The Last Patriot - Brad Thor [42]
“Mahmood Omar and Abdul Waleed are dedicated Islamists that the FBI should have taken down a long time ago. Our country is at war and our job is to prevent the enemy from winning. And before you give me a speech about upholding the Constitution, I want you to take two seconds and think about what would happen to the Constitution and the Bill of Rights if America ever became an Islamic nation.”
“I’m not saying any of that,” replied Rasmussen. “Relax.”
“I know you’ve got your pals at the Bureau. They’re good people. But when you’re fighting against assholes who only punch below the belt, you need to have a few people on your side who don’t give a fuck about the Marquess of Queensberry.”
“Listen,” said Rasmussen. “I agree with you. There’s no such thing as a fair fight. I understand that.”
“But?”
“No buts. We get paid to make sausage. Nobody wants to watch it being made. They only care about how it tastes.”
“So we’re good?” asked Ozbek.
“We’re good,” said Rasmussen as he stood. “I’ll see you in the conference room in an hour.”
Ozbek watched him leave and hoped that if this thing got any uglier that he’d be able to count on him.
CHAPTER 28
PARIS
Harvath made René Bertrand watch as he swabbed a spoon from the galley with hand sanitizer and then removed a small chunk of heroin from the man’s “cigarette” case.
The drug smelled faintly of vinegar as he placed it on the spoon and added a tiny squirt of water from the book dealer’s syringe. Harvath then used Bertrand’s lighter to heat the mixture from underneath and pulled the stopper out of the syringe to act as a stir.
When it was ready, he dropped a small, wadded up piece of cotton into the center of the spoon. The cotton ball was the size of a tic-tac and functioned like a sponge; sucking up the entire mixture.
Bertrand’s previously dry mouth was wet with anticipation and his eyes were glued to Harvath’s every move.
After cleaning the stopper, Harvath inserted it back into the syringe. He placed the needle in the center of the cotton and drew the stopper back ever so slowly. Though the process was designed to filter out any undesirable particles from the mixture, it also served to hone Bertrand’s craving.
Even though he’d done so on multiple occasions, Harvath wasn’t a fan of torturing people. It had its place, but as far as Harvath was concerned it was only called for after all other reasonable alternatives had been exhausted. René Bertrand’s obvious drug problem had provided him a perfect alternative to torture.
Although there probably would have been some who claimed that what Harvath was doing to the man right at this moment actually was torture, they’d be wrong. Harvath knew what real torture was and this wasn’t it. This wasn’t anywhere near it.
Harvath pulled up the right sleeve of the book dealer’s suit jacket and then rolled up his shirt sleeve. Swabbing his arm with another piece of cotton that had been soaked with hand sanitizer he said, “We’ll dispense with the chitchat, Monsieur Bertrand. You have something I want. The sooner you cooperate, the sooner you and Aunt Hazel here can start dancing, understand?”
Harvath watched as the man’s eyes stayed locked on the loaded syringe which Harvath set down on the table. He knew that a heroin addiction was one of the worst addictions a person could have.
When Bertrand finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. “There is a special place in hell for people like you.”
“Tell me where the Don Quixote is.”
The book dealer mustered up a Gallic snort along with a contemptuous roll of his eyes. “So you may steal it from me? What an appealing offer. Is this how American universities do business today?”
This time the snort and a roll of the eyes came from Harvath. “Yeah, it’s a new policy. We voted it