The Last Patriot

Suddenly it hit him-the Grand Palais!

Harvath had already dropped his suitcase and was charging for the door when Matthew Dodd reached under his shirt and pulled out his weapon.

CHAPTER 39

Had Harvath had more time beforehand, he would have thoroughly scouted Clichy-sous- Bois before ever approaching the mosque. Having a “rabbit hole,” as it was known in tradecraft terms, where he could safely disappear and change his appearance would have been invaluable. But at this point all he had were his instincts and they told him to run like hell.

Hitting the pavement outside the cafe, Harvath cut back across the street and used the people entering the mosque for cover. He had no idea why he thought it would work. If this really was the shooter from the Grand Palais, he’d already gunned down three cops. What would a bunch of civilians matter?

They probably wouldn’t, but they would afford Harvath some cover and make him harder to target and so he ran straight for the crowd and plunged into their midst on the sidewalk in front of the Bilal.

A million questions like Who the hell was this guy? and How had he found me? were pounding on the door of Harvath’s mind but he refused to devote any attention to them. Right now his entire mind had to be focused on staying alive.

He didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know that the shooter was right behind him. Out on the street, Harvath was still a sitting duck, so he did the only thing he could-he plowed his way back into the mosque.

There was a murmur of dissent from the men as Harvath continued pushing, jabbing, and shoving his way through the crowd. Indignation rose as he grew even more aggressive.

Men cursed at him in French and Arabic-one even spat, but it had little effect. The Secret Service had taught him how to fight his way through a crush of people and he was exceedingly good at it.

Two men made the mistake of trying to block Harvath’s path. He had no time to negotiate with them. The man closest to him received a knee strike to the common peroneal nerve in his upper thigh, rendering him unable to stand. Harvath then rammed his shoulder into him, tumbling the man into his associate as he fought his way deeper inside the mosque. All the while, he kept a death grip on his briefcase.

Suddenly, men began shouting behind him and then he heard gunfire. The mob of worshippers panicked. The shouts turned to screams.

As the panicked mass crushed forward, Harvath’s eyes searched for a way out. The only chance he had was to find an exit of some sort at the rear of the mosque, but nothing short of a bulldozer was going to clear the way fast enough. If he didn’t do something soon, he was going to be trampled and possibly even killed.

Fighting his way out wasn’t an option. The people around him were packed too tight. They were nothing more than sheep and Harvath had learned a long time ago that sheep had only two speeds-graze and stampede. And once the stampede started, the only thing that could save you was to get the hell out of its way.

As the crowd surged deeper still, a three-paneled screen was knocked to the floor. That’s when Harvath saw his way out-a recessed doorway that had been hidden by the screen.

Using all of his strength, Harvath moved laterally through the throngs of terrified people to get right up against the wall.

Planting one foot in front of the other, he kept a tight grip on the briefcase as he fought his way back to the door.

By the time he got there, Harvath discovered a father and his young son seeking sanctuary, pressing themselves into its whisper-thin recess.

The father’s hand was on the doorknob and he rattled it as Harvath approached, demonstrating that it was locked.

Harvath signaled for the man to move and slammed the bottom of his foot into the door, which splintered and gave way with a crack. As it did, Harvath yelled for the father to get his son inside. He followed right behind and was greeted by damp air and the faint scent of chlorine from the bathhouse.

Harvath closed the door behind them and wedged a thin piece of lumber beneath the handle in hopes of keeping it shut. At least long enough for him to get away.

When he caught up to his fellow evacuees, he looked at the father and asked in French where the exit was.

The man shrugged and gestured around the narrow passageway with palms upturned.

The time for Harvath to get away was now, while chaos still reigned inside the mosque. Having switched the real Don Quixote with the fake he, Nichols, and Tracy had created, all that mattered was that he get it out of Clichy-sous-Bois and back to the barge.

He realized that if there was an exit at the back of the mosque, most of the people running in that direction would get out that way. That made chances pretty good that Harvath could exit the back of the bathhouse and get somewhat lost in the crowd as they all spilled out into the neighborhood.

The only problem was that the shooter was probably thinking the exact same thing. Though he’d have less cover going out the front door, it was the option that made the most sense.

Making his way through the hammam, Harvath found the reception area and the front doors. He checked for any signs that they were wired to an alarm system. The last thing he wanted to do was draw anymore attention to himself.

As he began to unlock the doors, he decided to remove the Don Quixote from the false bottom he’d created in his briefcase and tuck it into the waistband of his trousers.

He was in the process of balancing the briefcase on the door handles when a noise from behind caused him to turn.

As he did, he was hit in the chest and blown through the doors.

CHAPTER 40

CIA HEADQUARTERS

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

“So that’s it?” asked Aydin Ozbek as he gripped his telephone. “He just kept the camera and said nothing?”

The CIA operative listened to Carolyn Leonard for a few more moments in dismay. The call was winding down as Stephanie Whitcomb poked her head inside Ozbek’s office. He held up his index finger indicating he was almost finished.

“Yeah, I understand,” he said into the telephone. “I appreciate your trying. If you come across anything, please let me know.”

After hanging up, Ozbek turned his attention to Whitcomb, who stood in the doorway with a folder tucked under her arm. “What’s up?” he asked.

“The FBI agents interrogating Andrew Salam want to access some of our database information.”

“Why?”

“The more they talk to him, the more they believe that maybe he didn’t kill that woman at the Jefferson Memorial,” she said.

“No kidding. I told them the same thing, but what’s that have to do with accessing our databases?”

“Using Salam’s description of his handler, they pulled photos of their own people going back twenty-five years, loaded them onto a laptop and worked them into a digitized mug book.”

“And they got nothing,” replied Ozbek.

Whitcomb looked at him. “What does that tell you?”