hitter.
“Mahmood Omar and Abdul Waleed are dedicated Islamists that the FBI should have taken down a long time ago. Our country is at war and our job is to prevent the enemy from winning. And before you give me a speech about upholding the Constitution, I want you to take two seconds and think about what would happen to the Constitution and the Bill of Rights if America ever became an Islamic nation.”
“I’m not saying any of that,” replied Rasmussen. “Relax.”
“I know you’ve got your pals at the Bureau. They’re good people. But when you’re fighting against assholes who only punch below the belt, you need to have a few people on your side who don’t give a fuck about the Marquess of Queensberry.”
“Listen,” said Rasmussen. “I agree with you. There’s no such thing as a fair fight. I understand that.”
“But?”
“No buts. We get paid to make sausage. Nobody wants to watch it being made. They only care about how it tastes.”
“So we’re good?” asked Ozbek.
“We’re good,” said Rasmussen as he stood. “I’ll see you in the conference room in an hour.”
Ozbek watched him leave and hoped that if this thing got any uglier that he’d be able to count on him.
CHAPTER 28
PARIS
Harvath made Rene Bertrand watch as he swabbed a spoon from the galley with hand sanitizer and then removed a small chunk of heroin from the man’s “cigarette” case.
The drug smelled faintly of vinegar as he placed it on the spoon and added a tiny squirt of water from the book dealer’s syringe. Harvath then used Bertrand’s lighter to heat the mixture from underneath and pulled the stopper out of the syringe to act as a stir.
When it was ready, he dropped a small, wadded up piece of cotton into the center of the spoon. The cotton ball was the size of a tic-tac and functioned like a sponge; sucking up the entire mixture.
Bertrand’s previously dry mouth was wet with anticipation and his eyes were glued to Harvath’s every move.
After cleaning the stopper, Harvath inserted it back into the syringe. He placed the needle in the center of the cotton and drew the stopper back ever so slowly. Though the process was designed to filter out any undesirable particles from the mixture, it also served to hone Bertrand’s craving.
Even though he’d done so on multiple occasions, Harvath wasn’t a fan of torturing people. It had its place, but as far as Harvath was concerned it was only called for after all other reasonable alternatives had been exhausted. Rene Bertrand’s obvious drug problem had provided him a perfect alternative to torture.
Although there probably would have been some who claimed that what Harvath was doing to the man right at this moment actually
Harvath pulled up the right sleeve of the book dealer’s suit jacket and then rolled up his shirt sleeve. Swabbing his arm with another piece of cotton that had been soaked with hand sanitizer he said, “We’ll dispense with the chitchat, Monsieur Bertrand. You have something I want. The sooner you cooperate, the sooner you and Aunt Hazel here can start dancing, understand?”
Harvath watched as the man’s eyes stayed locked on the loaded syringe which Harvath set down on the table. He knew that a heroin addiction was one of the worst addictions a person could have.
When Bertrand finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. “There is a special place in hell for people like you.”
“Tell me where the
The book dealer mustered up a Gallic snort along with a contemptuous roll of his eyes. “So you may steal it from me? What an appealing offer. Is this how American universities do business today?”
This time the snort and a roll of the eyes came from Harvath. “Yeah, it’s a new policy. We voted it in right after we decided to start carrying guns.”
Though his blood was on fire, Bertrand didn’t respond.
“Rene, 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.
“
“Tell me where it is, Rene,” 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
“Monsieur,” the book dealer pleaded. “You help me and then I will help you. I promise.”
“I want the book first,” stated Harvath.
“
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
The book dealer closed his eyes and exhaled. “It is being kept at a mosque in Clichy-sous-Bois.”
CHAPTER 29
