The Last Patriot

by Brad Thor

  “And what were your conclusions?”

  Salam looked at him. “They weren’t good. The United States is doing nothing but ceding ground to the Islamists. It would rather be politically correct than victorious, and as long as it refuses to engage its enemy on every single front it will never win.”

  “That’s a pretty serious charge,” said Ozbek.

  “Sure it is. But it’s right on the money,” the man responded. “For the majority of its adherents, Islam is a beautiful religion. We not only don’t want to commit acts of violence, we don’t want anyone else to either, especially not in the name of our religion. If it were up to us, we’d gladly see the violent passages the extremists use to justify their actions removed from the Koran.

  “The majority of Muslims in America and around the world are moderate and peaceful. Islam brings comfort and provides a noble path for over a billion people on this planet. It is the source of incredible goodness. We want to live in harmony with our neighbors, regardless of what their beliefs are.

  “Everyone wants us, the moderate Muslims, to reform Islam, but no one does anything to help. They don’t seem to understand that the moderates who are brave enough to stand up are constantly drowned out by the Islamists who are more media savvy, better organized, and considerably better financed.”

  Ozbek referred to his notes. “So that’s where this Operation Glass Canyon that you told the FBI about came in?”

  “Yes,” said Salam. “Operation Glass Canyon was supposed to take the fight directly to the fundamentalists.”

  “This was headquartered out of your firm, McAllister & Associates?”

  “My part of it was. I thought the rest was being handled by the FBI.”

  “What is McAllister & Associates?” asked Ozbek.

  “It’s a P.R. and lobbying firm that specializes in Muslim clients. It was my cover, which allowed me to infiltrate the Islamist movement in America.”

  “And were you successful?”

  “Very,” replied Salam. “I placed or turned people in almost every hardcore Islamist organization in the country.”

  “Didn’t you ever get suspicious that you weren’t really working for the FBI?” asked Ozbek. “According to what I was told, you didn’t even train at the FBI Academy in Quantico.”

  “Riley trained me at an Islamic compound in upstate New York called Islamaburg. He said it was for my protection because the FBI wanted to keep my identity a secret, even from other FBI agents.”

  “But here you are,” pressed Ozbek, “feeding all of these reports to Riley and nothing is happening. Doesn’t that set off any alarm bells for you?”

  “Are you asking if I got frustrated?” asked Salam. “Of course I did. But what did I know? Government is famous for being slow. In fact Riley always liked to calm me down by joking that the FBI put the ‘bureau’ in bureaucratic. No matter how hot a piece of intel was that I gave him, he always assured me that it was being passed up the chain of command and being acted upon.”

  When Steve Rasmussen returned with the food, Ozbek gave the prisoner a few moments to begin eating before turning the conversation to the heart of why they were there.

  CHAPTER 18

  “Let’s talk about the Foundation on American Islamic Relations,” said Ozbek.

  Salam shook his head with disgust. “They are the worst thing to have ever happened to American Muslims. You know FAIR’s director, Abdul Waleed, actually boasted at a conference once, not knowing that there was a reporter present, that Islam wasn’t in America to be equal to any other faith, but to become dominant. He said he believed that the Koran, not the Constitution, should be the highest authority in America, with Islam as the only accepted religion on earth. And he said he would not rest until he made that happen. That’s not the kind of Islam I practice. In fact, that’s not the kind of Islam the majority of Muslims practice.”

  “Tell me about Nura Khalifa and the assassin FAIR supposedly hired.”

  Andrew Salam suddenly grew much less talkative. It was obvious to Ozbek that he had touched a nerve and he felt he knew what it was. He had seen a picture of Nura Khalifa. She was stunning.

  Finally, Salam said, “She was a good woman. She didn’t deserve to die.”

  Ozbek had never lost anyone close to him—not in the Army, not at the CIA, not even in his regular personal life. He could only imagine how the man felt and trod as delicately as the situation would allow. “Were you two intimately involved?”

  “No. It was strictly business between us.”

  “Did you have feelings for her?”

  Salam looked at his interrogator. “Even if I had, I would never have compromised such a valuable asset. If nothing else, at least I can say I was professional.”

  “She fed you a lot of information on FAIR?”

  “Tons.”

  “Which you fed to Riley?” asked Ozbek.

  “Yes.”

  “And he was the only person claiming to be with the FBI that you ever had contact with?”

  “Correct,” said Salam, “but no matter how much information about FAIR and its activities I gave him, nothing ever seemed to be done about it. I got the same line about investigations being in the works and it taking a lot of time to build strong cases and then one day Riley told me to sever all ties with Nura and back off the Foundation on American Islamic Relations.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Riley claimed that the Bureau was finally beginning a full-blown investigation of the organization and that any further work I did could jeopardize my cover. I agreed. The only problem was that Nura didn’t. She was convinced by what she was seeing and overhearing that something very big was afoot.”

  “What was she seeing and overhearing?” asked Ozbek.

  “Abdul Waleed began having more and more meetings with a radical Saudi imam who ran several mega-mosques across the U.S. named Sheik Mahmood Omar. According to Nura, the two men seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.

