The Last Patriot - Brad Thor [54]
“Does your acquaintance know who this Matthew Dodd is working for?”
“He wouldn’t say,” replied Leonard. “To tell you the truth, I think he might have been holding out on me.”
“Why?”
“From what I gathered, he has been putting his fingers into pies here at home, which is something that the CIA is forbidden to do. He did tell me, though, that Matthew Dodd is one of the most dangerous operatives the Agency has ever fielded. He doesn’t know what Harvath’s involvement is in all this, but he’s concerned that Harvath doesn’t know the seriousness of what he’s up against with Dodd.”
Rutledge took a second to let it all sink in and then stood. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Carolyn” he said. “I haven’t spoken with Scot Harvath recently—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” interjected Leonard politely, “but I actually heard a rumor that Harvath had a nasty run-in with someone and actually retired over it. Is that true?”
“I can’t comment.”
“I understand, sir,” said the Secret Service agent, who then shook her head and laughed. “Whoever would allow an operative like Scot Harvath to hang up his jersey has got to be a complete fool, right?”
“If I hear from Professor Nichols,” replied the president, “I will definitely make sure to pass along your warning.”
Leonard recognized the signal that their meeting was over and stood as well. “There has got to be some way to get a warning to Harvath too. He needs to know what’s going on. Isn’t there anybody who can get in touch with him?”
“If I can think of anybody, I’ll get on it right away,” said Rutledge as he held out his hand. “Thank you for coming to see me.”
Leonard accepted the president’s grasp and offered up her other hand to accept the digital camera back.
“May I hold on to this for a little while?” he asked as he saw her to the door.
“Of course,” she replied.
As soon as Leonard was gone, President Jack Rutledge crossed back to his desk and snatched up the telephone.
CHAPTER 37
PARIS
The men Namir Aouad had called into his office were each at least six-foot-three and well over two hundred and ninety pounds.
They had jet black hair and close-cropped beards. Their dark eyes were alert and wary. One of the men had a long hooked nose that resembled a vulture’s beak while the other’s looked misshapen, probably from having been broken multiple times.
Aouad issued a fresh set of commands in French. Big Bird, as Harvath had nicknamed him, set the tea tray down on the mosque director’s desk and poured the steaming mint liquid. In the man’s enormous hands, the pitcher looked like a child’s toy.
The other man stood near the door at rigid attention, his hands clasped in front of his privates like a soccer player waiting to absorb a penalty kick. His eyes never drifted from Harvath. There were moments, during pauses in the conversation, where if Harvath strained his ears, he thought he could hear the air whistling in and out of the man’s malformed nasal cavities.
Clichy-sous-Bois was a tough area, and Harvath couldn’t help but wonder what else mosque director Namir Aouad was into besides being a middleman for stolen first edition Don Quixotes.
As he and Aouad made small talk over their tea, Harvath remained purposefully vague. His was a hastily created identity and the last thing he wanted to do was blow it by getting trapped in a subject he should have been an expert at.
Tea was a traditional show of good faith on Aouad’s part. Refusing him could have been seen as an insult. It was important to make the man as comfortable as possible.
Luckily, Aouad was a soccer fan and Harvath followed the sport closely enough to be able to converse on that subject until they were finished.
Once Big Bird had cleared the tray, Harvath lifted his briefcase and set it upon Aouad’s desk. “Shall we get started?” he asked as he popped the latches and began to withdraw the items he would pretend to use to authenticate the Don Quixote.
“Of course,” said the mosque director as he nodded to one of