The Last Patriot - Brad Thor [43]
Though his blood was on fire, Bertrand didn’t respond.
“René, we both know I don’t work for any university. We also know you have a book that doesn’t belong to you. It was stolen and I want it back.”
“And who are you?” the Frenchman demanded. “My clients discovered that book. What makes you the rightful owner?”
Harvath was done screwing around with this guy. Picking up the syringe, he held it in front of the book dealer’s nose and depressed the plunger, sending a stream of cooked heroin into the air.
“Putain merde!” the man yelled.
“Tell me where it is, René,” demanded Harvath.
Bertrand refused to comply.
Harvath looked at Nichols. “Open the porthole.”
“Excuse me?” replied the professor.
“Do it,” commanded Harvath gathering up the book dealer’s drug paraphernalia along with the rest of his heroin.
Nichols opened the window and stood back as Harvath walked over and threw everything but the syringe into the river outside.
“Now,” said Harvath as he returned to his seat and held up the needle for the muttering book dealer to gaze at. “This is all that’s left. You tell me where that book is or else you can kiss this good-bye too.”
To emphasize his point, Harvath depressed the plunger again, squirting more of the mixture into the air.
The book dealer fixed Harvath with a look of rage and in his heavily accented English finally said, “Enough. Stop. I will tell you where it is.”
Harvath waited.
Bertrand looked at him like he was insane. “First give me the drug.”
“First tell me where the Don Quixote is.”
“Monsieur,” the book dealer pleaded. “You help me and then I will help you. I promise.”
“I want the book first,” stated Harvath.
“Putain merde!” the man yelled again. “Please!”
Harvath raised the syringe and threatened to eject more liquid.
“I don’t have it!”
“Where is it?”
“I can’t get it,” stammered Bertrand.
“Why not?” asked Harvath as he kept the syringe primed to spill its remaining contents.
“It is being held by a third party. They will not release the book until the money has been transferred.”
“But any intelligent buyer would want to see the book firsthand before parting with that kind of money.”
“But Monsieur—”
“He’s right,” injected Nichols. “Whoever wins the bid would be entitled to examine the book before transferring the funds.”
Bertrand’s face was like stone. “You must be aware that these people do not play around. If you do not pay them, there will be trouble.”
“I’ll take my chances,” said Harvath as he lowered the syringe and let it hover millimeters above the man’s arm. “Now where is the Don Quixote?”
The book dealer closed his eyes and exhaled. “It is being kept at a mosque in Clichy-sous-Bois.”
CHAPTER 29
Having served in Iraq and other world hot spots, Tracy Hastings had an exceptional mind for operations. Right now, though, all she could do was lie on the bed in the darkened stateroom with a damp cloth across her eyes.
“Nichols was right,” said Harvath as he used the computer to pull up information about the Bilal mosque in Clichy-sous-Bois. “We need to get you to a doctor.”
“I told you. It’ll pass,” she responded.
Pushing away from the small, wooden desk he turned his chair so he could face her. “Let’s drop this. Forget the president, forget the damn book; forget all of it.”
Tracy removed the cloth and raised herself into a sitting position against the pillows. “You can’t. Not because of me.”
“The headaches are getting worse, not better. Look at you. You need help.”
“So does Nichols. So does the president.”
“After everything that has happened, how can you even think about the president?” demanded Harvath. “You were almost killed because of him.”
“And I’ve let it go. Now it’s your turn.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You have to,” she insisted.
Harvath leaned forward in his chair. “Tracy, I don’t want my old life back. I want this life, the one I have now. I want you.”
“And you’ve got me. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You don’t understand what I’m trying to do,” Harvath began.
Tracy looked into his eyes. “Scot, I can’t