  “She had overheard them complain on two separate occasions that if the threat wasn’t halted, Islam, as well as everything they had been working for, could be seriously compromised.”

  Ozbek interrupted him. “What threat? What are we talking about?”

  “That’s exactly what I wanted to know,” replied Salam. “Nura said they had begun asking a lot of questions about her uncle, who is a Koranic scholar from Georgetown.”

  “What’s the uncle’s name?”

  “Dr. Marwan Khalifa.”

  “Where at Georgetown did he work?”

  “The Center for Arabic Studies.”

  Ozbek looked at him. “The same place you studied.”

  “True, but I’ve never met him. He’s one of those Indiana Jones types who’s always off on some archeological dig or research project.”

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  “He has been bouncing around a lot working on some project for the Yemeni Antiquities Authority,” replied Salam.

  “Did Nura say why she thought they might see her uncle as a threat?” asked Ozbek.

  “Some of the more orthodox and hardcore fundamentalists felt that his research raised too many questions about the authenticity of the Koran. To them what he did was blasphemy and he was considered apostate, which meant that a case could be made for killing him. If you believe that sort of thing.”

  “And do you?”

  Salam was taken aback. “No way. Not at all.”

  Ozbek made a few more notes and then said, “You told the FBI that Nura said Waleed and Omar hired an assassin. That’s not exactly an easy thing to do. How’d they find him?”

  “Sheik Omar arranged it,” replied Salam. “The man’s name was Majd al-Din. It means Glory of the faith in Islam.”

  “What was his name before that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You told the FBI that Nura believed he was from the CIA. Why?” asked Ozbek.

  “She had overheard Omar bragging a
bout him. He said al-Din was a revert to Islam.”

  “Revert is a Muslim term for a convert, right?”

  “Yes. According to Nura, Omar was crazy about this guy because he was a typical, average-looking white guy who would never raise suspicions anywhere. He was like a chameleon that could change his appearance at the drop of a hat. He said when you sat down with him he looked more like an accountant than someone who used to kill for the CIA.”

  Ozbek added it all to his notebook, making sure he got everything down.

  “Omar was especially amped about this guy,” continued Salam, “because he’d been part of some super-secret program or unit or something at the CIA called the Transept. Does that ring any bells with you?”

  Ozbek looked up from his pad, shook his head and lied. “No.”

  “Well, this guy al-Din is supposedly like the Terminator. He has been programmed to kill and that’s all he does. Kill. Kill. Kill.”

  “A lot of people like to boast that they’ve worked for the CIA,” replied Ozbek.

  Salam laughed. “And those people are usually the biggest liars. The I could tell you what I used to do but then I’d have to kill you types.”

  Ozbek smiled. “So you can see why this all sounds a little over the top.”

  “According to Nura, Omar had been al-Din’s spiritual advisor for several years. The sheik seemed to know a lot about him and his background.”

  “Maybe he was bullshitting.”

  “Maybe,” said Salam. “But I wouldn’t bet on it. Omar’s a rough character and he’s paranoid as hell. He’s not going to bring a white revert into his inner circle unless he’s fully vetted the guy.”

  Ozbek didn’t like the sound of what he was hearing, and neither would the CIA. He noted a few more things and then asked, “Is there anything else you can give me about al-Din? A current address or phone number he might be at?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Salam as he lifted the last bite of his meal and then suddenly changed his mind and set the fork down. “Nura was killed before she could tell me anything else.”

  Ozbek was sorry too. “Did al-Din ever come by FAIR while Nura was there? Did she ever see what he looked like?”

  Salam shook his head and changed the subject. “I’m going to prison, aren’t I?”

  “That’s not for me to decide.”

  Salam was quiet for a moment. “I told the police about my dog. He only had food and water for a couple of days. Do you think they’ve sent anybody over to my house?”

  “I’ll bet they’ve sent tons of people to your house,” said Ozbek.

  Salam realized the humor in what he just said and smiled for a moment. “Ninety-nine point nine percent of the Muslims in this country are good people. They love America just like me. I was doing what I thought was right for the United States. I still think that.”

  “I know you do,” said Ozbek as he flipped his notebook shut, “and for what it’s worth, I believe you.”

  “So you can help me.”

  “I’m going to try,” said the CIA operative as he stood up and walked to the door. As he reached it, he asked, “By the way, what kind is it?”

  “Excuse me?” replied Salam.

  “Your dog. What kind is it?”

  “Chesapeake Bay Retriever.”

  “That’s a good breed,” said Ozbek. “Very loyal.”

  Salam nodded and watched as the man left.

  Outside the interrogation room, the D.C. Metro detective handling the investigation was waiting for them. He was a hard, no-bullshit cop in his mid-fifties named Covin with a gray mustache and the build of a college linebacker. “Did you get everything you needed?” he asked.

  Ozbek shook his head as he slid the notebook back into his coat pocket.

  “He’s full of shit,” stated the detective. “Academy Award performance every time. If you listen to him long enough you actually catch yourself believing him.”

  “You don’t?” asked Ozbek, careful not to reveal his own feelings.

  Detective Covin looked at him. “Let’s just say that all of this smells.”

