The Last Patriot - Brad Thor [1]
“My uncle’s the target,” she stammered.
Salam was stunned. “Are you sure?”
“I think they’ve already hired the assassin.”
“Hold on, Nura. People just don’t go out and hire assassins,” began Salam, but she interrupted him.
“They said the threat has grown too great and it needs to be dealt with, now.”
Salam bent down so he could look into her eyes. “Did they mention your uncle by name?”
“No, but they didn’t have to. I know he’s the target.”
“How do you know?”
“They’ve been asking lots of questions about him and what he’s working on. Andrew, we have to do something. We have to find him and warn him. Please.”
“We will,” said Salam as he looked around. “I promise. But first, I need to know everything you’ve heard, no matter how small.”
Nura was trembling.
“How did you get here?” he asked as he removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders.
“I took the Metro, why?”
Though the couple had the memorial all to themselves at this time of night, Salam was uncomfortable about being out in the open. He had a strange feeling that they were being watched. “I’d feel better if we went someplace else. My car is parked nearby. Are you up to taking a walk?”
Nura nodded and Salam put his arm around her as they exited the statue chamber.
While they walked, Nura began to fill him in on what she had learned. Salam listened, but his mind was drifting.
Had he been paying attention to more than just how good she felt pressed up against him, he might have had time to react to the two men who sprung from the shadows.
CHAPTER 1
ROME, ITALY
MONDAY EVENING
The Italian Centre for Photoreproduction, Binding, and Restoration of State Archives, also known as the CFLR, was located in an unassuming postmodern office building three blocks from the Tiber River at 14 Via Costanza Baudana Vaccolini. It boasted one of the world’s leading archival preservation facilities, as well as a young deputy assistant director named Alessandro Lombardi who was eager to begin his evening.
“Dottore, mi scusi,” said Lombardi.
Dr. Marwan Khalifa, a distinguished Koranic scholar in his early sixties with a handsome face and neatly trimmed beard, looked up from the desk he was working at. “Yes, Alessandro?”
The Italian adopted his most charming smile and asked, “Tonight, we finish early?”
Dr. Khalifa laughed and set down his pen. “You have another date this evening?”
Lombardi approached and showed the visiting scholar a picture on his mobile phone.
“What happened to the blond woman?”
Lombardi shrugged. “That was last week.”
Khalifa picked his pen back up. “I suppose I can be done in an hour.”
“An hour?” exclaimed Lombardi as he pressed his hands together in mock prayer. “Dottore, if I don’t leave now, all of the good tables outside will be gone. Please. When the weather is this nice, Italians are not allowed to work late. It’s state policy.”
Khalifa knew better. No matter what the weather, there were always people working late in the CFLR building—maybe not in the Research and Preservation department, but there was almost always a light burning somewhere. “If you want to leave your keys, I’ll lock up the office when I go.”
“And my time card?” asked Lombardi, pressing his luck.
“You get paid for the time you work, my friend.”
“Va bene,” replied the young man as he fished a set of keys for the department from his pocket and set them on the desk. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Have fun,” said Khalifa.
Lombardi flashed him the smile once more and then made his way toward the exit, turning off any unnecessary lights along his way.
Dr. Khalifa’s desk was a large drafting-style table, illuminated by two adjustable lamps. His time as well as Lombardi’s was being paid for by the Yemeni Antiquities Authority.
In 1972, workers in Yemen had made a startling discovery. Restoring the aging Great Mosque at Sana’a, said to have been one of the first architectural projects of Islam commissioned by the prophet