“How well trained is he, really? All of the tradecraft he learned could have come from books.”

“He’ll lead them to Islamaburg,” countered Waleed.

“Where he and other young Muslims learned how to shoot and defend themselves. So what? No laws were broken there. Trust me, Abdul, the trail is going to go cold very fast.”

Waleed plucked up a bite-sized sweet from the tray and shoved it in his mouth. He always seemed to eat more when he was under stress. “What have you heard from Paris?”

Mahmood Omar chose his words carefully. There was no need to upset Waleed any further. “Things are progressing.”

“So our problem still hasn’t been taken care of?”

The sheik smiled reassuringly. “I have every confidence it will. Every delay has its blessings. Al-Din will be successful in Paris and then we can put all of this behind us.”

When his audience with Omar was over, Abdul Waleed exited the mosque and headed for his car. As he crossed the street, he reminded himself to remain calm. Both the FBI and the D.C. Metro police would most likely want to ask him questions. He had thought about having some of FAIR’s attorneys present, but Omar had cautioned him against it. He felt it would look too suspicious.

He needed to contact the office to see if any law enforcement agencies had called yet, or maybe had even dropped by unannounced. Omar had warned him to expect them to show up without warning to examine Nura’s desk, computer, and other belongings.

Waleed climbed in his car and fished his ear bud from one of the cup holders. As he turned the ignition, he slid his cell phone from the plastic holster at his hip and turned it on. Omar had a thing about cell phones ringing in the mosque. He saw it as a personal affront to Allah. In fact, the only thing he disliked more than cell phones was dogs.

On that point, he and Waleed were in complete agreement. Cell phones were a necessary evil in modern life, but he had always agreed with the Islamic injunctions against dogs. They were impure, absolutely filthy animals and Mohammed had rightly forbade Muslims from keeping them as pets.

After plugging in his headset, Waleed pulled away from the curb and dialed his office.

The man had no idea that Steve Rasmussen had remotely accessed Andrew Salam’s phone in the evidence room at the D.C. Metro Police Headquarters and had downloaded its contents.

Once Rasmussen had retrieved Waleed’s mobile number, Ozbek had been able to “hot-mike” his phone-a novel form of electronic surveillance which allowed him to remotely power up the phone and activate its microphone. He and Rasmussen had heard the entire conversation with Sheik Omar.

It was the first solid lead the CIA operatives had. The covert forays into Dr. Khalifa’s home and office at Georgetown had been absolute busts.

Ozbek was now on his phone issuing orders to the rest of the DPS. “That’s right,” he said. “I want the entire team focused on Paris. Everybody. Right now. We’ll meet in the conference room for an update in an hour.”

As he hung up the phone, Rasmussen looked at him and said, “None of the intelligence we just gathered will ever be admissible in court.”

Ozbek knew his colleague was right.

“We’ve probably also just screwed the FBI on a major part of their investigation too.”

That thought had crossed Ozbek’s mind, but he didn’t want to think about it. Instead, he turned his anger on Rasmussen. “This is twice now that you’ve informed me that I’ve stepped over the line. I get it and I don’t want to hear it again, okay? The more I hear his name come up, the more my gut tells me this al-Din was an Agency 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.

PARIS

Harvath made René 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. René 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 was torture, they’d be wrong. Harvath knew what real torture was and this wasn’t it. This wasn’t anywhere near it.

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 Don Quixote is.”

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.

“René, 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.”