The Last Patriot - Brad Thor [56]
It took him several minutes, but Harvath finally found it. It was amazing. Out of an original four hundred copies of Don Quixote only eighteen first editions were known to still exist. What Harvath now held in his hands was the nineteenth.
It was an incredible discovery made even more remarkable by its provenance and the secrets it promised to unlock. Harvath was left with only one final item to authenticate.
Jefferson was known to insert his private mark, or more accurately his initials, at very precise locations in his books. At that time, signature marks were placed on the bottom of certain pages to help guide the bookbinder in the proper assembly or “gathering” of a manuscript, as it used to be called, into book form.
Each section of a book was issued a different signature, normally letters which progressed in alphabetical order. Jefferson’s mark consisted of writing the capital letter T before the signature letter J. And at the printed signature letter T, he would follow it with his own letter J.
Harvath took his time as he patiently looked for both marks. His heart beat faster as he found the handwritten T mated to the publisher’s J and then the handwritten J following the printed T. This was Thomas Jefferson’s Don Quixote. Harvath was sure of it. There were notes on multiple pages, but he had no idea which contained the secret to the order of the wheel cipher discs. That would be for Nichols to unravel.
Harvath forced himself to take a breath. This was the hard part. Placing the book upon the jeweler’s mat, he cautiously reached into his briefcase with his other hand.
Suddenly, a piercing siren erupted from the other side of the room.
CHAPTER 38
Namir Aouad spun toward the door. He was startled and had no idea what was happening.
Within seconds, Big Bird and Whistles had burst back into the room, their hands menacingly hovering inside their jackets.
Harvath shook his hands in the air as he limped around the desk. “My fault,” he yelled as he wobbled to where the men were gathered around his suitcase. “I’m sorry.”
He removed his gloves and fumbled with the combination lock on the outermost zippered compartment while the deafening shriek continued. Other people from the mosque were now sticking their heads in the director’s office to see what was going on and Aouad yelled at Big Bird to shut the door.
Finally, Harvath got the combination lock open and unzipped his bag. Fishing out a device the size of a garage door opener he depressed a series of buttons and the earsplitting alarm stopped.
“Wow,” said Harvath as he swung the device from the lanyard he had attached to it. “Can you imagine what would have happened if that had gone off while I was on the airplane? Maybe I should take the batteries out.”
Big Bird and Whistles glared at him.
Harvath held the object up a little higher so they could see it better. In reality, it was a poor man’s car alarm that was made to be clipped to a visor. It reacted to breaking glass, movement in the vehicle, or in Harvath’s circumstance the panic button on a remote key fob from across the room. With Tracy’s help, he had been able to boost the sensor and replace a small part of the suitcase material to look like a patch, but which in reality helped the key fob to connect with the alarm. “You hang this on your doorknob,” lied Harvath, “in case someone tries to get into your hotel room.”
“Monsieur Winiecki, are you quite finished?” asked Aouad, who had already returned to his desk to make sure nothing had happened to the Don Quixote.
“Not really,” said Harvath as he hobbled back.
“Please hurry up. Evening prayers will be starting soon.”
Harvath put his gloves back on, pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, and