The Last Patriot - Brad Thor [61]
Handing two thousand euros over the seat, Harvath said, “This should cover the repairs to your taxi.” He then reached for the door handle. “Good-bye, Moussa. Thanks for your help.”
The young Algerian turned to say something, but his passenger had already exited the cab.
Harvath walked down to the water, slid the Don Quixote into a plastic bag he found in a trash can, and then ditched the briefcase. Being careful to remain in the shadows, he watched the barge for the next twenty minutes.
During that time, he did a lot of thinking. Foremost in his mind was the question of who the people were on Anthony Nichols’ tail and how they had tracked Harvath to the Bilal Mosque. He planned on making it one of the first questions he asked the professor once he returned to the boat.
When Harvath was convinced that everything appeared okay, he crossed the river by the Pont de la Tournelle and observed the barge for several more minutes from the other side before finally descending to the quai.
Harvath slipped inside the wheel house and quietly descended the stairs. He found René Bertrand right where he’d left him, tied to the dining room chair. His head was slumped forward and he appeared to be either asleep or passed out. Nichols was in the galley with his back turned and Harvath caught him by surprise.
“You scared the life out of me,” he said as he turned around, his hand clasped to his chest. “Did you get it?”
Harvath held up the plastic bag. “How’s Tracy?” he asked.
Nichols drew a deep breath and set the mug he was filling with hot water onto the counter. “She’s gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean she’s gone?” demanded Harvath as he abandoned the galley and headed toward his stateroom.
Flipping on the lights, his eyes were drawn to the empty bed. He pushed open the bathroom door only to find it empty as well. “How long?” he asked as he heard Nichols pad into the room behind him.
“At least an hour,” he responded.
“Did she say where she was going?”
“She said she needed to see a doctor and that you would understand.”
Harvath set down the book and then opened the false panel and removed the box containing the pistol.
Nichols sensed what Harvath was thinking and added, “She also said she didn’t want you coming after her.”
“Every police officer in this city has our pictures by now,” said Harvath as he withdrew the weapon and tucked it into his waistband. “How far do you think she’s going to get?”
“Probably not far and I think she knows that. I also think she feels that she was only slowing you down by staying here.”
“You do, huh?” Harvath replied rudely.
“Scot, her headaches were worse than she was letting on,” stated Nichols.
“So you’re a doctor now?”
“She didn’t want to put you in a position of having to decide between her and what we need to accomplish.”
Harvath looked at Nichols. “What we need to accomplish?” he repeated.
“She said you weren’t going to be happy about it.”
“You know what? Don’t tell me what my girlfriend thinks or feels anymore, okay?” snapped Harvath as he crossed to the tiny desk, fished the headset out of its drawer, and powered up the laptop.
The professor realized they were done talking and quietly backed out of the room.
Harvath chose an e-mail address from the host of anonymous accounts he maintained and sent a message to both Ron Parker’s cell phone and his desktop.
It took some time before he appeared in the video chat room.
“You look like shit,” said Parker as he came on line from the Sargasso conference room in Colorado. He was in his late thirties, about Harvath’s height with a shaved head and a dark goatee.
Parker was normally a wiseass until he understood the severity of a situation, so Harvath ignored the remark. “What took you so long?”
“I was doing a training exercise with SEAL Team 10