The Last Patriot - Brad Thor [55]
The mosque director set the box down on his desk, raised its thick lid, and said, “It’s all yours. At least it will be, once payment is made.”
Harvath smiled and stepped around the desk. Immediately, he was struck by the fact that it was some sort of puzzle box.
When Scot was little, his father had brought him back multiple puzzle boxes from Japan, some with over a hundred moves necessary to open them. Harvath loved them and so had his father, who was an avid woodworker. The boxes had always seemed a strange metaphor for their intricate and complicated relationship.
Though Jefferson’s puzzle box was in a state of disrepair, there was no mistaking its exceptional joinery and that it had been crafted from a collection of fine hardwoods. At one point the box had most likely been polished to a fine sheen and its brass hardware to a noticeable luster. It definitely would have been a handsome and practical addition to the accoutrements Jefferson kept in his offices at the Carthusian monastery.
It had been marred, though, by time and the conditions under which it lay hidden. It also bore unsightly gouge marks where a screw driver or worse yet, a hammer and chisel or pry bar had been used to force it open.
As Harvath ran his fingers across the front surface, he discovered a barely discernable, inlaid monogram that bore the initials TJ.
Harvath and his father had attempted crafting rudimentary puzzle boxes of their own, but certainly nothing as beautiful as Jefferson’s. It took Harvath back to the woodshop in his family’s garage and he wondered what his father would have thought of being able to run his hands along a work of art that had once belonged to such a notable American.
Harvath’s interest in the puzzle box was not lost upon Aouad. “The box is also available for purchase. For an additional fee, of course.”
“I’ll be sure to let the university know,” said Harvath as his eyes fell upon the object of his assignment.
Sitting in the center of the box, the book lay wrapped in a long strip of muslin discolored with age. Carefully, Harvath removed the book and set it upon the desk. “Do you mind?” he asked as he reached right across Aouad’s chest and adjusted the gooseneck lamp to better the lighting.
“Be my guest,” said the man as he stepped around to the opposite side of the desk to give Harvath more room to work.
Harvath spun his briefcase around and removed a pair of white cotton gloves. Now, a portion of Aouad’s desk was obscured from the mosque director by both the lid of Jefferson’s box and of Harvath’s briefcase.
Aouad watched as Harvath laid a small jeweler’s mat on the desk and then delicately unwound the strip of fabric from the tome.
As Nichols had warned him, the book was in poor condition. Harvath tsked loudly and shook his head as he explored its original limp vellum binding.
“Had the book been in perfect condition,” offered the director, concerned that Harvath was mounting a case for a lower offer, “the price would have been much higher.”
Harvath ignored him and continued his examination. The book was exactly the size the professor had said it would be, but it was heavier than they had expected.
Harvath placed the series of images which had been e-mailed to Nichols off to the side of the box and gently opened the more than four-hundred-year-old book to its first page.
Readily visible were the first edition hallmarks Harvath had been told to look for. There was the dedication to the Duke of Bejar, a descendant of the royal family of the ancient kingdom of Navarra, as well as the Latin phrase, “After the shadows I await the light.”
He compared the images to the aging book before him and then slowly turned to its twenty-sixth chapter. Nichols had instructed him that only the first edition bore a description