The Last Patriot - Brad Thor [40]
Harvath accepted the rope and began binding the book dealer to his chair.
Nichols blanched, remembering his experience at the hotel. “Are you going to torture him?” he asked.
“It’s going to feel like torture,” replied Harvath, “but I’m not going to lay a finger on him. As soon as he’s ready, Monsieur Bertrand is going to tell us everything we want to know. Aren’t you, René?”
Bertrand remained silent.
Harvath patted him down and found what he was looking for. In the man’s left breast pocket was an oversized silver cigarette case. Harvath opened it up and placed it on the table where the book dealer could clearly see it. He knew the stress of the Grand Palais had pushed Bertrand over the edge. Now, only inches away, was the heroin his body was crying out for.
CHAPTER 27
UM AL-QURA MOSQUE
FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA
“Of course I’m angry,” said Abdul Waleed as he paced. “We agreed it would look like a murder/suicide. But Nura Khalifa is dead and Andrew Salam is still alive!”
Sheik Mahmood Omar stood from behind his ornate desk crafted of Damascus steel and gestured toward a carpet in the center of the room with large silk pillows. A tea tray had been set upon a cloth known as a sufrah. “We learn little from our successes, but much from our failures,” offered the imam as he sat down.
“Maybe you don’t understand,” responded FAIR’s chairman as he took a seat across from him. “Salam is going to tell the police everything, if he hasn’t already. The FBI is probably already involved. Either way, somebody is going to come and question me.”
Sheik Omar raised a polished serving pot and poured Arabic coffee into two, small handleless cups. The heady aroma of coffee mixed with cardamom and saffron filled the office.
“And what will they learn?” asked Omar.
Waleed wondered if the imam was losing it. “What will they learn? Where should I start?”
Handing his guest the traditionally half-filled cup, the sheik stated, “While the words are yet unspoken, you are master of them; when once they are spoken, they are master of you.”
“Enough Bedouin proverbs, Mahmood. We need to have a plan.”
Omar took a sip of his coffee. “The evidence planted at their homes and at your offices is still there?”
Waleed nodded.
“The security cameras were not functioning at the memorial?”
“Correct,” said Waleed.
“Then we don’t need to do anything. We have left enough to convince the authorities that Nura was meeting with Salam to tell him that their affair was over. She was ashamed at having debased herself before marriage and was going to beg her family for forgiveness. Salam decided that if he couldn’t have her, then no one would.”
“You underestimate the FBI.”
“Do I?” asked Omar. “A woman is tragically murdered; a Muslim woman from the FAIR offices. There is evidence pointing to a spoiled relationship between her and the man who killed her. Unless you do something foolish, the investigation will end there.”
“And what about Salam? What about his story? What about the training he received? What about my personal connections to him?” demanded Waleed.
“When the FBI asks you about those, you admit to them. You met Salam when he started attending this mosque. He was bright, charming, and extremely creative. That’s why you hired his P.R. firm to work on FAIR’s public and media relations. He worked closely with Nura and you suspected something more than just business might be going on between them, but you never knew for sure. She was very discreet about her private life—”
Waleed interjected, “But what about the man Salam believed to be his handler? And what about the evidence on us Salam was amassing?”
“His handler made sure Salam turned over everything each time they met. He was taught never to keep any information that could compromise him.”
Waleed shook his head.
Omar set down his coffee cup. “Would you rather that the real FBI had gotten to Nura and turned her? Or any of the others we have working for us?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Operation Glass Canyon was a brilliant idea, and