“Nope.”

“E-mails? A research organization he or she belonged to? Anything?”

Rasmussen shook his head. “Lombardi said that Khalifa kept everything on his laptop.”

“Which let me guess,” said Ozbek, “was with him the night of the fire.”

“According to Lombardi, it was.”

Ozbek stood up and began pacing. “What about at Georgetown? Did Khalifa have a desktop computer in his office? What about his university e-mail account? How about his house? Phone records?”

Rasmussen looked at his colleague. “All stuff we can’t have access to without permission.”

“Steve, hold on. Nura Khalifa’s boss, Waleed, along with Sheik Omar, began asking a lot of questions about her uncle’s work, which is considered by the more hardcore Islamists to be threatening. Next thing we know, Omar has allegedly hired an assassin to remove a serious threat to Islam, and shortly thereafter it looks like the uncle has died in a fire? Does any of this look a little too coincidental to you?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Neither do I,” replied Ozbek.

“That still doesn’t change the fact that the CIA is prohibited from carrying out domestic operations.”

“If you’re not comfortable-”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t comfortable,” replied Rasmussen.

“Good. How long will it take to get everything I just asked for?”

“Including sending teams in broad daylight to Georgetown and Dr. Khalifa’s residence? Several hours at least.”

“Okay,” said Ozbek as he pulled out the piece of paper with Andrew Salam’s cell phone number written on it and handed it to Rasmussen. “That’ll give us time to start working on Plan B.”

PARIS

The International Antiquarian Book Fair was held every year in the Grand Palais, one of the most striking buildings in Paris. Constructed for the 1900 World’s Fair, the classical palace was topped by a dramatic series of glass and steel domes. It was intended as a monument to the glory of French art and had long been one of Scot Harvath’s favorite exhibition halls. Today, though, he wasn’t so sure.

The Grand Palais had some of the best security guards in the world. Its basement housed its very own National Police station charged with protecting the exhibitions, as well as the vendors themselves. The annual gathering of rare-book dealers from around the world drew enormous crowds and showcased thousands of rare objects from thirteenth-century manuscripts and maps of the first Viking explorers, to the manifesto of the surrealist movement and a letter written by Niccolò Machiavelli on the publication of his book The Prince. It was the most important event of the year for professional and amateur bibliophiles alike. And somewhere in the building was a man who unknowingly held the key to disarming the greatest threat to Western civilization. All Harvath had to do was find him.

It was a feat much easier said than done as the rare-book dealer they were searching for, René Bertrand, was a “floater,” an independent who worked the exhibition floor without a booth of his own. All they had to go on was a meeting time and place where Nichols was to present his final offer for the Jefferson Don Quixote. Bertrand had definitely stacked the deck in his favor.

Even with Nichols’ help, the chance of finding the man among the massive crowds was slim at best. Nevertheless, the trio had to make the attempt.

The glass ceilings of the Grand Palais gave visitors the impression of walking through the world’s largest greenhouse. The overcast sky above matched Harvath’s mood. Every time he saw a police officer, he discreetly steered Tracy and the professor in another direction. They couldn’t be too careful. There was no way of knowing if the French police were looking for them already or not. But that wasn’t the only thing weighing on Harvath.

Before leaving the péniche, he’d allowed Nichols to check the balance of the bank account the president had established for him. No new deposits had been made. They had precious little to bargain with.

Published more than four hundred years ago, only eighteen first-edition copies of Don Quixote were known to exist worldwide. Hailed as the first “true novel,” a first-edition Quixote was quite literally worth more than its own weight in gold.

The group spent the next twenty minutes surreptitiously weaving their way through the crowd.

Fifteen minutes before the rendezvous time, Harvath told Tracy and Nichols to stay put and did a quick sweep of the area. When he came back, they were gone. Something wasn’t right.

Immediately, Harvath went into a state of heightened alert. His mind was full of questions as his hand slid beneath his coat and gripped the butt of his Taurus pistol. Had the people who’d targeted Nichols gotten to them? Was it the police? Was he next?

He fought to keep his heart rate and breathing under control. Quickly and quietly, he did another sweep. Forty-five seconds later he found them behind a booth sitting on a bench. Nichols was holding a cup of water in his left hand while his right arm was around Tracy’s shoulders.

“What happened?” asked Harvath as he forced his eyes away from Tracy and kept scanning the area.

“I’m fine,” she replied.

“She’s not fine,” said Nichols. “She’s sick.”

“I’m fine,” Tracy repeated.

Harvath looked at her. “Is it the headaches?”

“She needs to see a doctor,” Nichols interjected.

“I don’t need a doctor. Would you two cut it out?”

Time was running out. “Can you stand up?” asked Harvath.

“Give me a minute,” said Tracy. “I’m just a little dizzy. It’ll pass.”

They didn’t have a minute. Harvath needed to make a difficult call.

Reaching into his pocket, he peeled off several euro notes and shoved them into Nichols’ hand before Tracy could object. “Get her back to the boat and stay with her,” he ordered. “Don’t use the phone or the computer until I get back. Do you understand me?”

Nichols nodded. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to get that book,” said Harvath as he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

When René Bertrand appeared at the appointed time, he wasn’t hard to spot. Even in the quirky world of rare-book dealers, Bertrand was a real character.

The flamboyant dandy in a white three-piece silk suit stood about five-foot-seven. The only thing thinner than his emaciated frame was the pencil-thin mustache that hovered above his almost nonexistent upper lip. His hair was parted on the left and slicked back with some sort of pomade while a pair of gray eyes darted nervously back and forth beneath two overly manicured eyebrows. A pocket watch on a gold chain sat nestled inside his vest pocket. On his feet, the rare-book dealer wore a pair of highly polished black and white spectators while a brightly colored handkerchief billowed from his breast pocket.

There were dark circles under his eyes, and given his overall physical appearance, Harvath wondered if there was more to Bertrand’s paranoia than just being in possession of one of the world’s most valuable books.

Harvath waited as long as he dared and then finally approached the man. “Monsieur Bertrand?”

“Yes?” the book dealer replied in heavily accented English.

Harvath had run through how he was going to play this. Nichols had explained that Bertrand was very careful. He had shown the professor only copies of the first few pages of the Don Quixote with its dedication from Cervantes to the Duke of Bejar, a phrase in Latin that read “After the shadows I await the light,” and of course the handwriting of Thomas Jefferson.

Bertrand was certainly not going to be carrying the book with him. It would be kept someplace safe until a price had been settled upon and he had received his money.