The Last Patriot

CHAPTER 23

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.