“And who are you?” the Frenchman demanded. “My clients discovered that book. What makes you the rightful owner?”

Harvath was done screwing around with this guy. Picking up the syringe, he held it in front of the book dealer’s nose and depressed the plunger, sending a stream of cooked heroin into the air.

“Putain merde!” the man yelled.

“Tell me where it is, René,” demanded Harvath.

Bertrand refused to comply.

Harvath looked at Nichols. “Open the porthole.”

“Excuse me?” replied the professor.

“Do it,” commanded Harvath gathering up the book dealer’s drug paraphernalia along with the rest of his heroin.

Nichols opened the window and stood back as Harvath walked over and threw everything but the syringe into the river outside.

“Now,” said Harvath as he returned to his seat and held up the needle for the muttering book dealer to gaze at. “This is all that’s left. You tell me where that book is or else you can kiss this good-bye too.”

To emphasize his point, Harvath depressed the plunger again, squirting more of the mixture into the air.

The book dealer fixed Harvath with a look of rage and in his heavily accented English finally said, “Enough. Stop. I will tell you where it is.”

Harvath waited.

Bertrand looked at him like he was insane. “First give me the drug.”

“First tell me where the Don Quixote is.”

“Monsieur,” the book dealer pleaded. “You help me and then I will help you. I promise.”

“I want the book first,” stated Harvath.

“Putain merde!” the man yelled again. “Please!”

Harvath raised the syringe and threatened to eject more liquid.

“I don’t have it!”

“Where is it?”

“I can’t get it,” stammered Bertrand.

“Why not?” asked Harvath as he kept the syringe primed to spill its remaining contents.

“It is being held by a third party. They will not release the book until the money has been transferred.”

“But any intelligent buyer would want to see the book firsthand before parting with that kind of money.”

“But Monsieur-”

“He’s right,” injected Nichols. “Whoever wins the bid would be entitled to examine the book before transferring the funds.”

Bertrand’s face was like stone. “You must be aware that these people do not play around. If you do not pay them, there will be trouble.”

“I’ll take my chances,” said Harvath as he lowered the syringe and let it hover millimeters above the man’s arm. “Now where is the Don Quixote?”

The book dealer closed his eyes and exhaled. “It is being kept at a mosque in Clichy-sous-Bois.”

Having served in Iraq and other world hot spots, Tracy Hastings had an exceptional mind for operations. Right now, though, all she could do was lie on the bed in the darkened stateroom with a damp cloth across her eyes.

“Nichols was right,” said Harvath as he used the computer to pull up information about the Bilal mosque in Clichy-sous-Bois. “We need to get you to a doctor.”

“I told you. It’ll pass,” she responded.

Pushing away from the small, wooden desk he turned his chair so he could face her. “Let’s drop this. Forget the president, forget the damn book; forget all of it.”

Tracy removed the cloth and raised herself into a sitting position against the pillows. “You can’t. Not because of me.”

“The headaches are getting worse, not better. Look at you. You need help.”

“So does Nichols. So does the president.”

“After everything that has happened, how can you even think about the president?” demanded Harvath. “You were almost killed because of him.”

“And I’ve let it go. Now it’s your turn.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You have to,” she insisted.

Harvath leaned forward in his chair. “Tracy, I don’t want my old life back. I want this life, the one I have now. I want you.”

“And you’ve got me. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t understand what I’m trying to do,” Harvath began.

Tracy looked into his eyes. “Scot, I can’t promise you that everything between us is going to be perfect. I dropped my crystal ball the day I got shot. What I can tell you is that I understand who you are. The better part of your life has been devoted to taking America’s fight to its enemies, this enemy in particular. Now, without another person having to be maimed or killed, you have a chance to defeat one of the greatest threats civilization has ever seen. I’m not going to let you throw that away. I can’t.

“This is what you’re so good at. You know how these people play and you know how to beat them at their own game. You’re angry with the president because he made some secret deal that freed a terrorist who stalked your friends and family. It’s done. Get over it. This isn’t about him. This is about right and wrong. And you need to do the right thing here.”

“But you need help.”

“Okay,” she relented. “I need help. I’ll get it. But I’m going to get it without you. And that’s not open for discussion.”

“Tracy, listen.”

“Scot, if I have to get up off this bed just to beat some sense into you I will. I won’t like it, but I’ll do it.”

Harvath smiled. Tracy Hastings was the most amazing woman he’d ever met. If they were blessed with a hundred years together, he could spend every single day of it telling her how much she meant to him without ever really coming close to how deeply he felt.

“I want to be happy and I want it to be with you. But for the two of us to work,” she continued, “you can’t stop being who you are.”

“Even if I’m the guy who disappears for weeks at a time and can’t tell you where I’m going or when I’ll be back?”

“As long as it’s not with a mistress, I think we’ll find a way to make it work.”

Harvath was at a loss.

“Now,” said Tracy, sitting up straighter, “bring that laptop over here and let’s figure out how we’re going to get you into that mosque so you can get that book back.”

The book dealer had been careful in his dealings, very careful. Dodd had simply chalked it up to eccentricity. But it wasn’t eccentricity, it was an over abundance of caution and now he knew why.

Hacking the French servers had proven easier than he’d expected. The dossier on René Bertrand made for interesting reading. The man had a long history of offenses, most of them drug-related, but they had been escalating. Currently, the French police were looking into the book dealer’s association with a smuggling ring that operated between Morocco and France. The investigation had everything: money, women, weapons, drugs, and lots and lots of people who had turned up dead.

As far as the authorities were concerned, Bertrand was definitely a person of interest, but the most telling detail, at least for Dodd, was the fact that the book dealer seemed to be reviled by everyone he had ever come in contact with.

René, the heroin fiend, needed to disappear and was desperate for money. No wonder he risked having his face seen in Paris. He needed to move the Don Quixote so he could cash in and evaporate. Until the police had appeared at the Grand Palais, Dodd had never suspected Bertrand had such skeletons in his closet. He should have known better.

His plan had been to make contact with the book dealer and keep active surveillance on him until Nichols showed up. At that point, Dodd had wanted to simply move in and take the man out. He could have done it a number of ways, but a knife in close would have been best.

Instead, Omar had laid out the car bombing scenario. Though Dodd strongly objected, the sheik had insisted on making a statement. The statement had failed, as had its follow-up attempt. Nichols had survived and now the book dealer and the Don Quixote had been taken out of play.