  Ozbek agreed with him on that. “What kind of personal effects did he have on him when you picked him up?”

  Opening the folder he was carrying, the cop read off the list. “Watch. Wallet with credit cards, bank card, cash, and a D.C. driver’s license. Business card case with cards. Car keys. Cell phone—”

  “We’d like to take a look at his cell phone,” said Ozbek.

  The detective closed the file and looked at the two CIA men. “That means you’re going to have to sign the chain of evidence sheet. At this point, you’ve only come in and asked a couple of questions. The minute you lay a finger on that evidence, you and the CIA are permanently tied to this case.

  “I was a prosecutor before I became a cop and I know what a defense attorney would do with the fact that two spooks were left alone with the suspect’s personal effects.”

  Rasmussen resented the implication. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying quit while you’re ahead. Questioning the suspect about a possible tie to a CIA operative is one thing. Going through his personal effects is something altogether different.”

  “You’re right,” said Ozbek as he signaled for Rasmussen to back off. “We don’t want to get involved with any of the evidence. That could be bad for all of us.” Checking the signal strength on his cell phone he added, “I’m going to need to jump back into the interrogation room for a second.”

  “What for?” asked Covin.

  “There’s something I forgot to ask the suspect.”

  As Ozbek and Rasmussen left D.C. Police Headquarters and headed for their car, Rasmussen asked, “What was that last-minute question you had to ask Salam?”

  “I needed his cell phone number.”

  “What for?”

  “Plan B,” replied Ozbek.

  Rasmussen had a pretty good idea of what Plan B was, but he let it slide for the moment. “What’s Plan A?”

  “I want to run everything Salam just gave us against the Transept personnel files.”

  “You want to pull the files for every Transept operative who looks like an accountant and is good with disguises? That’s almost every person in that program, including the women. They were all recruited because they were forgettable.”

  “I don’t care. I want the whole team working on this,” insisted Ozbek. “I want to know where every single Transept operative is right now—active, retired, even dead. All of them. And while we’re at it, let’s pull everything we have on the victim’s uncle.”

  “Marwan Khalifa from Georgetown?”

  Ozbek slid his keys from his pocket and nodded. “I want to know where he is and exactly what he’s working on. If he’s the target, I want to know why.”

  “I’ll let Patricia know not to wait up,” muttered Rasmussen. “For either of us.”

  CHAPTER 19

  PARIS

  “Jefferson was a brilliant polymath,” said Professor Nichols as he set the ice bag he’d been applying to his jaw on the coffee table in front of him. “He possessed encyclopedic knowledge in a wide range of areas and was a skilled architect, archeologist, paleontologist, horticulturalist, statesman, author, and inventor. He was also an adept cryptographer who loved puzzles as well as making and breaking codes.

  “He could read in seven languages and never read translations if he could read the original. In fact, he taught himself Spanish specifically so he could read Don Quixote on his transatlantic passage to France in 1784. He felt the book was vital to his understanding of the Muslim enemy the U.S. was facing in the Mediterranean.”

  “Why?” asked Tracy. “What does Don Quixote have to do with Islamic pirates?”

  Harvath had read Don Quixote as a boy and hadn’t thought about it much since. He did remember something interesting that he’d been taught about its author, Miguel de Cervantes, and wondered if that might have been why Jefferson had been interested in the book. “Cervan
tes got the idea for his novel while in a Barbary prison,” said Harvath. “Didn’t he?”

  Nichols nodded. “Miguel de Cervantes was a Spanish soldier who had fought in many battles against the Muslims, including the Battle of Lepanto, a decisive victory for European Christians over invading Islamic forces. Though he was wracked with fever, he refused to stay belowdecks and fought admirably, incurring two gunshot wounds to the chest and one which rendered his left hand, and some say his whole left arm, useless for the rest of his life.

  “After six months of recuperation, Cervantes rejoined his unit in Naples and stayed with them until 1575, when he set sail for Spain. Off the Catalan coast, his ship was attacked by Muslim pirates who slew the captain and murdered most of the crew. Cervantes and the handful of passengers who survived were taken to Algiers as slaves.

  “He suffered five years of barbaric treatment under his Muslim captors. He tried to escape four times and prior to his ransom finally being paid, Cervantes was bound from head to toe in chains and left that way for five months. The trauma provided much fodder for his writing, particularly the Captive’s Tale in Don Quixote.

  “Jefferson was reading Don Quixote to learn more about the Barbary pirates, but right in the middle of it he discovered something else—a cleverly hidden cryptogram. It took him a while to crack it, but once he did, it revealed an incredible story hidden within the Captive’s Tale.”

  “What was it?” asked Tracy.

  “In sixteenth-century Algiers,” replied Nichols, “educated slaves like Cervantes were used by their largely illiterate Algerian captors as amanuenses to perform a variety of tasks, from accounting to transcribing documents.

  “It was in the house of one of the city’s religious leaders that Cervantes first learned that the last revelation of Mohammed’s life had been purposefully omitted from the Koran.”

  Just when Harvath thought the man couldn’t come up with anything more astonishing, he did. “What was Mohammed’s final revelation?” he asked.