “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Nichols removed the file folder from under his arm and produced the two yellowed documents. The curator pulled out one of the chairs, sat down, and removed a pair of glasses from her pocket. “You’re positive these are authentic Jefferson?” she asked as she put her glasses on.

“Positive,” replied Nichols.

She studied each of them for a few moments. “None of this writing makes any sense.”

“They’re encoded.”

“Have you been able to decipher any of it?” she asked.

The professor shook his head. “Only partially.”

“Interesting. Very interesting. Where did your client get these?”

“He has been a collector of Jefferson documents for many years,” replied Nichols. “He has resources most would kill for.”

“That must be nice,” said Ferguson, who then stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“I want to gather a few reference materials. There’s something familiar about these drawings.”

The curator disappeared and came back a few minutes later with a stack of books and a handful of other items, including an oversized magnifying glass. Setting everything down on the table, she picked up the magnifying glass and returned to her investigation.

Harvath kept a watchful eye over her and Nichols while Ozbek kept an eye on the door.

Ferguson made notes on a small pad as she flipped back and forth through the pages of her reference books. Occasionally, she would stop to ask Nichols a question and then would return to studying the documents.

It went on like that for over half an hour until she removed her glasses and set them on the table.

Nichols stopped pacing and came over to the desk. “Well? What do you think?”

Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the curator looked up at him. “This first set of drawings here,” she said, pointing at the paper, “is mechanical. They appear to be schematics of some sort.”

“I figured as much. Do you have any idea what for?”

Ferguson smiled. “With Jefferson, it could be anything. The man was constantly inventing things. The handwriting and drawing techniques definitely seem to be his, but this first page is odd.”

“How so?” asked the professor.