“To locate more of Jefferson’s missing documents?” asked Tracy.

“In particular,” said Nichols, “Jefferson’s first-edition Don Quixote. We believe it contains handwritten notes that can lead us to what we’re looking for.”

“Where is it?”

The professor took a deep breath and then replied, “That’s where things start to get tricky.”

THE WHITE HOUSE

President Jack Rutledge had just finished his morning briefing when his chief of staff, Charles Anderson, stuck his head back inside the Oval Office. “The Saudi crown prince is on the phone for you, sir,” he said.

“Any idea what he wants?” replied the president as he walked behind his desk and sat down.

“He didn’t say. Do you want me to tell him you’re unavailable?”

“No. I’ll take his call.”

When Anderson had left the room, Rutledge picked up the phone. “Good afternoon, Your Highness.”

“Good morning, Mr. President,” said Crown Prince Abdullah bin Abdul Aziz from his residential palace in eastern Riyadh. “Thank you for taking my call.”

“Of course, Your Highness. We are always happy to hear from our friends in Saudi Arabia.”

“I trust you and your daughter, Amanda, are well?”

“We are,” said Rutledge, ever mindful of the Arab custom to make small talk about the health and well being of the conversation’s participants and their respective families before getting down to business. “How are you and your family?”

“Everyone is well, thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Mr. President,” said the crown prince, “may I speak frankly with you?”

“Of course,” replied Rutledge.

“I understand that you may be searching for something that doesn’t belong to you.”

The president waited for the crown prince to elaborate. When he didn’t, Rutledge asked, “Could you be more specific, Your Highness?”

“Mr. President, Islam is one of the world’s three great religions. It brings comfort and solace to a billion-and-a-half people around the world. I am concerned that you may be attempting to shake the faith of those billion-and-a-half people.”

“And just how exactly are we trying to do that?” asked Rutledge.

“I’m not talking about America in general,” corrected the Saudi leader. “I’m talking about you specifically, Mr. President. You and the personal vendetta you seem to have against our peaceful religion.”

The president reminded himself that he was talking to a foreign head of state; one whose country actively promoted and financed the radical Wahhabi ideology embraced by so many of the world’s terrorists, but a head of state nonetheless. “Your Highness, you asked me if we could speak frankly, so let’s do so. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The connection was so clear, it was almost as if the overweight Saudi was standing right next to the president when he said, “There is no lost revelation of Mohammed, Mr. President.”

Rutledge couldn’t believe his ears. How the hell did the Saudis know what he was looking for? “That’s good to know, Your Highness. Thank you.”

“Saudi Arabia has been a very good friend to the United States,” cautioned the crown prince.

Sure they had. The president wanted to thank him for the fifteen hijackers the Saudis sent over on 9/11, the countless Saudi nationals who had overstayed their visas and had been picked up in the United States on terror related charges, and numerous other examples that suggested Saudi Arabia was anything but a friend to the United States, but he kept his mouth shut. Until America pulled the oil needle out of its arm once and for all, it would have to deal politely with Saudi Arabia. “And America appreciates your country’s friendship, Your Highness. I think you’ve received some incorrect information, though.”

The Crown Prince clucked his disapproval over the phone line. “My sources are very reliable. As is my warning, Mr. President. If you want what is good for our two nations; if you want what is good for America and the billion-and-a-half Muslims of the world, you will abandon your fruitless search. The lost revelation of Mohammed is nothing more than a fairy tale. The Loch Ness monster of the Islamic world.”

It was a monster, all right, thought the president, and if the crown prince was calling to dole out such “friendly” advice, it had to mean that he and Anthony Nichols were getting close. And the closer they got, the more dangerous all of this was going to be.

PARIS

The professor cleared his throat and said, “On October 27 of 2005, the worst rioting in France in the last forty years erupted and spread across the country when two Muslim teens from a poor housing complex east of Paris were killed. The teens thought they were being chased by police and attempted to hide in an electrical substation, where they were electrocuted. The riots lasted for nearly three weeks during which over nine thousand cars were torched, a fifty-year-old woman on crutches was doused with gasoline and set on fire, and weapons were fired at police, firefighters, and rescue personnel.

“An internal French investigation gave conflicting reports that the police were after two other men who were either evading an identity check or had trespassed at a building site. Either way, that differed with a statement given by a friend of the deceased teens who claimed the boys had been accused of burglary and were running because they feared interrogation.”

“So what was it?” asked Harvath.

“All of it actually, but we didn’t learn that until much later.”

“How can it be all of it?” asked Harvath.

“French immigrants of North African descent who are normally Muslim are often hired as day laborers on construction jobs, much in the same way Mexican laborers are in America. Their employers pay them off the books in cash and turn a blind eye to their residency status.

“According to intelligence picked up by the American embassy in Paris, two such workers from Clichy-sous-Bois, the flashpoint of the riots, were hired to help renovate a building not far from the Luxembourg Gardens.

“During the demolition phase, the two laborers stumbled across a strange wooden box hidden behind a false wall. Though the men had no idea what they had discovered, after forcing it open they realized its contents were old and most likely valuable. So, in hopes of making a little extra money on the side, they smuggled it out of the building and began selling it off in bits and pieces in an attempt to avoid drawing any unwanted attention. It wasn’t long, though, before the French security services began looking into it.”

“Back up,” said Harvath. “The French security services?”

“Why them?” added Tracy. “Why not the police?”

“Good question,” replied Nichols as he took a sip of his drink. “What got them interested was who the box belonged to.”

“Thomas Jefferson.”

Nichols nodded.

“How did they know that?” asked Harvath.

“An antiquities dealer they tried to sell documents to got suspicious and contacted French authorities,” said the professor.

“What was a box filled with Jefferson’s stuff doing hidden in a building near the Luxembourg Gardens?” asked Harvath.

Nichols swirled the liquid in his glass. “In addition to his home on the Champs-Élysées, Jefferson kept a small suite of private rooms at the Carthusian monastery in the Jardin du Luxembourg, where he could work and think in peace. The Carthusians observed a strict vow of silence and expected their tenants to do the same. The arrangement was perfect for Jefferson.

“His house on the Champs-Élysées had been broken into three times in 1789,” continued Nichols. “In fact, the robberies had gotten so bad that he had to request private security.”