The Last Patriot

Ozbek shrugged. “I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.”

“What other pieces of evidence do they have?”

“Whatever they are, it seems to point to an if I can’t have her no one can motive for murder.”

“But I didn’t kill her. We were attacked. I told you that. I’m not an idiot. If, and the key word here is if, I was going to kill somebody, do you think I’d be dumb enough to choose a location where I’d have to disarm Park Police security cameras? I couldn’t even do that if I had wanted to.

“You have to believe me. Nura and I were both targets. They wanted us dead and when I survived they planted all of that BS information to make it look like we had a relationship and that I wanted to kill her because she was going to leave me.”

“That’s a lot of work,” said Ozbek.

“So is knocking out surveillance cameras at the Jefferson Memorial.”

Ozbek couldn’t argue with that.

“These people aren’t the turban-wearing morons most of our politicians think they are,” continued Salam. “They’re extremely sophisticated, and have resources you can’t even begin to imagine. If you knew the places their operatives had wormed their way into, you wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. They have armies of sympathizers, legions of apologists, and one of the best crafted public relations and media strategies ever created. These people make the Nazis look like amateurs.

“This is the most dangerous threat this nation has ever faced, and yet I’m going to hang for trying to do my duty as an American to take them down. This isn’t justice, it’s bullshit.”

Ozbek looked at him. “You’re right. It is bullshit.”

“So you believe me, then?”

Ozbek nodded. “But I have to be honest with you. There is a limit to how much we can do for you. This investigation belongs to the FBI and D.C. Metro. The CIA has no official role in it whatsoever.”

“What about Dodd? Capturing him would change things, wouldn’t it?”

“Probably,” replied Ozbek, “but he could turn around and cut a deal with the CIA to give them something of greater value.”

Salam shook his head. “And I’d still be screwed.”

“It happens. I just want you to be aware of that.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Andrew, you’re in a tough position. Based on how the deck is stacked against you, nobody would blame you at this point for clamming up and waiting for a lawyer.”

“Why are you telling me all of this? If I go to the press about Dodd, it could be very embarrassing for the CIA.”

“They’re big boys and girls,” said Ozbek. “They’ve got people who know how to handle spin.”

“But still,” replied Salam, pressing his point.

“You’re a good guy, Andrew. Somebody screwed you big time, yet you’ve cooperated every step of the way with us. And I think you’ve cooperated because you know you haven’t done anything wrong. More importantly, you know what you were doing was for the good of your country and that’s what honorable people in this nation do.

“I can’t promise I can unfuck everything you’re in, but if you help me, I will promise that I’ll do everything I can to track down Matthew Dodd and make sure that he and his Islamist pals won’t do any further harm to America.”

Salam thought about it. It didn’t take long. He knew what the right thing to do was. “Take out a pen,” he said. “You’re going to need it.”

CHAPTER 45

PARIS

Dodd had found the director of the Bilal Mosque in his office. “The police are on their way!” he screamed at Dodd in French after the assassin had kicked in his door and entered his office.

“They’ll come all right,” replied Dodd as he closed the door behind him, “but not until they have amassed many men. Your neighborhood doesn’t exactly have the best reputation. Frankly, the police are just as terrified of coming here as everyone else.”

Namir Aouad eyed the intruder’s weapon. “What do you want?”

“Why was the American here?”

“What American?”

Dodd removed the suppressor from beneath his shirt and screwed it onto the threaded barrel of his pistol. “Why was he here?” he repeated.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Aouad stammered.

The assassin didn’t like being lied to. He raised his H amp;K and fired, slamming a round into the wall just above the mosque director’s head. “Tell me why the American was here or I’ll find something other than the wall for my next shot.”

Aouad studied the man’s thick beard, clothing, and distinctive Islamic cap. “You look like a Muslim.”

“I am.”

“Then you cannot shoot me,” declared Aouad. “It is forbidden for a Muslim to harm another Muslim.”

For a moment, Dodd’s mind drifted to his deceased wife and child and what he imagined their death had been like. His eyes then went cold. “When you choose to aid an infidel over another Muslim, you are no longer a Muslim.”

“I have not aided any infidels,” protested the director.

“Tell me about Rene Bertrand.”

Aouad’s eyes looked up and to the right. “I do not know this man.”

Dodd had his pistol up before the man had even finished his lie. He pulled the trigger and drilled a round through the mosque director’s shoulder.

Aouad screamed in pain as his hand flew to the wound. Within seconds, a dark, moist stain began to spread across his sweater. He drew his hand back and almost passed out from the sight of the blood. “The American came for the book,” he wailed. “He came for the book.”

The assassin was amazed. “Bertrand left the book with you?”

“Please, I need an ambulance,” pleaded the injured mosque director.

“You’ll need a hearse if you don’t answer my questions,” threatened Dodd.

“I was holding the book for its owners.”

“You mean the men who stole it,” clarified the assassin.

The mosque director nodded eagerly. He was losing a lot of blood and did not want to be shot again. “Please! I need an ambulance,” he repeated.

Dodd wasn’t paying attention. He was too preoccupied with his own thoughts. The assassin was stunned that the book had been in the mosque all this time. If only he had known! “We would have paid you much more money for that book.”

Aouad was confused. “You?”

“Yes, you idiot,” yelled the assassin as he raised his pistol again. “Who was he? How did Bertrand make contact with him? I must have that book.”

Aouad was starting to feel dizzy. “It’s gone. The American stole it,” he said pointing at the wooden box on top of the file cabinet.

The assassin crossed to the cabinet.

“Please,” moaned Aouad. “Let me call an ambulance.”

“Shut up,” snapped the assassin.

He opened the lid and looked inside. An old volume lay on top of an aged piece of cloth. The cover was rough